A Bay Breeze

He came for the smell. And it was well worth the trip. The 20 mile drive took almost two hours, the price one pays for traveling east on Route 46 toward New York City during the morning rush hour. Weaving onto Route 21, then Route 17, parking wouldn’t be a problem. Few people would be attending. He tried many times to remember the smell, to relive the burst of euphoria that swept over his frontal lobe each time he inhaled. But smells don’t work that way. One cannot conjure up a smell. You have to be in its physical presence. That is why he would not go to work this morning. Rather, he would fight the traffic and attend a gathering where he was a stranger, his only friend in the form of hazy smoke wafting through the wooden arches of the century-old structure. Arriving twenty minutes early, his excitement was piqued by the sight of the huge edifice. He gazed with reverence at the full size marble statues gracing the facade. Each statue’s head was adorned with short metal spikes, placed there to keep the pigeons from defacing the holy figures. It didn’t work well. Pigeons defecated on the statues anyway. The stairs, made of chiseled bluestone, still held the rice remnants from yesterday’s wedding. The huge wooden doors were open, revealing a vestibule painted with a kaleidoscope of light that penetrated the stained glass windows. He immediately flashed back to kindergarten, where similar beams of colored light cascaded onto the playroom floor. Kindergarten was where his love affair began to take shape. At five years of age God spoke to him through the ritualistic structure of the Catholic school. Most children feared Sister Anne, the Catholic nun who managed all of the kindergarten classes. He loved her, even though she would crack his knuckles with a ruler each time he held a pencil in his left hand. “The devil sits on your left side. Do you want to be sitting with the Devil?” Sister Anne would bark. No, he did not. So the pencil would be placed in the right hand. But only until she wasn’t looking, then back to the left. God wouldn’t mind if he used his left hand. But just to make sure, he would slide over to the left edge of the chair so the Devil would not have even an inch on which to sit. Slipping into a back pew, he ran his fingers over the glistening wood worn smooth and shiny by years and years of worshipers sliding in and out. He gently lowered the kneeler and assumed the submissive but uncomfortable position of worship. “Dear Lord, thank you for allowing me the opportunity to worship you. Thank you for filling me with your holy spirit. Please grant me the courage to confront my brother and show him the error of his ways. Glory to you, Lord, Glory to you, Lord, Gloria tibi, Domine.” “You are my good and loyal soldier, Christian. Soon you will be with me in heaven,” God whispered in his ear. His trance-like state was shattered by the sound of the processional organ. The grieving families walked up the center aisle, followed by the pallbearers. The casket was placed near the communion rail. This was the funeral that he sought out. Scanning the obituaries each and every morning, he would circle every Catholic funeral service mentioned, and then call the associated Rectory. “I will be attending the funeral of Martha Simmons. Could you please tell me if the service will include a high mass?” Sometimes it would be weeks before he would find one. Today’s funeral was made even more special because it was being held at the church he attended throughout his youth, where he received first communion, completed his first of thousands of confessions, served as an altar boy, and was confirmed, selecting the name Patrick, in honor of Saint Patrick, who drove all of the snakes out of Ireland. This truly would be a special day. High masses are not very common anymore. All communication is sung in Latin. The Canon of the mass is a long, arduous process filled with chanting, bell ringing and lots of kneeling. His knees ached with the pains of early arthritis. But he barely noticed. Christian had read about an anthropological find containing the bones of some seventeenth century monks, with their patella bones, the kneecaps, exhibiting extreme arthritic damage hypothesized to have been caused by excessive kneeling on hard surfaces. Christian viewed his patella pain as a badge of honor, a testament to his devotion to the Lord. As Christian prayed away the pain in his knees, the altar boys lead the procession out onto the sacred altar. One carried the cruets filled with water and wine. Another carried the tail end of the holy garments worn by the priest. Christian strained to focus on the deacons. One carried the incense boat. The other carried the thurible full of burning charcoal. Once incense was spread on the charcoal, the fragrantly sweet savor of resin poured into the air. With each step, the Deacon clapped the thurible against the heavy chain, sending a cloud of incense drifting out. The hair on his arms stood at attention as the smoke snaked its way down the steps and into the first rows of pews. There was no other smell like it. The first whiff would send bursts of excitement racing from olfactory receptors to the smell center located deep within the limbic system. This is the primitive part of the brain. All animals, including humans, rely on the limbic system for the necessary life functions. Lungs breathe, the heart pumps, the gut hungers because of the limbic system. This system ties into the dopamine circuit, which is a small cluster of brain cells associated with pleasure. These cells also tie into the midbrain, the cortex and the frontal lobe. All aspects of brain function can be affected. Something as simple as a smell can, in some cases, cause a dopamine surge comparable to the surges accompanying an orgasm. The odor wafted past the front pews, seeping into the deep recesses of the church. He could feel the pleasure centers lighting up in his frontal lobe. Marijuana does it. Cocaine does it. And for Christian Kosciol, resin incense does it. His brain swelled with excitement. He felt the presence of God. All else was reduced to background static. For the next hour, Christian was as close to heaven as any living person could be.