Seeing Jesus

by Jeffrey McClain Jones

  After fifteen minutes of clean up, of the kitchen floor and his own face, Philly stood in his entryway looking at Jesus, feeling a surprising physical hunger.

  “I think we should go out and get a good meal,” Jesus said.

  Philly tipped his head at the use of “we” in that sentence, but had no objection to the proposal. Immediately, he thought of a small restaurant two blocks away, that would be easy to get to on foot. But Jesus had other plans.

  “How about that little steak place on Fullerton that you like so much.”

  No longer a rookie at listening to Jesus, Philly could tell that this suggestion represented more than a dining option. He could tell that, for him, following Jesus lead to that restaurant.

  “How do you know I don’t just like the food there?” Jesus said, in response to Philly’s thoughts.

  Philly turned his face slightly and looked askance at his visitor. Jesus just smiled in return, pleased that Philly had begun to recognize his leading for what it was. But he added, “I might one day direct you to a restaurant just because I think you’ll like it.” And the look on his face convinced Philly that this too was true.

  The restaurant to which Jesus referred huddled in the commercial section of Fullerton Avenue, not far from Wrigley Field. It ran the full depth of a building, but was only about twelve feet wide, the kitchen sitting beside the back section of tables. Brenda had heard of the place from a cousin of hers and Philly loved the food and the atmosphere. He had seen other people from work there, on occasion, figuring that Brenda had been spreading the word.

  One detail Philly had dropped from consideration, as he and Jesus drove to this dining establishment, was that it was Friday night and one generally needed a reservation. Against all reason, Philly approached the hostess with Jesus just behind him.

  “I don’t suppose you have a small table for one,” Philly said faithlessly.

  The dark-haired girl, whose eyes looked black in the low light, looked at Philly like he was an ignorant tourist, but only for a moment. She diverted her eyes to the reservation book and just shook her head. Philly glanced at Jesus, but gained no insight there. Jesus seemed to be waiting for something to happen.

  Philly thanked the hostess and then turned to walk out, but stopped abruptly. There stood Allen Breen, with his hands in his pockets and a disappointed look on his face. On second impression, Philly could tell that Allen had been drinking already.

  Allen recognized Philly and spoke first. “Hey, Phil! What are you doing here, man? That’s a hell of a coincidence, I’d say. I was just thinkin’ about you, wondering if the guys upstairs had fired you for real.”

  The topic of his employment prospects had dropped down Philly’s list of pressing needs during that day, but that fearful feeling in his gut rose from its slumber with Allen’s words. “No,” he said, in a subdued manner, “they just gave me a warning and told me to take the day off.”

  To Philly’s surprise, Allen actually looked relieved. He had seen Philly and friends heading out for their lunchtime healing service and had mentioned it to Dennis, because it seemed so unlikely a group, but he had no intention of getting Philly into trouble, at least consciously.

  “So, you’ll never guess what happened to me,” Allen said, punching Philly gently in the shoulder and shaking his head slowly. “I got stood up tonight,” he said, not waiting for Philly to guess. “Was supposed to meet that girl from accounting, you know the redhead, Wanda whatever her name is. Waited for her at the bar next door and she was a no show. Not even a blow off text message. Left me hangin’ in the wind.”

  “Bummer,” Philly said with an attempt at sympathy.

  “I gotta eat anyway, though,” Allen said. “Why don’t you join me, huh? I hate to eat in a restaurant alone, ya’ know.”

  Once again, Philly’s brain weighed the extent of Jesus’s intervention in these circumstances. Had he locked Wanda in a closet somewhere, to leave Allen alone and vulnerable? In response to that thought, Jesus laughed out loud.

  Philly seized Allen’s offer, such as it was, and said, “Sure, I was hopin’ to get in here without a reservation, but you know how impossible that is on a Friday. Lead the way.”

  “Right O,” Allen said. “Here I am to rescue you from another hot date with a Big Mac and fries, right?”

  The hostess, who had missed the exchange between Allen and Philly, looked suspiciously at Philly, trying to figure out what he did to get invited onto Allen’s table reservation. Philly just flashed a fake smile at the young woman and followed Allen and a waitress to the table. Jesus distracted Philly’s attention along the way by touching each person that Philly brushed past through the length of that narrow restaurant. Philly even accommodated his obsessive friend by intentionally making slight contact with a few extra people, without being too creepy about it.

  The waitress chirped a surprised little sound when Jesus touched her shoulder simultaneous with Philly squeezing past her. Allen laughed, assuming Philly had groped the girl. For her part, the waitress suddenly thought of her mother and determined to give the ailing woman a call on her next break.

  The men both sat down and ordered drinks, Philly sticking with iced tea, instead of his usual beer or wine. Allen took a menu and passed one to Philly.

  Allen Breen still looked a bit of a boy, though he was nearly as old as Philly. His golden hair, and even light colored eye lashes, always reminded Philly of the kid that played Tom Sawyer in an old movie from before he was born. Allen spoke with the remnant of a Boston accent, acquired honestly during his boyhood in suburban Massachusetts. Philly had talked baseball with Allen before, there being no rivalry at all between the Cubs and the Red Sox. Allen liked to win the favor of Cubs fans by telling them that it was their turn to break the curse and win a World Series, now that the Red Sox had broken free.

  Allen looked hard at Philly. “There’s something going on with you. I heard weird rumors at work, but I can tell by lookin’ at you that there’s somethin’ . . . different.”

  Philly nodded, he looked briefly at Jesus, who stood behind Allen, against the dark umber colored wall. Philly had never liked Allen. Allen reminded him of bullies in school and never seemed to have sympathy for other people, or a kind word to say. Drunk, Allen seemed less guarded and slower to take a poke. Philly opened up to his tipsy dinner companion.

  “I’ve really had a kind of spiritual conversion, I guess you’d say.” From the start Philly knew he wouldn’t tell Allen the whole story, as he did Theresa. He was not feeling that safe with Allen, even drunk. “My grandma’s coma was the thing that started me thinking and it was her prayers that really turned me around. I didn’t used to think about God at all and didn’t really know much about Jesus. But my grandma has always been the best person in my life and she prays and stuff, so I decided to give it a try. And I guess I got a super-sized dose of whatever it was that kept my grandma going to church, ‘cause some pretty unbelievable things started happening to me.”

  Allen stared at Philly as he spoke, broken from his bleary concentration only by the waitress arriving with his scotch on the rocks. He let his drink sit for the moment, apparently wanting to stay cogent enough to understand Philly.

  In a slightly hushed tone Allen said, “So, is it true that you healed a bunch of people, like a TV preacher?”

  Philly drank some tea, his mouth dry from the nerves of this emotionally risky situation. “I don’t know anything about TV preachers,” Philly said, “but I know my grandma got out of her coma and my dad is no longer using his hearing aids.”

  Allen’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, you did some kind of healing thing on your family, not just at work?”

  Chuckling at Allen’s childlike awe, Philly said, “Yeah, I had no intention of doing that stuff at work, people just started asking, after I helped Craig and one of his friends.” Philly corrected himself. “I mean, it was definitely God that helped them, ‘cause, of course, I can’t heal anybody.”

  A sort of grima
ce twisted Allen’s slack, drunken face. He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his eyes. “Hey, I’m not feeling so good, all the sudden,” he said.

  Jesus spoke to Philly. “He’s got something interfering with him, sort of like that man on the bus last week with bees buzzing around his head. You need to tell it to stop messing with him right now. Just say, ‘Spirit of confusion leave Allen alone.’

  Philly nodded, glanced around to see if anyone could hear, and then leaned forward and spoke quietly, but firmly, toward Allen, repeating Jesus’s phrase.

  Allen sat up and belched. He covered his mouth and said, “Sorry, man. But something weird just happened to me. One minute you were like talking from the other end of a long tunnel and then boom you’re back. Did you do something?”

  Looking up at Jesus for some more instructions, Philly saw him nod, so he told Allen what he had done, as well as he understood it himself. “I just told some interference to cut it out. There’s a kind of spiritual fight going on around you right now,” Philly said.

  Jesus proudly nodded his approval of that summary.

  Allen, on the other hand, returned to staring at Philly, as if he were watching the first baby dinosaur hatch from a hundred million year old egg. Again, he found a break from his consternation when the waitress arrived to take their orders. Fortunately, they both ate there frequently and knew what they wanted, in spite of taking little time to look at the menu.

  When the waitress walked away, Allen stared at her backside and leered. “Nice ass,” he said, too loud. A woman at a nearby table scowled at him. Allen just smirked at her.

  Again, Philly looked for help from Jesus.

  “Just get him to talk about himself for a while, so you two can get something to eat before you do any more,” Jesus said.

  “Do any more?” Philly thought.

  Philly hit his iced tea again and then said, “So, Allen, your family still live near Boston?”

  Allen started a looping explanation of the migration of much of his family to Florida, or Texas, and his sister’s job in Toronto. Then he said, “Yeah, I don’t really miss living there, ya’ know. But, with my folks down in Boca Raton, I miss visiting the old neighborhood.”

  “Did you go to public school?” Philly said.

  Allen took a swig of his whisky and looked down the length of the restaurant, as if his childhood lay at the other end. “Naw, my ma and her family were Catholic and they made me go to Catholic school. I hated it. It was supposed to get me all converted and into the Church, but it did just the opposite. I never wanta set foot in a church as long as I live.”

  Philly noticed a lack of genuine feeling accompanying Allen’s unmitigated rejection of his mother’s faith.

  “What was so bad about it.”

  Their salads arrived, just in time for Allen to recount the horrors of Catholic school with ranch dressing in the corners of his mouth and gales of crunching obstructing some of his words. More than the annoyance of hearing Allen talk with his mouth full, Philly kept feeling that Allen was leaving something out, such as the sort of event that would merit the acidic disdain he expressed.

  Jesus answered this internal observation. “He remembers that event, but he’s able to talk around it, as if it didn’t happen.”

  Philly thought, “What happened?”

  Jesus said, “He has to tell you. I won’t override his ability to decide who he tells.”

  But Philly knew enough to guess the sort of intense trauma Allen held back from his catalog of injustice and humiliation. Exactly what it was didn’t really matter to Philly, now that he knew what Jesus had in mind, slaying the vicious dragon from Allen’s past. Naturally, Philly decided to avoid pushing Allen toward revealing, or even facing, that dragon. Just as naturally, Jesus stirred the beast.

  Refocused on Allen, Philly realized that the acrobatic feat of his half-true account of Catholic school had worn Allen out. Allen hung over his salad plate, apparently too exhausted to vanquish the remainder of the lettuce and purple cabbage. He set down his salad fork and grabbed his napkin from his lap. Somehow, in the motion of wiping his mouth, Philly saw a change pass over Allen, a sort of cloud that darkened his face very subtly and only briefly.

  Jesus responded to Philly’s concern. “His internal enemy is moving and wants to humiliate Allen in front of the people in this restaurant. You have to tell it to keep quiet. Just say like you did before, but address your command to the raging spirit.”

  Anxiety sucked away Philly’s breath, much as it did when he made a dangerous lane change on the Tollway. Adrenalin assisted his execution of Jesus’s instructions, however, as he said, “You raging spirit in Allen, you keep quiet and don’t humiliate Allen here, in Jesus name.” Philly added that last part from something he had heard his grandma pray once.

  Jesus clearly approved and Allen breathed easier. This time, however, he seemed more conscious of what Philly had done, in spite of the high alcohol content of his blood.

  “You’re here to help me, aren’t you?” he said, his voice sounding more ominous and mystical than the Allen Breen Philly knew as the Web administrator, and office wise guy.

  “Yes, Allen,” Philly said. “More importantly, Jesus is here to help you.”

  Philly marveled at himself, suddenly realizing that, if he could see himself from the perspective of who he was two weeks ago, he would think he had gone crazy. He hardly recognized himself in what he had said and done so far in the dark back corner of the restaurant.

  The main course arrived for both of them. Philly looked appreciatively at the Brazilian-style steak still sizzling slightly on his hot dinner plate. Allen dug into his American-style rib-eye, ravenous and sullen. Allen fought off frightening feelings that he was losing control of himself, and he had no idea where it would lead. Part of him hoped that focusing on the task of eating, while not drinking more, might help. That instinct proved to be mostly true.

  The steak tasted as good as Philly remembered and he thoroughly enjoyed it. He did wish he had red wine with it, but thought better of it, in an effort to encourage Allen toward sobriety. Jesus grinned at Philly’s decision, again blanketing Philly with that proud father look, which made Philly smile as he chewed his steak.

  Allen looked up at Philly. “You like your steak?” he said.

  “Umhm,” Philly replied, with feeling. He smiled at Allen.

  Again Allen seemed to flux from one mode to another, almost changing colors. But this time he brightened slightly, inspired by the warmth of Philly’s smile and the simple satisfaction in his eyes. That Philly had listened so politely to his childhood tale certainly added to the heartening effect for Allen. All those good feelings faded quickly, however, and Allen cut into his steak again.

  Philly crunched crisp, spicy potato wedges and asked Allen, “How’s your steak?”

  Allen nodded and grunted, a subtly positive sounding noise.

  The waitress checked in on them. “How’s your food,” she said.

  Philly said, “Great, as always. Thanks.”

  Allen ogled the girl and managed to grunt again, “Uhuh.”

  “Can I get you another drink?” she said to Allen.

  Philly shook his head and Allen seemed to remember his resolve to sober up, thanks to Philly’s prompting. “No thanks, just more water, please,” Allen said.

  The waitress seemed to approve, Philly thought, though he knew they generally pushed the drinks in hopes of enlarging the tip. No one wants a sloppy drunk in the restaurant, after all, and she had noticed the way Allen looked at her. Sobriety seemed a more promising direction for Allen, by everyone’s estimation.

  The alcohol, however, wasn’t driving Allen as strongly as the internal revolt he now attempted to restrain. Philly managed to enjoy his meal to the finish, even as Allen struggled for control of his faculties. Finally, as Philly chewed his last bite of steak, Jesus called the match.

  “Get the check when she comes by in a few seconds. He’s not going to last much
longer.” Even as Jesus warned of impending disaster he did so with warm confidence that fueled Philly’s obedience.

  Philly flagged the waitress immediately and asked for the check. Allen actually growled. That guttural response tipped the situation for Philly. He had been relying on Jesus to manage Allen and his discontented spiritual accompaniment. Now the look on Jesus’s face said, “Get ready for a fight.” Thus, Philly skipped over his natural denial tendency into ready mode, though, of course, he knew very little about what he was supposed to be getting ready for.

  Allen looked at Philly, dropping his knife and fork. His eyes screamed for help, but his lips remained locked together.

  “Tell the perverted spirit to stay still and quiet,” Jesus instructed.

  Allen opened his mouth and made a hollow sound something like a meow emanating from inside a wooden box, when Jesus said this, as if his enemy heard the words before Philly repeated them. But Philly said it anyway, finishing just before the waitress got close enough to hear the bizarre things he was saying. Looking up at her, Philly could tell that she hadn’t heard. But he could also tell that she was aware of how strangely Allen was acting.

  “I’m getting him out of here as soon as possible,” Philly told her, as if they had an understanding between them.

  The waitress nodded, as she took Philly’s debit card from him and hurried off to run it at the register.

  “What do you think you’re doing, punk?” Allen said, in a voice that Philly thought sounded something like Mick Jagger.

  “Tell the confusing spirit to stay still and quiet,” Jesus said.

  Again the effect seemed to start before Philly spoke, but he said simply, “Confusing spirit, you stay quiet and still.” Internally, Philly was asking, “How many of these are there?”

  Jesus nodded slowly. “A few.”

  Philly took a deep breath and then checked with Allen. “How ya’ doin’ there, man?”

  Allen shook his head slightly. “I feel really weird.” As soon as he said that, he stood up suddenly and looked around, as if in urgent need of an exit, or a bathroom. The back door, marked “Emergency, Fire Exit,” caught his attention.