I awoke in a hospital bed in San Clemente, CA—no memory of what had happened or how I got there. It was a Catholic hospital and all the nurses were nuns. Nunses, if you will.

I was in pretty bad shape and I drifted in and out of consciousness. I came to with a priest holding my hand and looking into my eyes. He asked me if I had anything I wanted to confess.

I cleared my throat and gestured for him to come closer. I whispered, "I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die."

"Johnny Cash?"

"Well, I didn't catch his name," I said.

"No, that's a line from a Johnny Cash song. Folsom Prison Blues."

And then he started to sing the song, and I realized he was right. I must have misremembered the whole shot-a-man-in-Reno thing. 

I joined the sing-along. We got a little loud and were starting to create some beautiful harmonies. I expected a sister to enter playing guitar.

Instead, the monsignor walked in abruptly, and he was pissed. Apparently, this type of behavior is frowned upon during last rites. Then, shockingly, he defrocked the priest right there on the spot. He took his clerical collar and garments, and even took his holy underwear.

I felt terrible. I watched from the upstairs window as the nude priest walked across the parking lot carrying a banker's box filled with books and figurines and got in his Ford Taurus. 

After I was released from the hospital, I went to several karoake bars hoping to run into him and apologize, and thank him for his kindness. But I never saw him again.