Once, when St. Don was in the fullness of his years, the people brought before him a woman caught in adultery and asked should they stone her. St. Don grew quiet, attempting to know the hearts of the people. Did the people want to stone her? Would they like him more if he urged them to stone her or if he urged them not to stone her? He sensed that they were actually dying to stone her. For all were holding rocks and a few even had rocks in both hands. And St. Don spoketh as follows: “What she did? Whatever it was? Was bad. So bad. Am I saying you should stone her? Well, I hear that some people have been saying she definitely should be stoned.” And the people believed, and began to chant, “Stone her! Stone her!” At this, St. Don smiled: for it meant that they now likethed him more than they would have likethed him had he suggested they not stone her, or just stayed neutral about it.

•

One day, St. Don and a few of his business colleagues saw a blind man begging in the street. “St. Don,” said Michael Cohen, “tell us, is that man blind through his own sin, or did his parents sin?” And St. Don replied, “Hey, I didn’t do it. Both, probably. How should I know? I find it, honestly, a little disgusting. Let’s clear out.”

With that, St. Don spat into the dirt. And the others waited for St. Don to make clay from his spit and the dirt and apply it to the blind man’s eyes and thus heal him. But nothing doing. St. Don just spat into the dirt again, saying, “Did I say let’s get going or what? Are you morons deaf?”

And they all got going.

•

A story from the early years of the life of St. Don: During his childhood, the mother of one of Little St. Don’s school friends passed away, in a freak accident, while attending a circus. At the funeral, the people were amazed when Little St. Don stood up on one of the pews and began to speak unto them. He told a story about the time he, Little St. Don, had a terrific time, at a different circus. People seemed to really like him at that circus. It was the best circus that ever occurred. The people couldn’t get over it, how he could name each and every animal that came trotting out. Still, it was sad about the death of Mrs. Murphy and all. Then again, who sits right under the flying trapeze? Crushed, wow, that had to hurt. Speaking of flying trapezes, had everyone seen his recent report card? It was—the teachers were all saying this—one of the best report cards anyone had ever seen, since the beginning of time, including probably, you know, Napoleon or whoever. And Napoleon was a pretty smart cookie. But wow, how sad, to be crushed by a falling trapeze person. Poor Mrs. Murphy. Not her day, folks, I’ll tell you that.

Nearly forty minutes later, the people were astonished to find Little St. Don still standing on that pew, still talking. And lo, the crowd drifted away, until there were only, like, four people left, and three were fast asleep, and then, of course, the corpse of Mrs. Murphy was still there, and yet, in what soon became known as the Miracle of Mrs. Murphy’s Funeral, St. Don would later claim that the crowd grew and grew, until the church could barely contain the multitude.

•

Little St. Don was once invited to the birthday party of his best friend, Todd. As the cake was being served, a neighbor, Mr. Aryan, burst in, drunk, threw the cake against the wall, insulted Todd’s mother, and knocked a few toddlers out of their seats, requiring them to get stitches. Then Todd’s dad pushed Mr. Aryan roughly out the front door. Again, Little St. Don mounted a chair, and began to speak, saying what a shame it was that those two nice people had both engaged in violence.

•

One day, in church, Little St. Don heard the priest speaking of someone named Jesus Christ, who was greater and more powerful than any one of us, paradoxically, through his very gentleness. Little St. Don, thinking deeply upon these things, reasoned thusly: “Gentle, sure, yeah, that’s great. Jesus sounds like a good guy. Pretty famous guy. Huh. Maybe kind of a wimp? Within our school, am I about as famous as Jesus was when alive? Now that he’s dead, sure, he’s super-famous. But, when alive, how did he do? Not so great, I bet. Anyway, I like Saviours who weren’t crucified.”

•

Hear thee now the story of how Little St. Don once helped avert a terrible tragedy. A young black man, Jamie, hung a banner outside his dwelling, saying “Please Help Stop Race-Related Violence.” A crowd of white people had there gathered, agitated for reasons they could not quite articulate. Little St. Don climbed onto a nearby lawn chair and, using a megaphone someone had conveniently brought along (and actually it was he, Little St. Don), spoke loudly to Jamie, his voice reaching even inside the dwelling, asking Jamie why he hated the military so much.

And the crowd was satisfied, and left that place, sore amazed.

•

Then came a great challenge in Little St. Don’s life. Some stiff accused him of being involved in some alleged cheating on some meaningless history test. Actually, that stiff was Mrs. Jones, his history teacher, who had recently got divorced and had some sort of weird digestive issue, and whenever she stood behind you her stomach gurgled, so it was like there was a freaking trash compactor back there wearing too much perfume and occasionally making moans of unhappiness at what had to be a pretty miserable life, what with that face.

What might be a good nickname for Mrs. Jones? pondered Little St. Don. Gurgling Gloria? Lonely Jonesly?

Anyhoo.

Little St. Don was unafraid, even in the office of the principal (Fat Bald Jim), and, leaping atop a small stool there, spoke directly unto his accuser, Mrs. Jones. “As far as this fake test-cheating thing? What about all the people who get killed by refrigerators falling on them?” he sayethed. “Big issue, folks. Why do all these refrigerators keep falling on people? Probably it’s the gangs. Might also be that black kid—don’t get me wrong, I love the blacks, but that black kid who had that banner up praising MS-13? Maybe he’s standing behind the fridges, pushing them over. I’ve been hearing about that.”

Yet, in spite of the power of these words, Little St. Don still got detention.

In the wilderness that was detention, Little St. Don entered a deep state of contemplation. What was the meaning of life? What should he be when he grew up? Why was the world so unfair? You live in a big house, the biggest, actually, and everyone in the whole school knows your name, and you are always giving these amazingly well-attended talks, from chairs and stools, and yet, for all of that, people don’t always do what you say, or admit that you are above reproach in all things and always have exactly the right idea about everything, even better ideas than the so-called experts, like Mrs. Gut-Symphony Jones, though you never even crack a book.