what is your dry-cleaning bill like, Francis?

i misdial

a number on my phone

and end

up talking to the Pope

in Italy.

hello, he says.

who's this?

it's me, Jimmy,

i tell him. is Betty there?

who's Betty?

he asks.

my friend.

she's sort of my girlfriend,

we're not

married,

but well, we have

an arrangement.

who am i talking to?

i ask,

is this Betty's father,

Joe.

Uncle Al?

no, this is Francis.

but you can call me Fran.

i'm the pope

right now.

what?

the pope? no way. 

yup.

they picked me.

the white smoke went up

the old chimney

and here i am.

i can't believe it either

sometimes.

wow. i'm talking to the pope.

tell me something

Fran,

what's the bill on dry cleaning

at the Vatican?

do you ever chill and just wear

jeans

and a shirt,

or shorts and flip flops?

sometimes, he says.

when we have a cocktail

or two up

on the roof.

we take our hats off and let

our hair down

sort to speak.

cool. cool.

one other question, i think Betty

is trying

to call me.

yes, my son, he says.

what's the deal on sitting, kneeling,

standing,

and all that rigamarole

during mass.

i feel like a puppet

on a string sometimes.

my knees aren't what they used

to be

and the up and down is killing them.

would it be okay

if i sat down for the whole service?

sure, he says. sure.

we just do that to keep people awake,

we don't want

them falling asleep

like they do in other churches.

great, i tell him.

do you mind if i save your number

and call

you once in a while.

sure, he says.

but not too often.