The middle-aged man with dark black hair who was wearily making his way down the deserted street tugged absentmindedly at the collar around his neck that identified him as a reverend as though that little piece of fabric was irritating him. This really wasn't because he was having a crisis of faith. He felt like he still believed in God. His faith still seemed as though it was as strong as ever to him. No, believing in life after death still looked easy but believing in life before death was seeming increasingly difficult.
It was currently that time of day when some would say that is was very late at night and other's would say that it is very early in the morning. The dark-haired man, Rev. Timothy Lovejoy, walked briskly despite the fact that he had no idea where he was going.
Rev. Lovejoy did, however, have an excellent idea of what he was currently going away from. Top on that list would be the fact that his daughter just got kicked out of another private school, the way that all the years he's spent working at the church didn't seem to have benefitted anyone, and the manner in which his wife always seemed to be either nagging him about something that seemed fairly insignificant or gossiping mercilessly about her neighbors. Rev. Lovejoy found that lately he was spending an increasing amount of time escaping the drab existence he was trapped in dreaming of a more suitable one down in the basement leaning over his elaborate model train system. It felt more and more like all the time that wasn't spent sleepwalking through the countless little duties that were expected of him as a reverend, a husband, a father, and a member of the community was spent escaping reality down in his basement.
On the horizon, Reverend Lovejoy saw that there was a music store with an Egyptian theme on the side of the street he was walking on.
"Hmm," Rev. Lovejoy mused," perhaps I should consider coming back later when the store is open to buy a new string to replace the broken one on my guitar. Oh, I suppose that I actually shouldn't think too hard about doing that because I know that I'd still never use it, anyway."
Timothy then noticed that a tavern was next to the music store. Oddly enough, the sign said that it was still open. Reverend Lovejoy didn't actually have any objection to drinking but he himself rarely drank because his father had such a problem with alcohol and wild living. However, seeing the bar there brought to mind thousands of scenes he had witnessed in various television shows and movies which featured troubled souls telling their troubles as bartenders listened and dispensed sage advice. All that and the fact that this was just about the only place to go that was still opened at this hour convinced Rev. Lovejoy to stop inside.
When Timothy opened the door and entered the establishment, a wave of nausea threatened to knock him off his feet. Half-finished drinks and used napkins were scattered everywhere. Beer nuts, chewing tobacco, and various bits of other unidentifiable appeared to have been spit out all throughout the tavern.
"Clearly," Timothy Lovejoy thought to himself,"this place could certainly benefit from the fastidious housekeeping of someone as obsessive as Helen Lovejoy." The somber man in the blue bow tie, gray shirt, dark blue apron, and gray slacks who appeared to be actually attempting to clean this bar clearly had his work cut out for him.
"Rev. Lovejoy," the man said in a shocked voice as he looked up from the area where he had been sweeping,"it certainly is a shock to see you here! Umm, you ain't here to demand I shut this place down, are ya?" The tavern owner, whose name Rev. Lovejoy found himself unable to recall, leaned his broom against one of the tables and stood facing Rev. Lovejoy.
"Oh, heavens no," Timothy said with forced laughter,"of course not. Why, our lord himself famously turned water into wine. Yes, and the scriptures record that he was chastised repeatedly by people who called him a 'drunkard' because they were looking for him to live off in the wilderness and hide from the world like John the Baptist did."
Rev. Lovejoy felt a twinge of guilt as he said this. A few days ago, he had been talking to his father and had attempted to use the bible to say that alcohol was evil. Lovejoy once again felt as though he were becoming more and more like Ned Flanders, who seemed to use the bible to say whatever he felt at that moment that it should say instead of what it was originally intended to say and often used the bible to defend contrary positions. Rev. Lovejoy shuddered slightly with disgust.
"Okay," the tavern owner said nervously,"okay. Sounds good, Rev. Why don't you have a seat on one of the stools and I'll fix you up with a beer on the house. Hey, God doesn't teach all of his reverends how to do that turning water into wine trick, now does he? Cuz that could save me a fortune." The tavern owner laughed awkwardly at his feeble joke.
"No," Rev. Lovejoy said with mock sadness,"I'm afraid not. Say, I was sort of surprised to see that you were still open. I thought bars usually closed hours ago."
"Yeah," Moe explained as he handed Rev. Lovejoy a beer,"I actually forgot to switch the sign over to closed. But stick around, Reverend. It's no trouble, really."
"Thanks," Reverend Lovejoy said as he accepted the beer," thanks. Yes, I suppose that explains why there is no one else in here. Too bad I didn't show up a little earlier." Tim laughed as awkwardly as the tavern owner had a moment earlier.
"Actually," explained the tavern owner,"the thing about that is there wouldn't have been nobody here then, either. There was this party over at this guy Homer Simpson's house goin' on today on account of his wife was gonna be out of town and wouldn't be there to keep him from actin' all stupid and everything. All of my regulars were gonna be headin' over there. I'm sure they meant to invite me over and all but somehow they went and forgot my invitation and I wouldn't want to embarrass them by showing up and reminding them about that." Something in the tavern owner's tone made it sound as though it was actually himself he was trying to convince.
"I see," Rev. Lovejoy said sympathetically,"that is probably the case, yes." Timothy clearly didn't believe that any more than the tavern owner seemed to but neither of the men chose to mention that. The tavern owner's gaze shifted down to the floor as he appeared to be trying to banish from his mind all thoughts of the party that he wasn't invited to. Rev. Lovejoy's brow furrowed in concentration. He was certain that he really should remember this man's name but found himself unable to do so. Although the name of the tavern owner escaped him, Rev. Lovejoy was certain that he knew the tavern owner from the work he did reading to sick children and from somewhere else as well.
Just then, an unsightly brown cat that appeared to be a mix of many different breeds walked out of the back room and jumped up onto the bar. It walked slowly towards the tavern owner.
"Aww," the tavern owner said as he began petting the cat,"Mr. Snookums!!! It is sooo good to see you!! Yes it is!!! Yes it is!!" The cat started purring loudly and rubbing up against the tavern owner. Rev. Lovejoy chuckled softly to himself.
"Hey," the tavern owner shouted defensively,"you got a problem??? So I like cats!! So I got myself a cat!!! Big deal!!! What's your problem, buddy?"
"No," Rev. Lovejoy quickly assured him,"no!! There's no problem at all, really"
"Yeah," the tavern owner said as he appeared to be calming down,"umm, sorry 'bout that. I guess I got a bit carried away there, Rev." As Lovejoy was starting to reassure him that there was no need to worry about it, the telephone rang.
"Just a sec," said the tavern owner,"I better see who that is, Rev." While the tavern owner was walking over to answer the phone, Timothy picked up a notebook that had been left sitting on the bar. He began to flip through it. Rev. Lovejoy was stunned by what he found inside. The old, beat-up notebook was filled with poems that astonished Rev. Lovejoy with their great beauty and insight into the human condition. He really wasn't an expert about such things because Rev. Lovejoy hadn't read anything besides the bible or a church bulletin since way back when he was in seminary but these seemed to Rev. Lovejoy like the sort of poems that scholars still analyzed centuries after they had been written.
"Listen, you little puke," the tavern owner yelled,"you tried that name before. I know that there ain't no such person as Seymour Butts. You're that little punk who's always prank callin' me, ain't ya??? Oh, if I ever catch you I'll poke your eyes out and hang them over the mirror in my car like them fuzzy dice so you can watch as I run the rest of you over." The tavern owner slammed the receiver down. Rev. Lovejoy finished up the poem he had been reading and carefully put the notebook back where it was. He noticed that the name signed at the end of each poem was 'Moe Syzlak and realized that this must be the tavern owner's name.
"Sorry 'bout that," Moe apologized,"that little brat just gets under my skin sometimes."
"Oh, no need to worry, Moe," Rev. Lovejoy uneasily assured him,"that sort of thing happens to everyone at one time or another." Moe grinned briefly when Rev. Lovejoy used his name as though Moe found it amazing that anyone could remember it.
"Yeah," said Moe,"sure, well you just finish up your beer, Rev., and I'll just be tidying up a bit more"
"Okay," Rev. Lovejoy said,"sure. Thanks." Rev. Lovejoy sat sipping on his beer on flipping through the notebook as Moe straightened up his bar. Suddenly Moe dropped his mop and clutched his chest in pain. He screamed and collapsed to the floor. Rev. Lovejoy rushed over to the phone and called for an ambulance. After he did so, Timothy prayed fervently as he began attempting CPR on Moe.
When what seemed like an eternity had passed, the paramedics arrived. They began loading Moe onto a stretcher after giving him a cursory examination and hearing Rev. Lovejoy's version of what had happened. The slightest glance into the eyes of the paramedics made it clear that am endless parade of poor souls that were either dead or dying had left the paramedics numb and unable to grasp the pain and anguish which seemed to follow them wherever they went. The team of paramedics moved efficiently and without any evidence of emotion, as though they were robots that were designed to be used as tools no different from the thermometers or scalpels.
Rev. Lovejoy rode with the paramedics to the hospital. He waited in a small grey room that smelled like industrial strength soap and death until a nervous doctor came out and told him that Moe had died of a heart attack.
All throughout the cab ride home, Rev. Lovejoy found himself unable to think straight. He decided to play with his trains to take his mind off his troubles. It didn't take long, however, until Rev. Lovejoy grew weary and fell asleep at his train set. He found himself dreaming that Moe was working on a train and found himself in the unenviable position of explaining to a crowd of passengers, each of whom was also Moe, that the train they were on wouldn't be going anywhere for a long time because a person who was another duplicate of Moe had fallen onto the train tracks and been hit.
Rev. Lovejoy woke up abruptly just as all the passengers on the train in his dream began to riot. He went upstairs and went to bed. In the morning, Rev. Lovejoy called and obtained information regarding where Moe's funeral was going to take place. He called Homer Simpson and everyone else that he knew to be a regular at Moe's tavern but it seemed as though they were all too hung over from the night before to even comprehend what he was saying.
After putting on his best suit, Rev. Lovejoy made it down to the cemetery where the funeral was to be held. He stood there with the reverend who had somehow ended up with the responsibility to deliver the eulogy despite having never actually met Moe while he was alive. Timothy waited with the other reverend to see if anyone else was going to show up for what the other reverend seemed to think was an unreasonably long length of time. Eventually, the other reverend got out his notes and seemed to be about to speak.
"No," Rev. Lovejoy thought bitterly to himself as he began walking away,"no. I don't think there's any need to hang around and listen to this rent-a-preacher fumble his way through his generic eulogy." The other reverend, seeing that it didn't look like he'd be needed, began to walk away in the other direction. The cemetery staff began lowering Moe's coffin down into the grave. Images began to flood Rev. Lovejoy's mind such as the one of Moe yelling at the prank caller, Moe petting his cat, Moe struggling to get his tavern into some kind of halfway presentable state, and Moe standing in the background of a crowd leaving church looking like he wished someone would stop to talk to him. No more beautiful poems would be appearing in Moe's little poetry notebook. The someone else would have to read to those sick children and all of the unfortunate business that Rev. Lovejoy seemed to remember hearing vague rumors about Moe getting himself mixed up in would have to unfold without Moe.
"My goodness," Timothy Lovejoy thought to himself,"it is sort of funny. I suddenly have the urge to either hug my wife, call my daughter, visit my father, or hide under the covers of my bed and pretend that the rest of the world doesn't exist."