Page 78

By Jack Joseph Smith

the movement of centuries. His black eyes would sometimes light with a smile showing his jagged teeth. Never lie he used to say, there is nothing to be afraid of. Do what you have to do, but never argue. If someone needs to be told to go to hell, then tell them to go to hell. But never argue about hell, just remember that it is there. He used to come down the winding stairs, put his claw bone hand on the iron railing and spit on the dust that covered his shoes, then his heels clicked along the cement. He would wipe his shoes on the back of his pants legs, grining, and then step down and walk along. His forehead was wide with lines, that might as well been running across the earth. His chin was always high and even with his shoulders, and as his arms swung straight like the cut of a butchers knife, you knew he saw everything around. No telling how old he was. The story was that he spent his youth in the coal mines and this might have been the reason for the cold understanding of the devil, that appeared in the form of a vibration. If there was an illusion in front of him it would be cut in half before he reached it. Like his vestments, his priests suit that he wore around the grounds was white with streaks of fray. And this hat of his looked like it had spent its entire life on the desert. He had a long day. He said Mass at six O' clock every morning and went to bed late at night after leaning over his desk filled with editorials against the cops. Or at least this how I immagined it, when on Friday nights I would see the beer truck pull up in front of the rectory. He must get tired and then take a can of beer or two, or maybe he drank the whole damn case. That's probably why he stayed up in his attic in the night. He didn't want to shock anybody that might see him really pissed off. Christ, they were afraid of him. He used to stand up on that alter with his hands spread like the wild cat man and let this droning moan come from deep within his guts.

Original Scan

Page 78

AI Interpretation

GPT

Papa Joe is remembered in bodily detail as a frayed, coal-mined, beer-drinking, dust-spitting priest whose jagged smile, butcher-like stride, and hard gaze make him seem ancient, cold, and impossible to fool.

The writing builds him out of clothing, posture, and rumor rather than doctrine, which makes his authority feel physical before it feels spiritual. Even the attic room, broken shoes, and imagined editorials against the cops turn austerity into a kind of menace.

Claude

Papa Joe's creed is laid down in his own blunt voice - 'Never lie ... Do what you have to do, but never argue. If someone needs to be told to go to hell, then tell them to go to hell. But never argue about hell, just remember that it is there.' His body is built into menace: 'claw bone hand' on the railing, spitting on his dusty shoes, arms swinging 'straight like the cut of a butchers knife', a coal-mine youth credited for 'the cold understanding of the devil' so that 'an illusion in front of him ... would be cut in half before he reached it'. The boy humanizes the legend with the Friday beer truck, imagining the priest drinking 'the whole damn case' alone in his attic so as not to 'shock anybody', and likens his altar stance with 'hands spread' to 'the wild cat man'.