The Wrong Last Rites
"A PRIEST, PLEASE!" the dying man says again. Then out of the crowd steps a little old Jewish man of at least eighty years of age.
"Mr. Policeman," says the man, "I'm not a priest. I'm not even a Catholic. But for fifty years now I've been living behind St. Mary's Catholic Church on Third Avenue, and every Friday night I listen to the Catholic litany. Maybe I can be of some comfort to this man."
The policeman agrees and brings the octogenarian over to where the dying man lay. He kneels down, leans over the injured man, and says in a solemn voice:
"B - 4. I - 19. N - 38. G - 54. O - 72."
"Mr. Policeman," says the man, "I'm not a priest. I'm not even a Catholic. But for fifty years now I've been living behind St. Mary's Catholic Church on Third Avenue, and every Friday night I listen to the Catholic litany. Maybe I can be of some comfort to this man."
The policeman agrees and brings the octogenarian over to where the dying man lay. He kneels down, leans over the injured man, and says in a solemn voice:
"B - 4. I - 19. N - 38. G - 54. O - 72."