“The Lion’s Den”: Introspection intersects a good friend’s tough love ...Middle East

This book was a Colorado Authors League award finalist for Mainstream/Literary Fiction.

Author’s note: At age 62, Father Daniel Murphy finds himself at a juncture in life. He’s befuddled, unsure about remaining a Jesuit priest and staying in his decades-long relationship with Jonathan Slovanco. Through his ruminations, he begins to fall into the self-pity victim trap. His most trusted friend, Vincente, picks up on it and pulls no punches when confronting Daniel about it. Their exchange serves as a reminder about a debilitating aspect of human nature: self-pity. It’s also a model for what a true and honest friend must do at times: Be straightforward and brutally honest with those they love and care for. 

The early evening, late summer sunlight filtered through leaves on the swaying tree branches outside his window and cast dappled shadows across Daniel’s room. A gentle warmth that felt comforting filled the room. It was a welcome relief from the intense day, and he felt drained yet stirred.

Vincente had texted him to let him know that not only was Sophia in town, he was too, staying at their Cherry Creek condo, which served as their home base in Colorado. He and Vincente had agreed to get together, and he looked forward to Vincente dropping by with the hope his old friend would provide some solace and help him make sense of the chaos in his life. He decided on a snifter of Baileys to take the edge off the wait.

As he sipped, he allowed his mind to roam. Somehow the atmosphere in his room reflected his feelings, but then again, it didn’t. He thought the word incongruity, but that didn’t quite get at it. There was a better word for it, but that word was escaping him. He searched his mind and began to hum the tune of Paul Simon’s “The Dangling Conversation,” hearing the lyrics in his mind as he hummed. At last he came to it: syncopated. He jotted it on his sketch pad and circled it. Out of tune. Offbeat. Not harmonious. He reached for his journal and began writing an entry about his visit with Sophia followed by the one with Mason. At the sounds of a tap on the door and Vincente’s voice, he lifted his head and put his pen down.

“Good time to crash your party?” Vincente asked as he came in.

Daniel chuckled. “Some party. Hard to celebrate in the company of one.”

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“Well, now there’s two of us.” Vincente gently massaged Daniel’s shoulder as he passed him. “Good to see you, my friend.” He sniffed Daniel’s drink. “Baileys?”

“Of course. It’s on the cabinet. Pour yourself one.” 

“Maybe. Any tequila?”

“Always. It’s in the cabinet, but it’s not the top-shelf you prefer.”

“I’ll condescend and imbibe with the proletariat. I only ask that you keep this confidential.”

“Your secret is safe.”

After pouring his drink, Vincente settled into the chair across from Daniel’s rocker and pointed to Daniel’s pad and journal. “What are you writing about?”

Daniel held the pad up for Vincente to see.

“Syncopated,” Vincente said. “Interesting. Broken, condensed, like a contraction. I don’t get it.”

Daniel set the pad on his lap. “Neither do I, but for some reason it seems to fit.”

“Fit?”

“Me. My life. The chaos and turmoil in it. I suspect that on the surface, when someone looks at me, they probably conclude all is well. But you and I—and now Sophia—know all’s not well. There’s so much swirling. I can’t get my head around one thing before another crops up. I feel like I’m against the ropes with Ali pummeling at will. It’s coming at me too fast.”

Vincente nodded. “Is that a bad thing?”

Daniel looked incredulously at Vincente. “A bad thing? Of course it is! Why do you ask that?”

“You tell me.”

Daniel shook his head. “Please, old friend. Please don’t use that psychologist’s trick of turning a patient’s question back to them.”

“Well, my friend, it’s not a trick or a strategy. It’s a point to be taken. In such situations, most always, the answer lies within the person asking it. Vocalizing your query is your mind’s way of expressing its inability or frustration to find an answer.” He leaned forward and pointed toward Daniel’s chest, raising his voice. “But it’s in there. The answer is in there. And you know it. So don’t try to bullshit me playing innocent and feigning you don’t know it. You do know the answer, but you refuse to acknowledge it because in doing so, you would be admitting that you aren’t some superman, some strong, fearless lion. It’s high time you recognize you’re just like everyone else—flawed and imperfect.”

“The Lion’s Den”

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Daniel said nothing in reply. Vincente’s salvo had come quickly, as if he’d come loaded for bear. It stunned him to the point of being unable to respond. Vincente’s words seemed like an invective, but Daniel knew they weren’t. They were harsh and pointed, but he knew they came from a place of love and caring.

Vincente went on, his voice softened but firm. “Daniel, you’re strong. You act with courage. There isn’t a perceived injustice you won’t stand up to or a hurt soul you won’t defend and care for. Except one: you. You cover up all your anxieties and struggles. You won’t own up to your true desires and wishes, which have languished inside for sixty-odd years waiting to be acknowledged and honored. But you don’t fool me. You never have. I saw through the veneer right off. I’ve never said that to you before, but I’m saying it now because it’s time. In fact, past time. You know what I’m talking about. So let’s no longer step around the horseshit and get to sloshing right through the muck.”

Daniel sat rigidly, but his eyes misted as he smiled weakly.

Vincente glared at him. “Did I say something funny?”

Daniel shook his head. “No. Something you said reminded me of a story Jonathan told me from when he was a young man still living at home. He said his mother wanted him to go to his sister’s farm and get her some manure. ‘Don’t get me that dried-up cow poop,’ she told him. ‘Bring me that fresh horse manure. That’s what makes the garden grow best.’

“Jonathan would refer to it and laugh when he talked about his garden. He’d say, ‘If I had fresh horseshit, my plants would be twice as full and luscious and my life would be all the better.’”

Vincente eased back into his chair. “So is there a metaphor in that?”

Daniel pursed his mouth and nodded. “I guess so. Thanks, Ali. I certainly wasn’t expecting you to launch into me. It didn’t feel good and still doesn’t, but I guess I needed that.” He took a sip of his Baileys, took a deep breath, and took one more sip. “Well, Ali, now that you’ve beaten me to a pulp, where to now?”

Vincente shrugged. “You tell me.”

“Okay, I will. Or try to. Let’s go back to what got us going: why everything coming so fast and overwhelming me might not be a bad thing. I can see it a bit more clearly now. I guess I needed to be or still need to be beaten down before I can get to the core of what’s going on. You’re right, Vincente, I’ve built a wall around myself. I suppose everyone puts up their own version of barricades, but I think that is especially true for gay men and even truer for those of us who operate and socialize primarily in the straight culture. And by straight, I mean homophobic, if not overtly, then subtly. That veneer, that shield is what helped get me through the crap and survive.”

“Let me ask you this. Do you recall the Merrimack and Monitor?”

Daniel was surprised by the question. “Yes. They were the ironclads that battled in the Civil War.”

Vincente nodded. “I’m not sure where they are now. I think one or both sank but might’ve been salvaged. But it’s no matter. When I think of them, I think of the men inside them trapped and encased in iron. Each ironclad was able to launch fusillades against the other, and they were both impenetrable to their enemy’s counterattack. But they fought on in a futile attempt to sink each other. It didn’t work. I believe the battle was a draw. No one won.”

Daniel sat quietly, processing the implications of Vincente’s analogy. He sipped the last drops of his snifter, got up, and motioned to Vincente’s glass. “Another?”

Vincente handed Daniel his glass. “Please.” 

After refreshing their drinks, Daniel picked up the thread of conversation. “Interesting metaphor. Like the Church and me. Two titans going at each other. But the hard truth is that neither of us will win because neither of us can be defeated. Like Moby Dick, I’m unconquerable, and the Church will be here long after I’m gone. But the question I still need to answer is this: Where to now? Do I need to answer that one for myself as well?” 

“I’ll throw you a lifeline. Ready to answer hard questions?” 

“Now that you stripped me of my armor and I’m buck naked before you, why not?” 

Vincente laughed. “We’ll leave that image as a metaphor. The best way would be to peel the onion a layer at a time rather than chopping and mincing it. Let’s scan through pieces of your life. Don’t dwell on the questions. Speak from the heart and just give a simple yes or no answer or at least only a few thoughts in response. Later, you and I or you and Sophia can delve more deeply into the wider aspects of them and flesh them out.” 

“Okay.”

“You mentioned the Church within the context of the ironclads I spoke of. That suggests it’s first and foremost—the most driving issue for you. Maybe it’s not, but we can figure that out later. So when you think of the Church, is your thought generally favorable or unfavorable?” 

“Mixed.”

“Do you like where you are now in terms of your position?” 

“Yes.”

“Think of Jonathan. Do you love him?

“Yes.”

“Mason. Do you love him?”

Daniel hesitated before replying. “Yes, but.”

“But what?” 

“But not how I love Jonathan.” 

“Think of Rafael and Miguel. How do you see them?” 

“Rafael is wounded in need of protection and rescuing.”

“And Miguel?”

“I’m not sure.” Daniel paused and stared at his drink for a moment. “But there’s something else.” 

“What?”

“I’m not sure.” He shrugged and shook his head. “I think I need to process it more before I can talk about it. I just know there’s something else when it comes to Miguel.” 

“Okay,” Vincente said. “Fair enough. I’ve saved the toughest for last. Ready?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you love Daniel Patrick Murphy?” 

Daniel stared at Vincente, stunned by the question, and his mind swirled. He wanted to say that of course he loved himself, but he couldn’t. 

Vincente leaned forward and placed his hand on Daniel’s knee. “I’ll save you a bit more here. Of course you love yourself, but by your nonanswer it seems there’s at least one part of you that you don’t love. All self-reflecting people know in their heart the things within them they don’t like. But when the things inside we don’t like become too strong, so powerful that they shape and even dictate our behavior, we begin to more than dislike them. The dislike morphs into contempt. In time, we come to loathe and be disgusted by them, and that becomes a problem because too often we conflate that loathing with our whole self. If not dealt with, it can go to the ultimate step—self-hatred. And those filled with self-loathing become destructive, either to themselves or to others. I truly don’t believe that’s where you are, but you will get to that place unless you take steps to intervene with yourself.”

He eased back into his chair and sipped his tequila while Daniel sat quietly, reflecting. Neither spoke for several minutes. 

Finally, Daniel spoke. “You’re right, Vincente. I understand. The fog seems to be lifting. It’s not a pleasant sight. But your points do help answer both questions: why and where to. And it’s given me further insight into another.” 

“And that is?” 

“Self-loathing. Now I understand something that has always escaped me. Self-loathing is the true gay plague. I think I’m now beginning to understand Miguel and why the thought of being in contact makes me anxious. Maybe I see much of me in him. Maybe he’s that younger me.” 

Jerry Fabyanic is an award-winning author of multiple fiction and nonfiction books. His novels in the Sisyphus Series are theme-focused and character-driven, and the essays in his Food for Thought Series explore a wide range of mind and spirit topics. In addition to his published works, Fabyanic posts a fresh essay monthly on his website. Learn more at jerryfabyanic.com/. 

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