“Drink of this my blood and you will find salvation.”
“Sit down, Sharon, you’re embarrassing us and making a fool of yourself in front of all these people.” Robin had lost her patience at Sharon’s going wacko, in publical, before her eyes. “What the hell is the matter with you? Are you out of your mind? Right now you’re the weirdest.”
“Stop it, both of you,” nervously hushed Kitty.
She took Sharon’s hand and forcefully sat her down.
Robin and Kitty suddenly broke into a long quiet giggle. They both looked sideways away from Sharon and slowly regained control of themselves. Together they realized that Sharon preaching in Beverly Hills wasn’t as weird a scene as it might have appeared because more bizarre things take place every day in the Hollywood environs of LA, and the crowds are rarely impressed. After all this is fantasy land.
“Where the fuck is that Bordeaux,” once again demanded Robin.
Seated again, but still mystically removed from Robin and Kitty, Sharon’s mind remained focused on Jesus’ words which unsurprisingly again led her to the picture of Leonardo’s Last Supper. In it she could see Jesus’ undeniable Godly demeanor as He calmly pronounced the words
“Drink of this my blood and you will find salvation,”
Beautiful words that floated in her mind carried by the beacon light that crossed the bright yellow desert sand, which at that moment, in Sharon’s mind, was more beautiful than any crowded restaurant.
“Sharon, shut up! You’re not Jesus, and for your information Jesus didn’t literally mean that the wine was his blood. Yuk, can you imagine drinking blood, even Jesus’?” said Kitty.
Deaf words as far as Sharon was concerned who was still visiting with the Last Supper after her brief foray into the empty desert.
“It’s a good painting, but most inadequate to Jesus’ words,” continued Sharon to her friends, still in a desert of her own. And then,
“Drink of this my blood and you will find salvation,”
“Compared to the words spoken most sweetly and lovingly by our Lord Jesus, Leonardo’s Last Supper is a very gloomy expedition. It lacks the eloquence of the eternally more powerful words of Jesus” she said.
Not Robin, not Kitty, and for sure no one in the restaurant gave a damn on what Sharon had to say. Unsurprisingly, Sharon had more to say.
“Much as we love it and praise it, it’s not a very good painting,” she said out loud. “It fails to capture the passion. It depicts Jesus as just one of the gang, a good old boy betrayed, and not the Lord that he is.”
“This Bordeaux is excellent, Sharon. Take a little sip; it’ll do you good,” said Kitty.
“Yes, Sharon, listen to Kitty. Who among us has not sinned?” said Robin, who then quickly covered her mouth, not wanting to laugh too loudly at her slip of the tongue, which let the cat out of the bag, that she had fallen into Sharon’s trap of pretending a presence in the Lord’s Last Supper, or at a minimum, some Christian Sunday mass.
“Next thing you know I’ll be going to confession,” laughingly said Robin.
“I’m trying to save your souls, but you both continue in sin,” said an angry Sharon.
In her unruffled mind, Jesus’ words were much more direct and comprehensible than any of the paintings of the Last Supper by the many artists over the centuries, which were full of staged melodrama, such as the one by Leonardo, a man who really didn’t know what he was. In Sharon’s mind, there was no comparison to the words.
“The words easily win out over the melodrama of the thirty silver coins buried in the dirty leather pouch. Unlike the stillness of the painting, the words are full of the energy, of the promise of salvation, and who can deny their everlasting power,” said Sharon now seemingly in control of her mind.
“Sharon, what are you mumbling,” said Kitty.
“Drink of my blood,”
Sharon answered honestly, retaining self-control at her friend’s silly question.
“Don’t talk to her, Kitty,” said Robin, “and order her a plate of locust.”
“I can assure you both, blood is the only route to salvation,” said Sharon.
“Sharon, I can tell you that we’re all marching straight to our death and no words, beautiful as they might be in your troubled mind, can change that prescription,” said an unkind Robin, passive-aggressively warning Sharon to shut up.
“And here He means dark red blood wine,” insisted Sharon. “They are hard words full of dripping red warm blood, easily digestible by even the humblest of human beings, for God forgives all. Drink my blood and you will be forgiven your sins. Drink it and all of your sins, for all you wretchedly poor, and all you rich alike, all the time, for all time, for as many times as you drink my cleansing blood, you will be forgiven your sins no matter how horrible these might be,” Sharon, full of smiles and grace, looked into the future, and held her empty glass high.
“I think space cadet has abandoned us again,” noted Robin who had faith that Sharon would return as soon as the bloody red Bordeaux once again resurrected.
“Where the hell is that wine?” Kitty was furious and she saw Sharon’s eyes pop open.
“Just kidding, dear,” she said to Sharon not to disturb her beyond the present.
“Sharon, what’s eating your ass, for God’s sake,” said Robin.
“It’s definitely not Hank,” said Kitty and she and Robin had a good laugh.
Both Kitty and Robin were beginning to lose their ladylike poise. The wine was great and Sharon was buffoon silly. They were using coarse, foul language and they were beginning to abandon their friend to her bizarre illusions.
“What the hell; we all lose it sometimes,” said Kitty.
“Yeah, it happens to all of us. Fuck it! It’s no big deal,” said Robin.
“What other Words touch our hearts to give so much salvation?” Sharon passionately continued on her desert revelations. “Unconditional salvation! Fear of dreadful death, deathly death, and its aftermath eternity in horrifying hell, once and for all stomped on, forever destroyed, gone, by the simple act of the drinking of Jesus’ blood symbolized by a sweet blessed red wine.”
She had thought her words carefully and had understood the truth in them. Of this she was sure, for she had caught a glimpse of Heaven and knew that deathly death had forever been destroyed by Jesus.
“Mark me, oops, excuse me, my goodness,” she had burped a sweet smell, “these words make for brutally powerful images. But then, the universe was not created by the meek, but by God Jesus,” happily continued Sharon to her friends. “There is no denying these words. Above all, they work all the time.”
Believe in the redemption of the blood of Jesus, and in the end, just before you sail into eternity, you say the words,
‘God forgive me’,
and you will sail into eternal salvation.”
She was outwardly calm now, and no one wanted to deny her sermon.
“Those who have been baptized in Christ
In Christ they shall be resurrected,
Alleluia…”
“Never heard that one,” said Kitty.
“Were you baptized, Kitty?”
“Can you think of any simpler words to neutralize the pain, Kitty? Listen carefully to what I have to say: those who don’t believe in His words will spend an eternity in darkness suffering in dreadful deathly death,” she sweetly reminded her two sisters in Jesus. It was just a warning; she really didn’t wish it.
“Now and forever and from all ages to all ages.”
“Amen.”
“If you don’t stop this shit, I’ll never come to your party again,” said Robin who then excused herself to go to the ladies room.
As Robin was walking away, Sharon thought she heard her cry out, “Please help me Sharon. I need the Lord’s help”.
Though the
whole mystic retelling of Jesus’s evangelical words lasted only a minute or two, the scene, in all its reverence, was definitely an overstatement for a Wednesday afternoon lunch, Sharon had to finally admit, as she watched Robin walk away, and saw Kitty sitting there atypically numb, most unusual for Kitty.
Slowly she came out of her trance as she witnessed Robin nonchalantly returning from the ladies room. And as she sat there, at the Seven Seas, tears came to her eyes, when she saw her best friends dumbfounded by her words which were the words of Jesus. The tears were for Robin and Kitty both of whom she loved very much. She suddenly realized that both friends were now asking for her help. Especially, Robin, who, she could tell, was full of pent-up secrets ready for relief.
“We all need help, Robin,” said Sharon who took a long drink of the red wine while still a little dizzy and weak; she leaned over and kissed Robin on both cheeks, while climbing out of her hot shower.
“What is the matter with you?” gasped a startled Robin who hated being touched by females let alone being kissed in public.
She saw in Robin’s ungrateful reaction to her tender prelude to salvation a reflection of her own avoidances to reality and it startled Sharon back to the restaurant. She touched her Channel pink suit skirt, bordered with its grey braid, to make sure she was real and not out of her mind. Awake and filled with love, she looked at Robin only to see a severe face where a friend had been there before. Understanding the saints’ struggle with the flock, it occurred to her that like the giving of help, forgiveness, where none is sought, was no easy task; sometimes people don’t want to be forgiven. She realized that she was weak and incapable of helping anyone, including herself, and she wished that she were stronger. She wanted to convince Robin of the red wine and the blood of Jesus but felt inadequate and lacking in inspiration. The thought crossed her frail mind that maybe it was she who needed the help but would not admit it. She thought of Myrna, and her mind became even more confused.
“Where the fuck is that Bordeaux,” Sharon repeated Kitty’s words in an attempt to re-join her friends and spike her heartbeat.
It was the unexpected shock of the word coming out of Sharon’s lusty lips that made them rejoin and laugh together.
“It’s about time you started acting normal again. Stop your mumbling shit and act normal,” said a relieved Kitty. “Stop saying those things like you know what they mean and stay put in your chair. They’re going to throw us out of here for good if you don’t behave and stop saying that shit.”
“It’s only because I love both of you,” smiled Sharon.
“Jesus, Sharon, some of the stuff you’ve been repeating are signs of mental illness? You know what I say: piss on earth,” Robin tried to bring it home with some down to earthy reality.
“If you have true faith, get up from your bed and walk away, was the way Jesus had put it to a poor man who had been a cripple all his life,” humbly Sharon felt the need to preach just one tiny bit more. She didn’t want to; she was exhausted and wanted to get off the mount.
Without warning the lame thought crossed her mind that she was the cripple, without the moral strength to walk away from an unhappy lot that was her life. And as beautiful to behold as she was, she very much felt that she was a hopeless cripple.
“We are all cripples,” said a pissed Robin, to her best friends, as the wine luncheon progressed somewhat in unexpected silence and unanticipated pathos.
“Sorry for the delay, ladies; may I take your orders now.”
It was Gianni their favorite handsome Italian waiter.
Gianni’s arrival was not a moment too soon. The establishment purposefully delayed taking orders knowing that the ladies liked their wine. He was in good spirits and his face had a radiant smile, his eyes were bright, his whole disposition a contrast to the unusual gloom of the three good friends who were his favorite customers. He quickly glanced a happy smile to each of the girls and waited for their usual merry greeting.
“I’m ready any time you are, Gianni,” winked an always cheery Kitty, and the massive weight of Christ’s bloody words were quickly set aside.
Gianni’s smile was infectious; they all responded in kind. He was one of the best in his job. Give him a couple of millions and the son of some bitch would be awfully good-looking, in a sweat suit, or in a tux. The girls liked him a lot, except for Robin who would never admit that she too found him attractive.
“We’ll have three Roka leaf salads with the boiled squid and champagne dressing, and a double order of goat feta, Gianni,” said Sharon quickly adapting to the good-spirited moment at the sight of Gianni.
Like a little girl playing outdoors with her friends, she found excitement in Gianni’s presence, and she beat everyone to the punch to rush an order for the three of them.
“Who made you the head chef,” smiled Kitty, happy to have Sharon back. They really didn’t care about the salads which they rarely ate anyway; she could have ordered anything and it wouldn’t have made any difference because they were never hungry.
“Make sure it’s goat feta, Gianni,” Sharon gesticulated familiarity by waving her finger.
“Why not get the good kind?” kidded Robin, happy again that they could make jokes about the food which was really nothing more than an accessory to the afternoon. That’s why they were there: not for the food, or the expensive wine but for the pleasure of bawdy friendship served over a layer of hot gossip.
Robin’s sarcastic comment about goat feta sailed happily over their heads.
“For the benefit of Robin, I meant feta from goat’s milk, Gianni,” and Sharon seemed to be back in her voluptuous smiling best form. She loved to play Gianni.
Gianni was a good man, worth every penny of his pourboire.
“We always serve the best goat feta to our preferred customers, Mrs. Merker,” Gianni welcomed the entry to flatter. Being Italian, he could never understand how a beautiful woman like Sharon could have fallen for a pock-marked faced jerk like Mr. Merker.
“Say Mrs. Merker again and no tip for you, Gianni,” joked Sharon loving the relaxed informality.
From the many female customers sailing the Seven Seas, Gianni had learned that in flirtation there’s always sex. Unfortunately for him, Sharon didn’t know how to flirt.
The get-together that afternoon had been a messy confusion and Robin and Kitty found relief in the teasing manner between Sharon and chivalrous Gianni even if it only involved ordering Roka salads and goat feta. They didn’t want to interrupt and hoped that Sharon would order more things on the menu, or even off the menu. On his part, Gianni was glad that Sharon was doing the ordering because he was always afraid of what Robin might say; sometimes she would confuse him on purpose. Besides, it was so much more pleasant to look at Sharon’s face and lips and eyes as she ordered.
“And some crispy Greek village bread,” added Kitty, her smile revealing a perfect set of gorgeous well attended teeth compliments of Phil Lambert.
“Yes, Mrs. Albiona. And will you have the usual Chateau Perron Blanc with your lunch?” asked Gianni to no one particular.
“No, we’ll have that same robust, red Bordeaux, that seems to have lost its way here from France, apparently, Johnny, my man,” hissed Robin to bug Gianni.
There it was again; the mock unfriendliness that would confuse Gianni.
She loved teasing handsome Gianni who really was Italian. She would purposely Anglicize his name in pretended pleasantness, and smile. But she was always in her rich form, and handsome as Gianni was, well, he was just a waiter.
“Probably Argentine,” she had one day defiantly demoted Gianni to her friends least they think she hungered after his handsome body. In her fantasies she thought him most handsome but unapproachable. She would have loved to shack up with him a few times, but he was just an alien waiter. Besides, what if he had responded in kind to her fantasies? What if he showed no respect, or made fun
of her, or her name?
“Ti amo, my little bird, my lovely Robin!” she fantasized him mocking her.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Calder, but I thought since you’re having the greens salad, may I recommend the…”
“Bring the bloody red, Johnny dear,” Robin unkindly interrupted him, barely managing to keep her civility under control. Professional waiter Gianni’s fawning attentiveness had made Robin uneasy; even with her bluest eyes, she just couldn’t see that he was simply playing the attendant waiter.
“Yes Mrs. Calder,” said Gianni with a smile, and off he went to get the wine.
“Well?” she turned to her friends who were accustomed to her sometimes inclement frostiness. “It pisses me off how all these damn waiters, and him especially, presume to know the right wine for you, as if you’re an idiot. It’s always white wine with fish, and chicken, and salads, and pinot noire with red meats, and yellow piss-tea with Chinese, as if any fucking order ever makes any fucking sense or difference, ever! Never happened in the Peace Corps! It was always injera and wat.”
“And … what?” asked Kitty.
“They’re just trying to justify their tip, Robin,” said Sharon coming to Gianni’s defence.
“Never happened in the Peace Corps,” repeated Robin.
To all returned PCVs, as much as they might have denied it, the Peace Corps experience always did have a mystical reference bundled in a transcendent reality of hugely personal secret spirituality though of undetermined amount, and not apparent to the rest of the world. By far, like Robin, most Volunteers were convinced of the separate Peace Corps Paradise that awaited them after this insignificant post PCV life. For Peace Corps Volunteers, Paradise would be spend with President Jack lecturing on the merits of democracy for the poor. It was the magic stuff that held the Corps together during their imperious assignments abroad. Lovely stuff that kept you conceited for a whole lifetime.
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