The Pastor

There was a bit left but his head was pounding from the smell and he was dizzy from having to contort his body in order to reach every corner and every space.  And they wanted it done perfectly.  They all did.  When they paid for something they wanted it done like Michelangelo would’ve done.  Perfect.  And if you got it wrong, missed a spot, misplaced a tile by a degree, they would call you on your mobile day and night until you answered and apologised profusely.  So when he saw that last bit he dipped the brush into the thick white paint (it felt like his arm would remain there in that paint bucket) and he draped his arm across the ceiling and over the spot.
When he was done he cleaned the brushes and spatula and screwdrivers and put everything away in the boot of his car.  Then he went back inside and they talked to him awhile until he realised they were only talking to him to appear friendly so he got up to go and they paid him.  He put the cheque in his breast pocket, shook the man’s hand and pretend-kissed the woman’s cheeks.  Then he got in his car but when he twisted the key the engine blew.
“Oh, God!” said the pastor out loud.

One family always had a new project on the go.  And if it wasn’t for them…they were so kind and so friendly and so civilised and they radiated good vibes every time he was around them.  If only all jobs were like this.  No, now he was working for a mistress with a shoe fetish whose lover was a barrister in Cluj. 
When he first saw her two things shot through his mind.  One, she looks like a slut.  Two, she has an angelic face.  She waved him in, weighed him up and basically ignored him while he got on with the job of making her toilet look like “A luxurious Italian bathroom.”  And while he worked he overhead her conversations.  Stuck, she was, to her mobile, one call linked to the next, one friend, one lover, one deal, they all sounded the same.  Her tone was a chirpy I’m on top of the world and I am absolutely in charge of my life tone.  As far as he was concerned, she was talking to one person and that person wasn’t him.
She even forced him to break, coming in with a plate of bread and salami.
“Here,” she said, “try some of this.”
He barely turned to look at her (the bellybutton, the nipples, the ridiculous eye shadow) but he did, shook his head and turned back to face the wall.  There was something about that wall that he preferred over this woman.
“Come on, you need to eat, look at you, you’re just skin and bone!”
He stopped.  Then he walked over two steps, grabbed all the meat on the plate, put it on the bread, crunched the bread up with the ham and stuffed it in his mouth.  Then with his mouth full of food he said “This is how we eat in the country.”
She stared at him, noticing the delirium in his eyes.  “Yes, well…”
“Well nothing.  I don’t do breaks.  I don’t do lunches.  I’m not on holiday.  I’m here to work.  You’re paying me for my work.  That’s all.  I’m not paid to chat, drink or eat.” He stuffed some more of it in his mouth.  “I need to do my job in time because if I don’t do it in time you will be extremely upset.  I don’t want hysterical calls at two in the morning.  I like peace.  Quiet.”  He walked back and started working.
“Fine,” she said.  After all, he was doing a nice job.

His own home was the exact opposite of those he had worked at during the week.  The pastor lived in a very small flat.  One bedroom.  In the lounge he had a sofa bed for when friends came to visit.  In fact, everything in the flat was given to him by British friends.  The furniture, the laptop, the television.  He’d only bought the essentials: soap, shampoo, razor, toothbrush, toothpaste.
In the evening he read articles from around the world on the Internet.  He liked to read about the different attitudes of people towards religion.  Some were extremely relaxed.  Didn’t mind a beer straight after prayer.  Some were strict and lived their life with a dedication that even he envied.  Some were extremists and smothered the individuality of others with their beliefs.  He smiled at this.  So it’s looked upon as wrong to convert others to your beliefs but it’s perfectly acceptable to blind the world with materialism, gain and superficiality!  He couldn’t complain, though.  If it wasn’t for capitalism he would spend his time buried in a prison cell.
After reading for a couple of hours he would have his meal which consisted of whatever he had left from what the neighbours had brought over.  They usually made much more than they could eat so the pastor got some and the old, lonely, people got some.  He was used to eating very quickly but he enjoyed the taste of good cooking.  When he finished his meal, the pastor rinsed the dish and fork in cold water.  He would have a bath, later, with the leftover hot.
Then he turned off all the lights, passing by the window, glancing outside to see local teenagers sitting on a bench.  A few might turn up to service.  He was in desperate need of good singers.  And in the dark he lay on his sofa and tried to forget about the sinful urges that tempted him and others around him.  He tried to wipe out the breasts and the winks and the cigarettes.  He unlearnt swearwords and the aggression that was always waiting to erupt.  Animals!  And he thanked the Lord for the plentiful living that he and others took for granted.  And he praised the Lord for the beautiful sights all around, the majestic hills and the crisp morning chill.  Then he asked for forgiveness, for the ambition that ached in him was too much for him to ignore, to put to one side.  He wanted his own family, a nice house, a good car.  This was normal but, he explained, there was no true love in pettiness and greed.
At times, he would fall asleep right there on the sofa, unwashed, dressed but quite satisfied.