"Bruce Holland Rogers - Why I Filed Late This Year" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rogers Bruce Holland)

singing "Ave Maria," but indistinctly.
I stood back, looking around. There was smoke. I smelled incense. The vending machine was bathed
in a warm, golden glow. I turned around to see where the light was coming from, and there stood the
blessed virgin, just as I had imagined her when I was in grammar school, more beautiful than a movie
star. She wore sunglasses.
Mary smiled beatifically, raised her hand as if to bless me, and then lunged toward the vending
machine. It looked like she was going to put her shoulder to it, like a television cop breaking down a
door, but I never saw her make contact. There was a blinding flash of brilliance, but no sound at all.
When I opened my eyes, she was gone. The invisible choir had stopped singing, or at least I think they
had. It would have been hard to hear them over the sound of the quarters ringing as they streamed from
the coin return slot like water from a fire hydrant.
I couldn't do anything for a moment but watch as the mound of coins spread across the floor. Quarters
rolled to the far ends of the post office, and the shining pile in front of the machine was soon almost as
high as the coin return. Even so, the machine kept spewing out silver.
When I was knee deep in quarters, I regained my presence of mind enough to reach down and scoop
up a handful. That was when I felt a strong grip at my elbow.
"This is the Lord's money." The words were thickly accented.
I turned. There, in silver and gold vestments, stood the Pope.
I could not remember how to address him. Your Grace? Your Eminence? It had been so long ago that
I had left the church. Then it came to me.
"Your Holiness," I said, "I'm only taking the money that I put into the machine to begin with."
"This is the Lord's money," he said again, as though he hadn't heard me.
The pile of quarters kept spreading across the room. It stretched nearly to the doors, now. "It's only a
few bucks," I said. "Just the price of a book of stamps."
"The Lord's money," the Pope said, smiling gently and extending his open palm.
I gave him the quarters and he guided me across the room toward the door. The quarters were
slippery. I almost fell, but the Pope had a good grip on my arm and kept me on my feet.
The quarters around the doors were ankle deep by then. His Holiness and I had a hard time getting
them open.
On the front steps of the post office were three cardinals. One of them scooped up the coins that
spilled from the open doors of the post office, and another took me by the arm and started to lead me
toward the street. The first in a long line of armored trucks with Vatican plates was backing toward the
bottom of the steps.
"Hey, wait a minute!" I said. "I left my tax return in there!" I tried to turn back, but the third cardinal
appeared at my side, grabbing my other arm.
"But my tax return! My tax return!" The cardinals smiled the sympathetic smiles of men who speak no
English, and they led me the rest of the way down the steps. They kept me sandwiched like that for three
blocks, all the way past the cordon of nuns who, armed with wooden rulers, were holding back the
crowds.
Published by Alexandria Digital Literature. ( http://www.alexlit.com/ )

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