Before the Temple Bar
All of us Catholic boys had to choose new names for confirmation. They would represent our adult identities in the church, so of course we made a joke of it. Kent would be Otto, first canonized Russian saint (this was when it felt like the height of the Cold War, even though it turned out it was mostly already over), though I think it probably had more to do with Emilio Estevez’s character in Repo Man. Pierre chose Augustine of Hippo, not for his Confessions but to conjure Gustavo Guitterez and the liberation theology the church wanted to ignore. And me? I went with Thomas the Apostle. At sixteen, I embraced doubt like a life raft, an all-purpose defense against belief in improbable nonsense….
The DMV at 611 Main St was a marble and blonde wood temple in the federal revival style. Everyone in my line did their best to ignore the splendor and stare straight ahead at the clerks who would decide our fate. When my turn came, I handed over my permit and the paperwork that proved I’d passed my road test on the third try. The clerk scanned my papers and me dispassionately and declared, “This isn’t you.” She explained: the serif ell on my permit signified I had no left arm. I had a left arm, so clearly I wasn’t me. I nodded, stepped outside and read the back of my permit. The serif on my permit was a one, meant I needed corrective lenses. But there was no point in arguing; I pulled my left arm inside my coat and zipped it up again. Back in line, I struggled to hold my documents and blow my nose using only my right hand….
I needed an adult in good standing with the church to sponsor me for confirmation, so I asked my friend John from work. “I’m flattered you’d ask,” he told me, “but I don’t know if it matters that I’m divorced.” I didn’t even know he was married. “They probably don’t know,” he said. “It’s still really recent.” I thought it was great either way. My parents were divorced, a lot of people were. Let me enter into this community under the cover of that. John grew nervous the closer the event came. “They’ll never find out,” I assured him. There was no diocesan database, no take-backs if they found out later. When I was asked if I renounced Satan and all his works, I practiced uptalk. “I do?” I wondered. Did I accept the Apostles Creed and the authority of the church. “I do?” After the ceremony, John pulled me aside. “You don’t need to mock everything,” he explained. “You don’t want to live like that as an adult.” I didn’t?
Matthew Dube’s stories have appeared in Still, iterarty Yard, Construction, and elsewhere. Dube teaches creative writing and American lit at a small mid-Missouri university, and reads submissions for the online lit mag Craft.