The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy (17 page)

Sean handed me the remote control so I could select channels. I found our local news channel. The picture was a little grainy, and you could not make out my face, which was a relief. However, it was definitely me unless someone else had been walking on water at the same location and at the same time. The helicopter Bob had heard must have indeed been a news crew, as there were shots from above, which clearly showed me walking on the water. Bob and Maggie sat with smug smiles on their faces. They were right. It seemed the cameras had caught the miracle, and my walk across the water had indeed been filmed. The footage shifted to a view of me walking toward pier sixty and the mayor’s yacht. Again, you could not make out my features in the footage, which was another relief, and I relaxed. It was impossible to identify the mystery man walking atop the Hudson River. The images repeated over and over again, obviously in some sort of loop. Maggie shrieked with delight, and Bob shook my hand. We had done it. We had shown the world that the Messiah was amongst them.

“Not too loud, guys,” I said. “Let’s try not to attract too much attention. I think we should keep as low a profile as possible until we work out our next move.” I looked around the empty bar as if to reiterate the need for a little decorum, but neither Sean nor the blind man and his dog paid us any attention.

“This is fantastic,” said Bob. “We pulled it off.” He took a drink from his coffee cup.

“Oh shit,” said Maggie.

“What next do you think? Call a press conference, contact a publicist?” I said to Bob. Maggie stood up and walked toward the bar, leaving Bob and I in the booth.

“Oh shit,” said Maggie again as she walked toward the television set above the bar.

“It was a brilliant plan if I do say so myself,” boasted Bob. “Hey Maggie, get me another scotch; get us all a scotch—it’s time to celebrate!”

I turned to watch her as she walked toward the bar. “Yeah, Maggie, get some champagne or something,” I added.

“Shit, shit, shit,” said Maggie. This time Bob and I heard her.

“What is it?” I asked

“That,” said Maggie, pointing at the TV screen. Bob and I followed her finger toward the screen. The images on the news hadn’t altered, and the loop still played, the overhead shot followed by the shot from the shore, and then back to the overhead shot and so on. What was different, though, was the ticker of text that accompanied the pictures.

“We need to turn the sound up. We need to turn the sound up!” I said pleadingly, searching for the remote control. It was Maggie who grabbed the television remote from the bar where I had left it. Sean glanced up, as we had all risen, but when he saw we didn’t require refills, he returned to his newspaper, which he was thoroughly engrossed in. The reporter’s voice that accompanied the ticker and the looped pictures sounded serious and earnest. He described the images and the events that occurred that morning for the benefit of the channel’s viewers.

“….here we are again, with pictures from earlier today of the attempted attack on the Mayor of New York and the Peruvian Ambassador by what is believed to be a lone terrorist, who authorities now believe is a member of The LFG, an acronym for the Llama Freedom Group, who is attempting to stop the exportation of Peruvian llama meat. Unconfirmed reports are now suggesting that the terrorist was trying to approach the vessel in a possible attempt to sink the Mayor’s yacht.” The accompanying ticker tape was also as dramatic: COASTGUARD THWART ATTEMPT TO SINK NY MAYOR GIULIANI’S YACHT. ONE TERRORIST SOUGHT. The Reporter continued his commentary.

“As you can see from these exclusive pictures, the terrorist appears to have approached the vessel with the intention of detonating explosives that were apparently strapped to his body.”

We all stood open-mouthed at the scene on the television screen. What explosives? Where were they getting this from? It was unbelievable. Surely they realized they had made a huge mistake? There was no mention of the fact I was actually walking on water; it was as if that was irrelevant. Could they not see? Were they idiots? I looked harder at the images. Though it was not easy to make out, it seemed obvious to me that I walked on water. Surely they could see it. Did they think I was atop of some sort of motorized surfboard? Straight out of a James Bond movie? The reporter continued his dramatic description of the morning’s events.

“It would seem the terrorist used a motorized surfboard to approach the yacht, like something from a James Bond movie. Though you can’t actually see it in these images, eyewitness claim that he was definitely on top of the water. It is being suggested, by unconfirmed sources, that the LFG had acquired several surfboards and had been experimenting in motorizing them for an attack such as this.”

Who were these sources? This was crazy! The media was making this up!

“I don’t believe it,” said Bob as he cupped his head in his hands.

“How could this be?” said Maggie in disbelief as the pictures continued to loop on the screen at which we stared. “Explosives? Terrorists? Motorized surfboards? Are they crazy?” Maggie exclaimed as she too cupped her head in her hands. I watched the screen for several minutes more while there was silence amongst us. None of us felt like speaking. Maggie and Bob continued to sit with their heads in their hands the whole time as I stared transfixed at the screen, not believing what I saw or heard.

“It’s just a minor setback.” The voice was unmistakable. All three of us jolted from our personal thoughts and turned collectively to the voice we all recognized. Bern was a Labrador. A seeing-eye dog for the blind, more specifically for the blind man who sat at the table farthest from us, who it seemed hadn’t noticed that his guide dog was not at his side as he continued to sit engrossed in his Braille book. It was also apparent that Sean hadn’t seen Bern make his way to our table, let alone notice that the dog was speaking, as his head was still down, reading his newspaper.

“It really is a minor setback, team,” said God. “It’s not a big deal. Tomorrow’s always another day, and I am sure we will think of something else.” Bern sat staring up at us, his tail wagging.

“You call that a minor setback?” I asked. For me, the novelty of God talking through animals had worn off. I was used to conversing with them now. Bob, however, had yet to witness this phenomenon, and for a minute, I thought he was going to faint. He sat opened mouthed, staring at Bern. “I’m probably on the FBI Most Wanted list,” I said, pointing at the TV screen. Bern didn’t turn to look but merely continued to wag his tail.

“Oh, poppycock. Don’t be so over-dramatic. They have no idea who you are. Anyway, I’ll make sure this is all cleared up quickly. I do have some influence,” said God, “and you can’t even see your face. Anyway, I will pull a few strings, and tomorrow this will be yesterday’s news. Don’t worry about it.”

It wasn’t entirely clear to me if God had cracked a joke about yesterday’s news or if he had said it without realizing. If it was a joke, I hadn’t found it funny.

“Don’t worry about it?” I asked. “Don’t worry? They shot at me. They think I am a terrorist. I am no closer to convincing the world I am the Messiah than I was yesterday. This whole thing is a failure after failure and one disaster after another. Surely there is a better way; to be honest, this is playing havoc with my nervous system.” That was no exaggeration. I was trembling, and I had lost at least three pounds in weight in the three days since I had discovered I was the Messiah. The final straw for me would be if my hair started falling out; there was no way I was prepared to lose my hair, not for the savior of mankind, not for anyone.

Bern sat on his hind legs and then stood up to scratch his ear with his back left leg. It looked like an uncomfortable maneuver, and I was surprised he kept his balance. Maggie and Bob remained silent. Bob had closed his mouth; I assumed he realized I was talking to God.

“Do you two feel that way also?” God asked. Maggie and Bob didn’t reply. Maggie shrugged, indicating she didn’t see a problem with moving forward, and Bob gulped loudly before he spoke.

“No. I’m with you, God. I think it was unfortunate, but I believe that we are improving with each miracle.” What a pair of cowards. I couldn’t believe they were not admitting the whole thing was going down the pan.

“See,” said God triumphantly, “a man and a woman with faith. That’s what’s missing, your faith. Faith in your own ability, and faith in my ability.” Bern stopped scratching his ear, and instead tried to scratch his back.

“Faith isn’t the problem,” I said, “it’s just not working. It’s too much. I am a nervous wreck. Look at my hand.” I pushed my hand toward Bern’s nose so God could get a better look at my shaking, which Bern licked.

“Oh come on,” said God, “pull yourself together, man. It’s not that hard. I can’t believe any son of mine would give in so easily. You know, JC went through a lot more than you ever will. When he was on that cross, I never heard him once say ‘I can’t do it,’ or ‘I’m hurting,’ or ‘I’m a nervous wreck, I need to lie down.’” God emphasized the comments by exaggerating in a whining voice. “You never heard him complain once. Not once!” God was getting angry; I could tell by his tone. The guy certainly had some issues and, indeed, a bit of a temper. However, he did not intimidate me.

“Oh, that is so typical,” I said. “JC, this. JC, that. I am so sorry I am not living up to big brother’s standards, but there are one or two differences. He had a lot more breaks than I did. Three wise men bearing gifts for a start, thirty years of preparation, and he had twelve disciples; he had a following. I would like to see how he would have got on with the US Coastguard shooting at him.” I said, pointing at the television screen. God ignored my outburst.

“Well, you’d better shape up,” said God, “and quickly. I have some rather disturbing news!”

All three of us stared at Bern. Not because he was licking his private parts, but because of God’s last sentence.

“Well, I see I have your attention,” said God once Bern had finished what men could only dream of doing. “The committee held an emergency meeting earlier today, and the vote was unanimous. The committee has proposed that we begin our preparations for the final conflict. We need to out the anti-Christ and bring him to the fore. You must issue your challenge and prepare for the battle,” said God. “We need to show the other side that we are ready and strong.”

“But I am not ready, and I am not strong,” I said. I was conscious that my bottom lip trembled as it always did when I became scared. I hoped God hadn’t seen it and thought that I was crying.

“Are you crying?” God asked.

“No. If you knew me a bit better, you would know it’s a nervous twitch. It happens when I become scared.”

“How off-putting,” said God indignantly, referring to my quivering lip, as Bern once more licked his balls. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter that you think you are not ready because i believe that you are, and as I am in charge here—that’s what counts. I will be in touch shortly with details of where we go from here, and as for miracles, no more, not for now, not until you hear from me.” Maggie, Bob and I all exchanged glances. “Oh,” said God as Bern stood up and headed in the direction of his blind owner, “one more thing.”

“Yes?” I replied.

“Are you going to eat the rest of that sausage?” I looked at my plate, on which sat a piece of uneaten sausage. I threw it at Bern, who caught it in his mouth, then barked.

We decided it was time we left. Bern’s bark had stirred Sean from his newspaper, and he came over to take our money. Maggie quickly switched channels; not that it mattered, as he didn’t once glance up at the television. I hoped Maggie and I would resume where we had left off that morning. I enjoyed her company, and I didn’t feel like being alone. I was to be disappointed, as she had to prepare for a case and would be working all night, so I could forget any hopes of sex. Bob was going to be as equally occupied, not that I wanted sex with him, I hasten to add. Nancy had planned a dinner for them both that would involve several courses and much belching. Tonight was her first night at home not working the late shift, and she expected Bob to be there and to be ready and willing to perform whatever conjugal activity she so desired. I pitied the man. As we left Milligan’s, we walked past Bern, who now sat at the feet of his blind master. He had just finished consuming the sausage I had thrown him. Bob bent down to pet him and Bern growled and flashed his teeth. Bob quickly pulled his hand away.

CHAPTER

MAGGIE HOPPED IN A CAB
and disappeared into traffic toward TriBeCa. She promised me she would call later. Bob walked off toward the subway station. He too would call later, he promised. Maybe it was good that they had left. I had a lot to think about. God’s final words rang in my ears. Not the request for sausage, but the need to prepare for the final conflict. I wasn’t a fighter and never had been. This whole thing was getting out of hand, and things were suddenly going faster than I had ever anticipated. Why couldn’t I be oblivious to the whole thing? Why did I have to be the one who confronted the army of Lucifer and the beast? I was a natural coward; of all the people to choose to defend the existence of Earth, I was not that person. I dreaded to think what the anti-Christ would do to me. He would pulverize me and beat the crap out of me. It was me who needed defending. I was the meek, and one of my greatest fears had always been what if the meek inherited the earth, and then the Martians invaded? Who would protect us? Me? Are you kidding?

The walk from Milligan’s to my apartment usually took me ten minutes, and as thoughts of impending destruction and disasters and possible beatings by a giant of a man known simply as ‘the beast’ developed in my head, I was not paying attention to anything going on around me, least of all the fact I was being followed. I did, though, get the feeling that something was not quite right despite my state of mind and the amount of thoughts that occupied it. I first realized something felt odd as I passed the Gap, which I often shopped at for jeans and T-shirts. It was handily located and very reasonably priced, but I guess that isn’t important right now.

I spun around quickly and without warning, attempting to surprise whoever, if anyone, was following me. I didn’t notice anything suspicious or untoward though my fellow pedestrians seemed slightly perturbed by my sudden spin. I carried on walking, but the feeling was still there. I decided to alter my route home. I took a left where I usually took a right and then a right where I usually took a left. The ten-minute journey home increased as I circled a block and crossed and re-crossed avenues unnecessarily. Periodically, I would spin around but saw nothing or anyone that seemed untoward. Maybe I was going crazy; it was highly probable, considering the events of the past three days. Or maybe I was becoming paranoid, thanks to God’s warning that the battle with the anti-Christ, who I knew would be at least eight feet tall, was looming, but the feeling still persisted. I turned right and then a left and double backed once more, and again I did a quick spin and saw no one that I recognized from my previous turns. I was back en-route to my apartment building, and I did a final spin. Again the only thing it achieved was more curious glances from my fellow pedestrians, but though I felt uneasy, I was satisfied that I hadn’t been followed. Or so I thought.

Harvey, who had arrived for his shift an hour earlier, greeted me. It was good to see him, and for some reason, I felt safe in his presence. At over six feet tall and looking as he did, Harvey was a good person to have on your side, should the need arise. The news that day had been completely dominated by the terrorist attempt to sink the Mayor’s yacht, and Harvey was eager to hear my opinion on the matter.

“I really don’t have an opinion,” I said, knowing the truth made it impossible for me to have an opinion.

“Don’t have an opinion? Man, that’s lame,” cried Harvey. “Those poor llamas, man. I dig on meat, ribs, and fried chicken, but llama? What sort of sick mother wants to chow down on a llama? They are like goat, man, and I have eaten goat. It is chewy and tastes like shit. I say leave them be and don’t mess with no llama. Now, I don’t think sinking the Mayor’s yacht is the way to go about it. No, sir,” said Harvey. It seemed as though the whole issue of llama meat had become the topic of the day throughout the country, and the debate was in full swing. At least some good had come out of the morning’s miracle doing. Mounting pressure and the public outcry toward the plight of the poor llama had resulted in an immediate suspension of the exporting of llama meat. It appeared the Peruvian government had underestimated the strength and determination of the LFG.

“Have you ever tasted llama?” Harvey asked as I glanced out onto the street.

“No, I can’t say I have,” I said.

“How about your lady friend from last night, she ever tasted llama?” asked Harvey, once again prying into my private life, and I guessed trying to work out who Maggie was.

“If you mean Maggie, that’s her name, then no, I am sure she hasn’t.”

Harvey nodded, indicating to me that he approved that neither Maggie nor myself were devourers of llama meat. “By the way,” said Harvey, “who’s your other new friend?” I didn’t know what Harvey was talking about, and my expression must have shown that.

“What other new friend?” I asked.

“The Woody Allen type dude who was looking for you,” replied Harvey. “Skinny, short guy, glasses, dressed liked his momma picked out his clothes. He was around here asking if you were home. I told him to either try the diner, the Gap, or Milligan’s. I thought he was a friend of yours; he looked freaky enough to be a friend of yours, all small and frightened looking cracker ass honky fool.” Despite Harvey’s assumptions of what my friends looked like, I knew no one fitting that description.

“Hey,” said Harvey “that’s him there.” I followed Harvey’s finger to where he pointed. Harvey’s ring-laden finger led to a small, bespectacled man who seemed to be talking to himself. He was no more than five feet and five inches, and thin. He wore a pair of large, obviously very strong prescription horn-rimmed spectacles that made his head look tiny. If I were to compare to him an animal, which I often did when describing people, I would have to say he had the features and characteristics of a frightened mouse wearing spectacles. He was, as Harvey had described him, dressed in an outfit that my mother, if she were able to, would have bought for me. He wore a blue and white striped cardigan over a white shirt which hosted a bowtie at the collar. He wore baggy black slacks and sneakers, and a dirty, knee-length raincoat finished off the whole outfit.

I guessed he was of similar age to me. Harvey was also correct when he said the guy looked like Woody Allen. He could have been his brother. He was a pathetic sight. There was no doubt that this man was one of life’s losers. He saw me looking at him, and I hoped he didn’t see the look of pity on my face. He stopped whispering to himself and raised his hand slowly and timidly as if to wave.

“Uh huh,” grunted Harvey “that’s him. He was here earlier, asking what time you’d be home and where he could find you. Look at him, man, that is some sorry-ass fool.” I had never seen the man before in my life. I looked at Harvey and shrugged.

“I don’t know him.” Harvey shrugged also. The man entered the building and cowered as he passed Harvey, who eyed him suspiciously. It was a ridiculous sight, as the six-foot-tall Harvey leered at the poor man. The nerd approached me.

“Excuse me, but are you Seth Miller?” he asked timidly. His voice was nasally, and I guessed by his accent that he was probably from the Bronx.

“Yes,” I answered politely. I felt instantly sorry for the little man. “I hear you’ve been looking for me,” I indicated Harvey, who leered at my visitor, “and you are?” I asked politely.

He was quite harmless looking, and to be honest, he looked like he could burst into tears at any moment. I had never met anyone so timid, and I wondered what he wanted from me. “My name is William Lee Zachariah Bubb, a mouthful, I know.” He laughed nervously. “Most people call me Bill.” I shook his outstretched hand. His handshake was, like him, weak. I thought I was going to crush his hand.

“Well, Bill,” I said, “how can I help you?”

Bill looked around nervously to check that no one was listening, and of course, Harvey was. In fact, Harvey had stood next to us the whole time as if poor Bill had come to speak to him as well. He eavesdropped so obviously that he didn’t even disguise it. I half-expected him to introduce himself. “Maybe somewhere a little more private,” said Bill, jerking his head toward Harvey, indicating to me that he didn’t want Harvey hearing what he had to say.

“Uh huh,” Harvey said rudely as he sucked on his teeth. “Like that is it, little man?” I wasn’t sure if Harvey thought he was my secretary, personal assistant, or even my bodyguard, but Bill had apparently upset him. I thought Bill was going to collapse as Harvey once more leered at him. I thought the best move was to take Bill up to my apartment where Harvey could not intimidate him.

“Let’s go up to my apartment,” I said to Bill. I nodded at Harvey as if indicating I could handle things from here. Harvey nodded back, indicating that if I needed him, he would be ready. Needed him for what, I had no idea. Bill didn’t seem like the sort of person I would require assistance in kicking the crap out of if I were inclined to do so, which I wasn’t.

Walter looked up nonchalantly from the sofa as we entered my apartment and returned to sleep when he saw it was me and no one else interesting. I offered Bill a coffee, but he refused on account of his stomach ulcer. A Coke would keep him awake, and as he was lactose intolerant, a glass of milk wouldn’t work either. His IBS precluded any fruit juices, and alcohol was totally out of the question, as he was a teetotaler. Carbonated drinks made him gassy, and herbal tea caused him to vomit. He eventually settled on water and then recanted when I informed him I only had distilled. Apparently, distilled water could contain parasites, and he could only drink natural spring water. I had never heard of parasites in distilled water and made a mental note to look it up on the internet when I had a chance.

I considered myself a patient man, but Bill, as nice as he was and as pathetic as he was, annoyed me. He was allergic to cats, so he asked if I could place and secure Walter in another room, which I did, despite Walter’s indignant look. Bill was also extremely susceptible to air-based germs and, therefore, requested if I would be so kind as to open a window so any germs that omitted from me could circulate outdoors. Once again, I did as he asked. He then asked if I could remove the cushions from the easy chair I had offered him to be seated on, as the feathers inside the cushions could spill out, and that would cause a rash if they were goose feathers. I told him they weren’t goose feathers that they were actually duck feathers, but unfortunately, they too caused a reaction. For at least fifteen minutes, Bill recounted to me his ailments and allergies.

“Bill,” I said putting up a hand to show that I needed him to stop dithering and get to the reason he had sought me out, “if you could please get to the point. What can I do for you?”

Bill shuffled uneasily in his chair and didn’t speak for at least twenty seconds. “I know who you are,” he said finally.

“I know you do,” I replied calmly, “I’m Seth Miller.”

“No. I mean I know
who
you are.” This time Bill winked as if we shared a secret.

“Bill, please, I don’t want to sound rude, but I am not following you,” I said, genuinely unsure of what Bill was trying to get at.

“Am I annoying you?” asked Bill, and I did think he was definitely going to burst into tears there and then. “I do this. I always do this. I always upset people. People hate me; now you hate me.” I was astounded. I had never encountered such neurosis before. It was indeed like having Woody Allen on my couch. I patted him on the hand.

“Don’t cry, Bill. You haven’t upset or annoyed me,” I said in the softest and most reassuring voice I could muster. Bill looked at me with his pleading, watery eyes. “Really?”

“Really,” I said reassuringly. This seemed to cheer Bill, and he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief he produced from the pocket of his raincoat. I urged him to come to the point and say what he had to.

“I know you are the Son of God,” said Bill as he dabbed a tear from his cheek. I was initially shocked by Bill’s words, but not surprised. Obviously, he had been a recipient of one of God’s dreams, and Bill was going to be one of my little helpers, my third disciple.

I smiled and nodded. “He sounds very pompous, doesn’t he?” I said knowingly.

“Who does?” asked Bill, looking a little confused.

“Him,” I said pointing upward.

“Your upstairs neighbor?” asked Bill looking even more confused.

“No, him, the big cheese, Dad,” I said again pointing upward, “God.”

“I don’t know,” said Bill; “I’ve never spoken to him.”

“You haven’t spoken to God? Then how do you know who I am?” I asked, now I was the one who was confused. And that’s when Bill L. Z. Bubb told me his story.