The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy (14 page)

Eventually, the man leading them, with his troop following close behind, reached the point where Bob and I stood.

“Excuse me,” said the man, “you couldn’t help us out here, could you? We’re actually lost.” I had always thought Scouts were expert navigators and could read maps and compasses. How lost could they be? They were in Central Park with signs everywhere. Only an idiot could be lost in Central Park.

The man spoke again, “We’re troop twenty-three from West Salem, Oregon.” I nodded that I understood. “I’m Lester Smith, Troop Leader.” Ah, so that’s why he was a grown man dressed as a boy. I shook his outstretched hand; they sure were a friendly bunch from Oregon. “The thing is, we are completely lost, and to top it off, we have forgotten our lunch,” he said. “Jason here,” a small, bespectacled scout appeared from the crowd of boys. I guessed he could not have been older than twelve. Troop Leader Smith playfully ruffled Jason’s hair, who did not seem too pleased at this. He shrugged, and for a second I thought he mouthed an obscenity. Oblivious to this, the troop leader continued to speak. “Jason, here, was meant to collect lunch this morning, but forgot.” He once again playfully ruffled little Jason’s hair, much to Jason’s chagrin, as he again shrugged and grimaced. I was sure he mouthed a word that would make a sailor blush. “So we are kind of stuck, and we ran into a very friendly police officer back there,” he pointed back in the direction they had just come, “and he told me that there were two guys giving out free food in this direction near the children’s theater, so I put two and two together. Have you seen two men giving away food? We are starving.”

Apparently two and two equaled five for Troop Leader Smith. I was amazed that any parent would entrust their child to this man. It must have been a sign. Surely God had done this. I knew it wasn’t the multitude that my half-brother had catered for, but at least it was a start. Who knew why young, foul-mouthed Jason forgot to collect the lunch. From whom and what that lunch had been, I did not know, nor did I think to ask. I had been presented with a chance to perform my first miracle. So the media were not present; it didn’t seem to matter. I instructed Bob to prepare the camcorder. This was it.

“Ok!” I shouted, my fear of public speaking somehow diminished and my confidence soaring. I felt that if God had produced a crowd, then he was behind me and with God behind me, I could do anything. Bob nodded, indicating the camcorder was filming. “Come on gather around,” I shouted, and with the help of Troop Leader Smith, the Boy Scouts gathered around me, forming a semi-circle two deep. I closed my eyes and concentrated. I could hear groaning coming from the assembled throng, and I was sure I heard one of the scouts call me a name. I guessed it was probably Jason; however, I did not let the chiding distract me. And then I spoke. Why I said the words that I did, I did not know. They just came to me.

“Ok, listen, I want you all to reach into your left pocket of your pants and feel around.” I heard Bob wince; maybe they were not the best words for addressing young boys, but I had no control. I had no idea why I had made the command or what it entailed. Something compelled me to say it; it was like before, with the water turning to beer; it just happened.

As instructed, the Boy Scouts placed their hands into the pocket. I watched intently as one by one, they all removed their hands from their pockets. This was it; this was my first public miracle. I watched as the troop leader delved into his pocket, and I saw Jason delve into his. This was the first miracle in over two thousand years performed in public. This was an event. This was history. This was a defining moment in time. This was not what I had expected.

“Wow,” said a voice from the crowd of Scouts.

“Great trick,” said another.

“Cool,” said another.

“I don’t like them,” said one more.

“How did he do that?” said another voice.

“I hate them. Can’t we have something else?” said the detractor again.

I stood motionless as each Boy Scout removed his hand from his pocket and revealed what was there. Each Scout, including Troop Leader Smith, held in their hands a piece of paper. I squinted to get a better look. They looked like coupons.

“Great stunt,” exclaimed Troop Leader Smith as he showed me what he had pulled from his trouser pocket, “how did you do that? You some sort of magician or illusionist or something? Fantastic trick, utterly incredible. I take it they put you up to it? The restaurant that is. Great idea. I suppose we have to buy the fries and drink, though, that’s the catch, I bet, but so what, eh? A free meal is a free meal!”

Catch? What was he talking about? It was a miracle, not a trick, and who were “they?” Where was the food? Where were the loaves and where was the fish? I took a closer look at the voucher that the scout leader handed to me.
“McHUNGRY’S FREE FOOD VOUCHER, FILLET OF COD SANDWICH, DOES NOT INCLUDE FRIES OR DRINK,”
proclaimed the slip of paper. Accompanying the text was a photograph of a fried fish sandwich. It looked genuine; in fact, it was genuine, McHungry’s issued those vouchers to customers who called their hotline to complain about the service in one of their thousands of restaurants based all over the world. They were tokens of McHungry’s concern that someone had not enjoyed their meal. They were genuine all right; I had seen them before.

I flipped the voucher over. I handed it back to Troop Leader Smith. So that was it? Feeding the hungry scouts with free, fast food, courtesy of compensation vouchers, was the miracle? While the fish and bread were a miracle, they had to purchase fries and a drink?

“Wow man. It was awesome. Thanks a lot,” said Smith, who despite, being an idiot had assumed what any other rational human being would have assumed, that they had witnessed an elaborate publicity stunt performed by an illusionist. I was no more a miracle worker in the eyes of my dispersing crowd than a Las Vegas conjurer was. I watched in silence as Smith assembled his troop and led them back the way they had come. I heard Jason say that he had seen a McHungry’s earlier, and he knew the way. Off they went to claim their free sandwich.

For those of you who do not care for fast food or have never heard of McHungry’s, please allow me to enlighten you. Let me take this opportunity to describe and tell you what exactly a fillet of cod sandwich is. If I may, I would like to quote McHungry’s own website, where, on my return home, I found the description of the McHungry’s Cod Sandwich:
A McHungry’s fillet of cod sandwich is a golden, crispy fish filet, topped with American cheese and special tartar sauce on a toasted bun. It makes a perfect snack, or with fries and a drink, a perfect meal.

If I may, I would now like to quote the Bible:

“Then, taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to Heaven, he said the blessing, broke the loaves, and gave them to (his) disciples to set before the people; he also divided the two fish among them all. They all ate and were satisfied. And they picked up twelve wicker baskets full of fragments and what was left of the fish. Those who ate (of the loaves) were five thousand men.”

As you can see, it is not too dissimilar. What had occurred in Central Park mirrored exactly what had occurred in the Middle East two thousand years ago. The similarities were astounding. It was as if history had repeated itself. And if you believed that, then you are as mad as a hatter!

“What was that?” asked Bob as he lowered the camcorder. “Was that it? Was that the miracle? Please tell me that wasn’t the miracle.”

“It would seem so,” I answered as the last scout disappeared from view.

“I don’t get it,” said Bob, “fast food vouchers? That’s what you gave them?”

“Did you get it on tape?” I asked Bob, not exactly sure what “it” was.

“Well, yeah, sort of, but it’s not much. It’s basically a group of scouts putting their hands in their pockets, acting all surprised, and then walking off. To be brutally frank, it looks crap.”

Bob was right. I needed another talk with God.

CHAPTER

“
WELL, TECHNICALLY I
DO
THE
miracles. I thought I had explained that ” God had called the moment Bob and I entered my apartment.

“If that’s the case then why didn’t you do something a little more dramatic?” I asked.

“Well, let me see. When I say I do the miracles, what I mean is we do the miracles; it’s my power channeled through you, and it’s more a joint effort, but you are as responsible as I am for the success of these things. Obviously we were not ready for anything too dramatic, but it is 1999. I suppose it was the modern day equivalent. Not ideal, but it was a start. I managed to find the Scouts for you, didn’t I? On the whole, I would say it was a good day.” God sounded pleased with the day’s events. Unfortunately, I was not as pleased.

“Listen, I have Bob with me. Can I put you on speaker phone?” I asked.

“Sure, why not?” replied God.

I proceeded to explain to God that despite his enthusiasm, the day hadn’t gone as well as he had presumed. For a start, the Boy Scouts hadn’t acknowledged the miracle. By that I meant none of the witnesses to the miracle understood that it was indeed a miracle. Troop Leader Smith and his troop of Scouts believed they had met an illusionist who was in the employ of a fast food chain. Being from out of town, they assumed that this was the sort of thing that happened in the Big Apple. They thought we had treated them to a free magic show and complimentary vouchers to entice them into McHungry’s. There had been no opportunity to explain to the assembled throng of Scouts that what they had witnessed was divine intervention to cure their hunger. As I tried to explain to God, the human race was far more skeptical than they were two thousand years ago.

“Well, at least you got it on film,” said God, conceding that it was highly unlikely Scout Troop Leader Smith realized he had witnessed the first miracle in two thousand years. But, there was even more bad news for God. Bob and I had watched the recording made on Bob’s camcorder whilst we had God on speakerphone through my television and video system. It wasn’t exactly Stephen Spielberg. The first problem was the sound or lack of it. Bob had failed to mention that his camcorder’s microphone was malfunctioning so there would be no sound. Therefore, all the footage we had was of a group of Scouts, led by a grown man dressed as a Scout, placing their hands into their pockets and pulling out paper. You could clearly see Troop Leader Smith and a few other Scouts smiling and disappearing into the horizon. It was hardly the sort of footage the news media outlets would be clamoring to air. I was not visible in any shot. It was, by Bob’s admittance, an unmitigated disaster.

“Well,” began God, his tone sharp and his voice filled with disappointment,

“JC certainly didn’t have this trouble. It went very smoothly when JC did it; in fact, they talked about it for years afterward. When he did it, there were no snags, no ‘technical problems;’ there was no doubt it was a miracle. It was an extremely successful miracle. It is a proven miracle; it works hence why I thought a re-run would work.” I got the feeling God was annoyed, but luckily, his tone softened slightly. “I know you must be a tad disappointed, but it was only your first try. Half the secret of these things is the crowd. The audience needs to be just right. The mass hysteria, the chanting, and the expectation, sometimes screaming, sometimes fainting: that’s what makes these things memorable. You need a good audience. Maybe I am to blame a little; I should have thought harder about what type of crowd to pull in.”

Bob cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, sir… your highness… your Lordship,” he said, his voice filled with nervousness.

“‘God’ is fine,” said God.

“Ok, Sir, God, I have a suggestion,” said Bob. I would have been happier if Bob had run his idea through me first. I felt uneasy when Bob had ideas. He seemed to be far more enthusiastic than I was in revealing myself to the world.

“Yes, Bob, please feel free to add any input into this forum. I like to run an open house. Any suggestion would be welcomed. By the way, how is Nancy?” God’s welcoming tone belied the fact that I couldn’t help but think he was probably sniggering at the thought of Mrs. Nancy Nancy and her ridiculous name. In fact, I was sure I could hear stifled laughter emitting from the phone speaker. Bob didn’t seem to notice; he was too busy grinning from ear to ear.

“Wow, you know me? You know Nancy? Wow, we’re both fine, thanks; you actually do watch over us all. I have to say, it is an honor to speak to you. By the way, how is Mrs. God?” I shook my head in disbelief. God did not answer Bob’s question. He was too busy trying to curtail the muffled laughter from others who were obviously in the same vicinity as him, and I could definitely hear sniggering in the background.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “are we on speaker phone too?” I asked, annoyed that God had us on his speaker phone without informing me. I was also curious as to who else was listening in.

“No,” said God, but I knew he was lying. I let it drop, but he hadn’t fooled me.

“Well, Bob,” said God eventually after the muffled giggles had subsided, “what is your suggestion?”

For all the time I had known him, Bob Nancy had never had a good idea. And things weren’t about to change. Unfortunately, God didn’t seem to see it that way. God thought Bob’s idea was great, ingenious, fantastic, and inspirational. God was so pleased with Bob I thought he was going to make him a Saint there and then! However, I doubted even God would make a Saint Bob. Bob’s idea primarily consisted of me walking across the Hudson River. I am serious. I couldn’t believe my best friend would propose such a ridiculous stunt either!

It transpired that Bob had been doing some research into the Bible and miracles. As I had already made clear, I would not be going near dead, or people close to death—all resurrecting and healing miracles were out. Bob, by his own inclination and entirely independent of me, had spent the previous evening not only unsuccessfully attempting to repair the ability to record sound on his camcorder, but had taken the time to research Jesus and his miracles. He had come to the conclusion that the best way to grab attention, ensure media coverage, and get tongues wagging was not to get the media to come to us but to go to them.

Through the night, Bob, thanks to the wonders of the internet and information gleaned from Nancy, had discovered that tomorrow, New York City would be hosting the Ambassador of Peru. During the visit of the Peruvian Ambassador, the Mayor of New York had organized a tour of New York Harbor in his private Yacht. Though no one anticipated large crowds for such a minor diplomat, the city expected a small gathering to demonstrate against the Peruvian Government’s alleged intention to start the farming of llamas, exporting their meat as a delicacy. Bob assured me that at least one news crew would be present at the Mayor’s Harbor Launch pier, which was located south side of pier sixty and West 23rd Street.

This information was all courtesy of Nancy, who would also be present along with several other New York Police Department colleagues should the demonstrators become unruly. I personally had not heard of either the Ambassador’s proposed visit or the llama meat debate. It had also come as a shock to me that the Mayor had his own yacht!

Bob’s idea was if it hadn’t involved me, quite clever. Unfortunately, as the main protagonist, it did include me. The idea was for me to walk toward the launch atop of the water. Yes, that’s right, atop the water and approach the yacht. As there was likely to be a demonstrating crowd and several NYPD officers present, we would have our reliable witnesses, the news crew would divert their cameras from the demonstrators to me, and to top off the whole thing, we would have not only the Ambassador of Peru as a witness, but Mayor Giuliani himself! I could reveal myself and prepare the world for whatever lay ahead. I was still unsure of what did lay ahead. God had been playing that one close to his chest.

I wasn’t entirely satisfied the plan would work. There were a number of reasons for my reluctance, the prime reason and most overbearing was that I did not relish the opportunity of walking on water. It sounded extremely complicated, and though God reassured me that I could do it, the thought of sinking to the bottom of one of the most polluted rivers in the world did not endear itself to me. Also prevalent in my mind was the reception I would get from a hostile crowd of llama-loving fanatics. The attention I would grab would detract from their protesting; millions of llamas could die because of Bob’s “great” idea. Finally, there would be no escaping the fact that I would be propelled into the media spotlight. If Bob’s plan worked, then there would be definitely no getting out of it or turning back. Regrettably for me, God was in a buoyant mood and loved the idea. I reminded myself to thank Bob for his great idea; I also made a mental note of not including Bob in any more family meetings.

The Mayor and his party, including the Ambassador, would be arriving at the pier at around ten the following morning. God encouraged me to have a good rest, and before ending the call, once again thanked Bob for his ingenious idea.

“What an absolutely charming man,” gushed Bob after I hung up the phone. “He is not half as bad as you said. In fact, I would have loved to have had a Father like that.” I looked at Bob, shook my head and sighed. He had no idea the pressure that came with being the Son of God. “And what a fantastic memory the man has,” continued Bob, “and he is so charming, him remembering that I’m married to Nancy. It just shows you he really is watching and does care. He is one heck of a guy!” Don’t worry; I didn’t have the heart to tell Bob what God had said about his nuptials!

I have to admit I did not sleep easy that night. After Bob left my apartment, still gushing on about how great God was, I made some hot chocolate—from a packet, not miraculously—and surfed through the news channels looking for any discussion of llama meat, which I did not find. I actually wondered what llama meat would taste like. I supposed it would taste like chicken. I decided a bath would be in order. Luckily, I didn’t lie on the water, but I fully submerged myself into the warm water and bubbles. I did try to practice floating, but I merely sank into the tub. I had hoped a bath would help me relax; I was tense, and once again, the knots in my stomach twisted and turned. The mere feel of the water on my skin, though, was a constant reminder that the next day I could be kicking and flailing in front of the world’s media, swallowing polluted water.

It didn’t help that every time I pictured myself drowning, I also pictured Nancy’s bulking frame rolling with laughter as I gasped for breath. I went to bed early, but I lay awake, running over the likely events of the next morning. It was only nine thirty. It was a Friday night. I fleetingly thought about masturbating, but the thought of Mother Theresa watching my every move doused my enthusiasm for private pleasure. I looked at Walter, who sat watching as he sat on the chair in my bedroom. “Walter?” I asked, making sure it was Walter in there. No reply. Good. God wasn’t around. I dressed and locked up the apartment, heading out into the night.