The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy
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Authors: Duncan Whitehead
© 2014 Duncan Whitehead
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
As always, for Keira
I would like to acknowledge the following for their assistance, help, inspiration, and patience during the writing of The Reluctant Jesus: Robert Peel, Gissell and Ashley Pozna, Keira Whitehead, and LJ Anderson
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CHAPTER
I FEEL IT IS IMPORTANT
, just to make sure that there are no misunderstandings, especially at this initial stage of our acquaintanceship that I point out that I was, and still am, an ordinary guy. I blend into a crowd; I am one of life’s extras, never destined to be a major protagonist in any scene, drama, or act. You see people like me every day, but you do not notice. I was just, well, to put it bluntly, there. If I ever committed a crime, which, to the best of my knowledge, I never have, and a witness was requested to describe me, I am sure the word boring would be used, probably more than once.
I do not ever recall doing anything that could be described as remarkable. I kept to myself, and not only did I like it that way, but I am sure that others also did. I went about and minded my own business; I went through the motions of a boring and uncomplicated life: I came, and I went, I worked as hard as the next man, but I did not over assert myself. I got along just fine. My ambitions were healthy and realistic, and I knew my limitations. To my recollection, I had never performed any act of bravery, kindness, or selflessness that would stand me out from any other rational human being, nor, by the same notion, had I ever performed any act of cowardice, unkindness, or selfishness. I was not overly generous, but I was by no stretch of the imagination mean. I always tipped the required fifteen percent in restaurants and bars and on occasion had been known to go as high as twenty, for the exceptional waiter, server, or bartender. I had in the past donated to charity, and I am sure clothing I once wore is now clad upon a deserving recipient delegated by the Salvation Army; however I have not given to beggars on the sidewalk, nor do I tip for fast food.
According to friends I was a stereotypical confirmed bachelor with no emotional responsibilities or ties. I did not have any other human being reliant on my income, my goodwill, my moods, the contents of my fridge, my apartment, or my television remote control. I was able to come and go as I pleased. No one questioned me, and in turn, I did not question others. I lived and let lived and considered myself a free spirit. I had no sexual hang-ups, and the stack of Playboy and Hustler magazines under my bed, not actually hidden, were a clear indication that I insisted that my partners always be of the female variety.
I worked for money, and that money provided me with an apartment in New York City and all the trappings of a bachelor life that revolved around my love of sports—primarily baseball and the New York Yankees—TV, drinking beer, and enjoying myself. I shared my one-bedroom, but extremely desirable and comfortable apartment in Greenwich Village, Manhattan, with a house-trained and totally undemanding ginger tomcat named Walter, who used the litter box provided, shed minimal hair, and was an exceptionally good companion as he never said a word. Walter, who let me come and go when I pleased, was, I am told, probably the most low-maintenance feline known to man.
My name is Seth Miller, and though my surname does not suggest it, I am Jewish by birth though I cannot recall the last time I attended temple. When it came to religion, I could take it or leave it, so I left it. I enjoyed my rather unremarkable but happy and contented life. I did not consider that life was passing me by, but that I was merely pacing myself, and if I equated my life as if it was a marathon, then I was comfortable in the pack, with my eye on the pacemaker, but do not fear, if you are betting on me, for I am not letting the pacemaker out of my sight, and when the time comes I will change gear and break away from the pack, but only when I am good and ready.
The New York City summer of 1999 was not an unusually hot one. However, that particular Wednesday seemed more torrid than usual. The Manhattan Streets were flooded with secretaries and (female) office workers in short skirts and skimpy tops which contained less cotton than a Tylenol bottle. Delivery men and couriers were wearing shorts and T-shirts; the street vendors were selling ice-cold cans of Coke and Pepsi by the dozen. All welcomed the fresh breezes that emitted from shop doorways, office blocks, and apartment complexes as air conditioning met nature. It was indeed a hot day—the day Mother called and changed my life forever.
I had a breakfast meeting with Henry Peel, my boss and senior partner of the well-respected construction firm that I worked for in my capacity as senior architect in residence. My field of expertise was office blocks, those towering skyscrapers you see that complete the panoramic view of every major city in the world. I designed them, drew up the proposed plans, and located and researched potential sites. It was a responsible and highly-paid career that I enjoyed, mainly because I was good at it, and it provided me with little stress. I had arranged to meet with Henry to discuss a potential contract and proposals by a Japanese consortium that wanted to create office space on the Upper East Side. I was excited and very happy to be alive. I loved to start new projects, and this was going to be an exciting and adventurous structure that would help not only my own reputation but also the firm.
That Wednesday I rose earlier than normal; I allowed Walter to sit on my lap for a few minutes, or was it Walter who allowed me to have the pleasure of him sitting on my lap? I never knew with Walter. I fixed some coffee and drank it, maybe a little too quickly, before grabbing my briefcase.
Harvey, my apartment building’s doorman with whom I had a unique relationship (more of Harvey later), hailed me a cab, and if I recall correctly I arrived promptly at The Barking Dog Diner on 3rd Avenue for my breakfast meeting with Henry and the Japanese consortium’s representative, Mr. Hyomoko, who had flown in from Tokyo the previous evening. That meeting, I am pleased to say, was successful, and hands were shaken and a deal proposed. I felt I had ascertained a good idea of what was required, and I agreed to meet Mr. Hyomoko later that week at the proposed site, which his consortium had recently purchased, in close proximity to the Guggenheim Museum on East 87th and 5th. Once we had eaten breakfast Mr. Hyomoko left to relay the details of our meeting to whomever he had to report to, leaving Henry and I to grab another coffee, congratulate ourselves on a deal well done, and to stroll leisurely back to the offices of Peel and Associates situated on 93rd and Lexington, a ten-minute walk from the diner.
Henry and I arrived at the office at eleven or thereabouts. I answered a few e-mails; I drank coffee; I chitchatted with some of my co-workers about nothing in particular. There was a general feeling of excitement in the office that morning as news of the deal secured by Henry and I had already filtered back to my colleagues, which meant the mood was good. I wasn’t too busy, so I decided that I might as well begin work on what was now known as ‘Project Hyomoko.’
I called Bob Nancy, my best friend, whom you will meet later, to tell him about the lucrative contract I secured that morning and to invite him for a celebratory drinking session on Friday night. Life was easy, simple, and good, and I had the perfect life, of course, that was before Mother called……
