Shortly after his
election in 1979, Pope John Paul II visited Boston and celebrated
a televised Mass on the Common. The ceremonies caught the eye
of my cousin's two-year-old daughter, Lauren, who had not turned
off the TV after watching "Sesame Street." She was thunderstruck.
She ran breathlessly into the kitchen exclaiming, "Mommy! Mommy!
Uncle Jimmie's on TV in fancy clothes!"
It was a common mistake.
For Lauren's Uncle Jimmie -- my dad -- was a ringer for the Pope.
Except for the fancy clothes. A retired barber who had worked
as a sulfur miner in Sicily when he was only eight to help support
his family, he could never have afforded such a sumptuous wardrobe.
Besides, red pointed-toe slippers just weren't his style.
Nevertheless, the physical
resemblance was uncanny -- in spite of the fact that at the time,
my dad was 85-old enough to be the Holy Father's father.
Though more than twenty
years have passed since John Paul II assumed the Papacy and his
picture appeared on the world's front pages, magazine covers and
television screens, I still clearly remember how my parents' phone
rang continuously. Friends and relatives from coast to coast called
to report the "news" -- "Jimmie looks exactly like the Pope!"
they declared. "You've got it wrong," my mother corrected. "The
Pope looks exactly like Jimmie."
Whatever. My dad thoroughly
enjoyed his celebrity status. Wherever he went, people asked for
his blessing -- and he gave it. He had the hand movements down
pat. He was sure God didn't mind.
Once a month he used
to visit a local rest home (to give haircuts to the 'old folks'
he said, even though most of them were younger than he). They
loved to see him come. "Here's the Pope!" they'd announce. He
smiled his beatific smile, blessing and snipping as he went.
On the street, strangers
stopped him and said, "Oh, my God...!" "No, only Jimmie," said
my father.
At one point, he was
in the hospital for minor surgery. One afternoon, people passing
by to visit other patients were startled to hear a nurse call
out to an orderly, "The Pope needs a bedpan-Room 316." As soon
as he was out of bed, he made rounds with the hospital chaplain
and reportedly boosted morale 100 percent.
Shortly thereafter,
I entered my dad in a Boston television station's celebrity look-alike
contest. "Be sure he comes in costume," they said. Those fancy
clothes? There was no way we could duplicate them. So we settled
for a long white alb borrowed from his parish pastor, and a white
yarmulke donated by a Jewish neighbor. A nice ecumenical touch.
My mom supplied a four-inch crucifix to hang around his neck and
I gave him a hefty costume-jeweled ring for his followers to kiss.
We stood back to appraise him. Damned -- I mean, darned -- if
he didn't look even more like the Pope than the Pope himself!
And darned if he didn't tie for first place with Alan Alda and
Colonel Sanders (or reasonable facsimiles).
The prize was a contract
with Ron Smith's Celebrity Look-Alikes, a Los Angeles agency that
supplies celebrity doubles for work in movies, television commercials
and as models for print ads. My father was ready to pack his bags
and hit the road. A whole new career! Fame! Fortune! He was ecstatic.
Unfortunately, he was
still waiting for his first assignment when he died three years
later. I wasn't surprised. Let's face it. The commercial opportunities
for a Pope look-alike were rather limited. I mean they couldn't
have him sipping a Beefeater martini in front of a blazing fire
with a gorgeous blonde, kicking up his Doc Martins at a singles
disco, or riding the range with a Marlboro dangling from his lips.
(Though the Marlboro man hadn't yet been banned from ads, he would
not have been an appropriate role model for His Holiness.)
But there were other
possibilities. How about ice cream? What could be more wholesome
than ice cream? Picture this: My father, in full Papal regalia
(compliments of Baskin Robbins) licking an ice cream cone, smacking
his lips, and saying, "It's heavenly!" (So he would have said
it in broken English; who was to know it wasn't a Polish accent?)
He could have been
shown christening a Cabbage Patch Kid, which were ubiquitous in
the '70s, or officiating at Ken and Barbie's wedding. (Those two
still haven't legalized their relationship. Back then, it was
scandalous. Today, no one cares.)
Unfortunately, Ron
Smith apparently wasn't able to sell any of these brilliant ideas,
so Dad had to be satisfied with local personal appearance requests
that came his way. The most memorable was from my friend Carol
who was, and still is, famous for her extravagant parties. She
called me when she was planning a wing-ding for her husband's
fiftieth birthday. "Would your father like to play Pope at my
party?" she asked. "Is the Pope Catholic?" I replied.
The big night arrived.
Dad donned his alb, yarmulke, and "Papal" ring. Mom and I drove
him to the party and sneaked him into a back room. The extravaganza
reached a fever pitch (when this woman throws a party, she throws
a party). Finally, the guests were all seated for dinner. Suddenly
there was a roll on the drums. The MC grabbed the microphone.
"I'm sorry to delay your dinner, Folks," he said, "but we've just
received word that a very important dignitary has arrived! We
all know that Carol usually manages to do the impossible, but
this is truly incredible -- even for her!"
During this speech,
Carol and a priest friend ostentatiously rushed out of the room.
The drum roll continued...grew to a crescendo. The MC boomed,
"Ladies and Gentlemen, please rise and greet our distinguished
guest!"
Everyone stood, the
band started playing "Pomp and Circumstance." All eyes turned
to the doorway. There, between Carol and the priest, stood my
father, his hand upraised in the familiar Papal blessing.
There were gasps of
astonishment. For three full minutes, many of the guests actually
believed John Paul himself had come to the party. Sure, it was
impossible. But, as the MC had stated, Carol often did the impossible.
Gradually, however, they began to realize that even she couldn't
have pulled this one off. This smiling, waving figure wasn't really
the Pope.
Of course not. It was
someone even more important -- at least to me.
I can't help but smile
when I picture what will happen when John Paul II joins my father
in Paradise. They're going to confuse the hell -- I mean the heck
-- out of God.
Meanwhile, my dad is
carrying the standard alone. I am certain he is looking down from
Heaven right now and blessing us all.
Long may he wave.
Rose Mula was an executive
assistant, a public relations specialist, and an operations manager
for a New England theater chain before discovering a passion for
writing.
Her work has appeared
in The Saturday Evening Post, Yankee, Modern Maturity, The
Christian Science Monitor, The Reader's Digest, The Philadelphia
Inquirer, The Baltimore Sun, and more than a hundred other
magazines and newspapers. Actually-thousands of newspapers, since
one of her essays, The
Stranger in My Mirror (originally titled, The Stranger
in My House), was reprinted in Ann Landers' nationally syndicated
column in 1999, and after an explanatory exchange with Ms. Landers, an attribution.
Rose's new book, If These Are Laugh Lines I'm Having Way Too Much Fun, is available at bookstores, through online bookstores, and from Pelican Publishing, 800-843-1724. The book was a finalist in USABOOKNEWS.COM's 2006 Best Books Award humor category. Meanwhile, she can reached
by e-mail.
