“IF YOU COULD have dinner with anyone in history, alive or dead, who would it be?”
If you play in a band for a living or have achieved any level of celebrity, you’ve likely been asked this question time and again during interviews. Sometimes this question comes during a long-form interview with the expectation of a thoughtful explanation, but more often than not it comes at the end of quick morning FM radio interview in a “speed round” session, where you answer as many questions as you can in a minute. This question might well be preceded by “poutine or pizza?” and followed by “boxers or briefs?”
I almost always offer the same answer, whatever the format. And if my answer perplexes the long-form interviewers, it downright derails the morning FM jocks.
A typical speed-round session involves a hyper-stimulated DJ Buddy who’s been up since 4 a.m. and completely blasted on caffeine by our 8:45 a.m. chat. “All right, Alan, got time for a quickie session before you go? Now don’t think too hard about the answers—they are meant to be right off the top of your head, so no pausing or stopping. Ready? All right, sixty seconds on the clock and let’s go!”
The questions come rapid-fire and are meant to surprise, but so often they are the same surprising questions you’ve heard four times already that week. Still, the DJs are nice enough to let you on their morning show to promote your music or concert, so you’re happy to play along.
“Fave hockey team?”
“Habs.”
DJ is confused, as he is sure I was a Leafs fan, but continues, excitedly.
“What CD would you chose to listen to for the rest of your life?’
“Bob Marley’s Greatest Hits.”
DJ is surprised again, as he never assumed I’d like reggae, but again he forges ahead.
“If you could have dinner with anyone in history, alive or dead, who would it be?”
“The Fella with the Vinegar Sponge.”
DJ usually turns his head like a dog when asked if it wants a snack. He tries so very hard to stick to the plot, but the curveball he’s been thrown is just too whacky.
“Excuse me, what?”
I repeat, straight-faced.
“The Fella with the Vinegar Sponge.”
DJ wants to know more about this most curious response, but I know he’s got to hit the 9 a.m. news and doesn’t have time for a theological discussion, so I usually say politely, “He’s the most interesting fella in the Bible, I think. Look him up after your shift.” DJ then finishes with a “hot dogs or hamburgers?” question, and I’m out the door. I usually glance back to see him either staring at me like I am the strangest thing he’s ever encountered, or I see him already googling “bible man with the vinegar spo…”
Since I was a child, I have been fascinated with all things religious, especially Catholic things, as that was my stripe. Religion defined the very geography of my town—Petty Harbour was divided by a river separating a school, church, store and fish plant for the town’s Catholic community, and a school, church, store and fish plant on the other side for the Protestant community. Born into a very Catholic family, I served as an altar boy for a number of years, and as a young man, I did a religious studies degree at Memorial University.
I have written before about my utter bewilderment with the Catholic notion of transubstantiation, where the body and blood of Christ defies physics and actually—not spiritually or ceremonially—becomes a thin wafer of communal bread. What I found most curious about this belief was that almost no adults I knew were aware of this, assuming instead that Christ’s body was simply represented in the host, not the actual host. When I mentioned this discrepancy to the parish priest, he insisted I stay quiet about it and not ask too many questions. How odd, I figured, to be told to stop asking questions about something you were told was very important. I have been interested in it ever since.
The first I heard of the man with the vinegar sponge was while standing on the altar in a white sutan, sometime between ages ten and thirteen. The gospel that Sunday must have been from either Mark 15 or Matthew 27, as these chapters contain the two most direct references to the gent who would fascinate me to this day.
Father O’Brien noted in his homily: “And there on the cross, our beloved saviour Jesus Christ suffered for our sins. All the while being mocked by Roman soldiers who had the cruellest of intentions and would not even give Jesus a drink of water on his deathbed. Yes, that is how much punishment our Lord endured for us at the hands of those who would offer a dying man vinegar for water and laugh at him as he died!” I saw Mary Mulloney in the congregation bless herself, then bow her shaking head and draw her cardigan closer together high at the chest, the unspoken sign for “disgusted worry” for Newfoundland ladies of a certain vintage.
I can’t say for sure this was the first time my young Petty Harbor Catholic self uttered the phrase, “What the f—k?” But there, on the red-carpet altar at St. Joseph’s parish, is most definitely my earliest memory of uttering this phrase, even if under my breath.
I missed several altar boy service cues at the tail end of the mass, distracted by what seemed to be the most random act of mischief or cruelty I’d ever heard of in my young life.
I was late serving the wine and water at the Preparation of the Gifts because my mind raced with the question, “Where did that fella get the vinegar?” I almost dropped the host plate while walking to Father O’Brien and wondering, “Did he bring the vinegar, or was it just around by some weird accident?” By the time I was to lift the Baptismal candle and join the Closing Procession, I was tumbling down a mind hole. My mom kicked into the intro of “Sing to the Mountains” on the old church organ, but I could not bring myself to sing. “If he brought the vinegar, which I suppose he must have, did he do so because he wanted to mock Jesus? ’Cause if so, that is particularly malicious.” And I almost tripped, knocking down the whole parade domino-style, as the most horrific thought yet occurred to me: “Sweet Holy Jesus, did he bring the friggin’ vinegar every day? For everyone getting crucified? For his own private jollies?” Then, for the second time, “What the f—k?”
Ever since that day, the fellow with the vinegar sponge remains one of the people I would most like to talk with. How I might delicately broach the subject during a dinner conversation with him, however, remains a question mark.
“Welcome, welcome, man, thanks so much for joining me. So cool, isn’t it, this new app that lets living people pull dinner guests out of heaven or hell or purgatory or wherever you’ve been hanging out—no judgment, by the way. I hope you like the fish my mom fried for us. My uncle caught it only this morning, so it’s pretty fresh. You shouldn’t need hardly any vinegar on it…unless you loves vinegar?”
After the appetizers, would I get more specific?
“So, Stephaton [as he is sometimes called], you spent most of your life as a Roman soldier, is that right? Ah. Cool, cool. So, you must have been at a few of those crucifixions, I suppose?”
Maybe after the main course while waiting for dessert I would probe a bit more?
“Man, that uniform is still sharp-looking. I suppose the Roman Army gave you that and your weapons, did they? Yeah, that spear and sword are badass, b’y. Did they provide you with anything else? Like your lunch, maybe? Or did you have to brown bag it to the crucifixions? Bring a sandwich? A bottle of wine, perhaps…?”
But by the time the apple pie was done, and our dinner date coming to a close, I suspect a lifetime of pent-up questions would simply spill out, supper-table etiquette be damned.
“Bud, you got to tell me—what the f—k with the vinegar? Times were different, I get it. But did you carry it all the time? Did you wake up each day before the wife and kids and giggle as you snuck it out the pantry and poured it into your water bottle? Were you trying to look cool in front of the other soldiers? Trying to top that popular guy who brought a rotten egg to hurl at the dying fella during last week’s crucifixion? Were you home one night stewing, ‘Shag you, Longinus, and your friggin’ side spear. You think that’s the something, you big show-off! Well, here’s the most insulting finisher yet—vinegar for water!’ ”
By now, I imagine the poor fella would be trying to find the door.
“Did you get high fives in the Roman Soldier lunchroom later that day as the legend started making the rounds? Did they stand and slow clap as you entered? Did Longinus run over with arms spread and proclaim, ‘Dude, vinegar! That’s next level! You’re a star, man!’ Or was it the kind of thing you always wanted to do but instantly regretted? You know, like kissing your girlfriend’s sister?”
As the poor embattled fella ran down the walkway, I’d still be shouting,
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask—did someone make you drink vinegar when you were small? Did someone hurt you? It’s okay to say, you know. This is a safe space!”
One of the last things he’d hear as he rounded the corner for Duckworth Street, his spear dragging behind him on the sidewalk and sword banging awkwardly against his surprisingly feminine skirt and exposed knees, might be me politely trying to woo him back for an after-supper nightcap.
“We all do stupid things we regret, man—no judgment! Come back, come back!”
And finally,
“Can I offer you something to drink?!”