A Priest, A Rabbi, And An Imam Walk Into A Bar And All Three Give In To Temptation

'I know you don't drink, Ahmed, but would you care to join Shmuel and myself for some good company while we wet our whistles?'

Ahmed, the imam had not been in a bar for a long, long time, and although Paddy and Shmuel had become good friends of his - the kind of friendship that would certainly resolve all problems in the Middle East if it could be replicated and and multiplied - to be seen walking into a bar, especially the likes of McSorley's, a Blarney stone, shot-and-a-beer kind of place on Brevoort Street, would be curtains.  

Ahmed al-Fikrim (aka Henry Plover) had converted to Islam ten years ago and hadn't had so much as a drop to drink in all that time.  This is not to say that he wasn't tempted, for he was; and just the sight of a bottle of Jameson's made him quiver with thirst . 

 

After his conversion Henry had been a dutiful Muslim, praying five times a day, observing Ramadan, attending services at the mosque on Fridays, being attentive to others, and doing his bit of evangelism.  As time went by and as his rectitude was increasingly appreciated by the mullah, he was brought into the ranks of leadership, and after a period of dutiful servitude became one of the chosen of Al-Berbat Mosque, and after the death of Brother Fatih, became the presiding imam. 

He took this honor seriously, for it wasn't just on any day that a Christian convert could ever be considered a serious Muslim let alone an imam.  He grew his beard long, was sure to say 'Peace be upon Him' every time spoke the Prophet's name, and never used the future tense without adding 'Insha'Allah'.  He hadn't had pork or a drink in all that time and God had become his one and only adviser. 

Yet, there always was a bottle of Jameson's etched into his frontal lobes, not only an indelible reminder of his humility, his obedience to Allah, and his service to his congregation; but also a Holy Grail (or the Muslim equivalent).  It was only a matter of time before he fell from grace (he was unsure of the Muslim phrasing), and he readied himself for it.  Mind you, he had never been an alcoholic in his Christian days, nor a teetotaler, just a drinker who liked his pint o' bitter or a Wild Turkey. 

Father Paddy O'Brien had never been anything other than a priest.  He had been an altar boy, a seminarian, an intern at St. Maurice's church in upstate New York, and finally senior priest of his own parish, St. Thomas Aquinas in Massapequa. He had only one serious failing as a cleric but one against which he fought tirelessly. 

Unlike most of this colleagues, he liked women.  Every single one of them, succulently soft and enticing, sinuously and irrepressibly alluring, were the objects of his desire.  Whenever desire struck, he prayed the rosary, said ten Our Fathers, the Confiteor, and the Mea Culpa, asking Jesus to help him out of his frustrated misery. 

It never worked, for he followed the scent of one beautiful woman after another up and down Fifth Avenue right after making the Stations of the Cross at St. Patrick's.  He couldn't help himself, confessed his desires every week, but was a man addled by desire.  Like the imam and his bottle of Jameson's, it was only a matter of time before he fell. 

Shmuel Levin-Epstein was not just an ordinary rabbi, but one in a long line that dated back to Saul and David.  A rabbinical career had been a certainty from the day he was born.  Although his father was a diamond merchant on 47th Street with significant investments in clothing and real estate, he had always wanted his son to become God's servant, not Mammon's.  

Not that his father had any shame in what he did.  The tenants in his tenements on the Lower East Side were happy to have a place to lay their heads, he gave needed employment to Puerto Ricans at his factories in the lofts of the Garment District, and traded the world's most enduringly valuable commodity - diamonds - to enhance the lives of both the rich and famous and those just starting out.. But for his son, his only son?  God was the only path, 

However it was hard for the young Shmuel to bend to the Torah when the likes of Morrie Rubenstein and Shecky Hellman, Hollywood moguls came to dinner.  Their talk of David O. Selznik and Louis B. Mayer was heady, and his father's trips to the Coast mysterious and exciting.  The more money his father made, the more and more expensive condos they lived in, finally moving to the magnificent penthouse on York Avenue on the Upper East Side, the harder the Book was to learn.  Yet his father persisted. 'Leave it to me to make money', old Henny said, 'but you I expect to get me to heaven'. 

The conflict was troubling.  Week after week he learned about the ins and outs of New York real estate, mortgages, leveraging, bond issues, zoning, the rental market, and interest rates; the cotton trade, Bangladeshi off-the-rack product, hi-tech synthetics, and the credit swaps that made the clothing business an earner; and the fancy deals with DeBeers and the South African exchange.  Even though his father headed him 'in the direction of the 'Lord God Almighty', he was being prepared to take over the family businesses, God or Mammon, the good life or the prayerful one. 

So every Monday and Wednesday when the three men met at McSorley's, the talk inevitably turned from God to other things.  It was a time to let loose, to give in to temptation in principle if not in fact.  Only among themselves could they feel confident enough to share desires.  There were no parishioners, congregants, or worshippers within earshot. 

So one by one, each in turn they shared their memories. Henry Plover, the imam, told about his young hijinks on the floats of the best samba schools in the Quarter, his bacchanals on Bayou Lafourche, and carousing in the cathouses of the Ninth Ward. These alcohol-fueled adventures were the best of his life, wild, boozy affairs with no tether or traces.   

Paddy O'Brien went on about the women in his life before the priesthood and the pursuant, ineluctable fantastical pursuit of the beautiful young things at the windows of Saks, Bendel's and Tiffany’s. He was at his most eloquent and voluble when it came to them - their hair, their Greek statuary grace, their walk, and above all, their perfume. 

And Sam (Shmuel) went on about the magnificent new high-rises in Manhattan, the elegantly, impossibly tall and thin skyscrapers towering over Central Park, or the fashion runways of Milan, Paris, and New York and the brilliance of today's Diors and St. Laurents. There was an exuberance about the masterful orchestration of product, financing, and marketing. 

'What are we still doing here?' said Father O'Brien. 

'What are we doing with our lives?', asked Sammy Levin-Epstein. 

'I'm having a drink', said the imam, Henry Plover; and from that moment on, the lives of the three men began to change, starting with a shot and a beer, ending with a male bonding such as you have never seen, and finishing up with an out-the-door new resolve. 

'Oh, God has his place', said the imam now on his own in Brooklyn, as  happy as a clam, one and done with Islam, living cheaply but well, back to McSorley's on occasion, host to the best of Green Point at all night parties in his loft.  He kept up with O'Brien and  Levin-Epstein, successful in their own rights, still young, ambitious, and once relieved of God, free and easy. 

'Ah, this is the life', said the former rabbi from his balcony overlooking the ocean on Collins Avenue, bought, bartered and sold until it was worth a fortune and now, finally, his home.