The moment the Pope’s motorcade left the Wall Street Heliport the command post issued the order to lock everything down.
And that’s when I met Father Manny.
He was dressed in priestly garb and sprinting down East 47th Street toward 1st Avenue, a look of panic and desperation etched across his face.
I watched as a pair of NYPD officer, working crowd control, stopped him. Father Manny pleaded with them to let him pass. But the officers were under strict orders; no one was allowed to cross the street.
That’s when Father Manny saw me. He pointed and yelled, “Agent…can you help me?”
I put on a stern face and slowly walked over to him, fully intending on echoing what the officers had already told him. But as I got closer something stirred inside of me. A peaceful and familiar feeling.
“What’s going on, Father?” I asked.
Father Manny grabbed the lanyard hanging around his neck and held up the attached credentials. They read: “PRESS”.
“I’m supposed to be inside the U.N.,” he said.
I examined the credentials. They were legit, but it didn’t matter; Father Manny was too late.
“I’m sorry, Father,” I said, “but the Press call was over an hour ago. And they’ve all been escorted into the U.N. There’s no way for you to get inside now.”
Father Manny cast his eyes downward and mumbled the reason for his tardiness. “I can’t believe I overslept.”
Hello Ceal,
I am impressed with your work. Please let me know you are publishing.
Thank you.
Rupert