by Bob Smith
After breakfast, Taylor announced that we needed to go shopping. We were going to be doing errands for several hours and couldn’t leave Ravi in the car in the Texas sun. I asked the desk clerk if it was okay to leave him in the room. The sweet red-haired woman offered to watch him while we were out. She made me reevaluate my Texas-bigotry, as I had to admit that in the South, friendly people who were willing to stop what they’re doing and help you did seem to pop up more frequently than they did in New York.
We went to a mall to buy a video camera and then to a nearby auto parts store to buy a spare tire and jack for our car. “We should buy some cocaine,” I said, wondering how the fuck we would find a drug dealer in Midland. I doubted the elderly women who worked at the Visitor’s Bureau would have a recommendation. “Michael’s taking care of that,” Junior said. “He works with some guy who’s a cokehead and he’s always asking Michael if he wants to do a line.” Hearing someone called a cokehead sounded almost as archaic as hearing someone being referred to as a laudanum addict. I’d never considered that recreational drugs had their eras; cocaine was the drug du jour of the ’80s, while in twenty years it would be crystal meth.
By one in the afternoon, we’d finished our errands and had nothing to do until Michael and Elena arrived at five. I suggested checking out one of the local attractions and then maybe going back to the motel for a nap. After a short discussion, we decided to visit the Permian Basin Petroleum Museum. It would be the first visit to a petroleum museum for all of us. The museum’s mission statement was “We will share the petroleum and energy story and its impact on our lives,” and halfway through the Petroleum Hall of Fame exhibition I felt like saying, “Please don’t.” The three of us imagined other museums following the path blazed by the Permian Basin Petroleum Museum, telling the previously untold stories of other regionally based industries: the Life Insurance Museum of Hartford, Connecticut, or the Microwave Oven Museum of Amana, Iowa. The Petroleum Museum strenuously tried to make a dull subject interesting, but its failure was evident in their “Kid’s Section,” where the clue for 3-down in the children’s crossword puzzle was “the solvent used in nail-polish remover.” In the parking lot of the museum, as we walked back to our car, I questioned why George Bush had moved back to Midland to become successful when moving away from there was indisputably an accomplishment.
Over lunch at a Dairy Queen, Taylor finally revealed how they planned to meet and win over George W. Bush. “You two will pretend to be father and son at the Bible study group, and your relationship will mirror his relationship with his father. At the men’s study group, you’ll be introduced as new members and asked to tell why you joined.” Taylor nodded his head to indicate Junior, and continued. “John will tell a personal history that will be close enough to Bush’s life story to intrigue him. No one’s interested in a stranger’s problems unless they reflect our problems. Then we’re all ears. Then when the meeting’s over, you’ll all leave together and George will discover that he has a flat tire, courtesy of me. I’ll be your other son and meet you outside after the meeting. You should cuss me out a little for missing it. We’ll offer to help George fix his tire and he’ll be grateful. Then we’ll offer to take him to dinner, get him drunk, and then get him high on some blow. Then while he’s getting fucked up, he’ll meet Elena and then hopefully spring a boner. We’ll get him back to the hotel and Michael will be hiding in the closet. Once they start having sex, Michael will pop out with the camera and film a close-up. Hopefully, that will be enough to keep Bush from becoming president.”
It sounded like a sensible plan if you were crazy enough to think you and four friends could change the history of the world. It was uplifting that Taylor was trying to prevent himself from becoming a Republican, but I also knew he was intellectually curious and wanted to know whether it was possible to change your destiny.
Junior woke me from my nap at a quarter to five. He told me that his and Taylor’s nap had been interrupted by a phone call from Michael around four. Michael and Elena had gotten a late start, due to a nasty fight Elena had with her then girlfriend. For some reason the girlfriend didn’t like the idea of Elena being videotaped fucking some stranger in Texas, even if it would prevent this guy from becoming president in fourteen years. Michael thought they wouldn’t get to Midland before six or seven. That would still work but made me nervous. Our plan, like most plans, would only work if everything went smoothly.
We arrived at the First United Methodist Church around a quarter after five. Our plan was to get there early to see Bush arrive and learn which car needed to receive a flat tire. We parked in front of the church, sitting slouched down in our seats waiting for him to show up. The meeting started at 6:00, and by 5:45 I thought perhaps George had other plans. But a minute later, a hard-used blue sedan pulled up and parked on the street in a space that was reserved for church staff. A youthful, handsome, kind-of-sexy man opened the car door and hurried to the church entrance. At first, I wasn’t sure it was George. It took me a moment to recognize him. The adjective “sexy” had never come near my head before when I thought about him. George walked briskly, wearing khakis and a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Taylor whispered that George’s business must be doing poorly. His car was practically a junker. I was still stunned that Bush had once been objectively attractive, although he still didn’t do it for me and that would never change. There are some people who undermine the whole notion that sexual orientation is innate. If Bush and Cheney were the last men on Earth, I would choose not to be gay.
Junior palmed the handle of the car door. “Just follow my lead,” he ordered before getting out. I followed him inside the church where a handwritten sign, with the words “Men’s Bible Study” and a downward-pointing arrow, indicated a set of stairs leading to the Don and Millie Stabler Family Fellowship Room in the church’s basement.
There were about twenty-five men attending the meeting. All of them were white, and most of them looked to be in their midthirties to early forties. Set in the drop-ceiling were rectangular, clear plastic panels, covering fluorescent lights, which shone an unflattering, greenish hue on the fellowship room, making everyone look sinned-against.
Shortly after six, the moderator, who introduced himself as Jake Garrold, asked people to take their seats. He was a plump, stubby man in his early forties wearing a large and ornate turquoise and silver bolo tie, and his grating voice was softened by a slight drawl. “Let us pray,” he said before beginning a short prayer informing God we were “good Christian men” and asking for his assistance: “We seek your help in truly understanding your message for us and all men.” Then Jake introduced Junior and me to the fellowship, explaining that we’d give a brief statement as to why we had sought out the study group. (I was favorably impressed with Jake’s marked emphasis on the word “brief.”)
Junior stood up and walked to the lectern at the front of the room. He looked strikingly collected, and I felt a twinge of almost fatherly pride in him. George W. Bush was sitting near the front. The chairs fanned out in crescent-shaped rows rather than straight lines, and I could observe his impassive face.
“I came here today because I feel only Jesus understands my situation,” Junior began. “For a long time I’ve felt estranged from my father.You see, I’m the oldest son, first born, like Jesus. And like Jesus, I followed in my father’s footsteps and went into the family business.” There were a few titters from the audience, but Junior waited for them to settle down, and his earnest patience made the men resume listening. George was focused on Junior.
“But my father looks down on me just as Jesus’s father looked down on him. We forget that Jesus didn’t have it easy; his father was the second-guesser in the sky, always looking over his shoulder. Jesus was the son of God, but in some people’s eyes that just made him God Junior.” I was afraid Junior might have gone too far, but he never paused for a laugh and his face appeared almost stern. He spoke slowly, as if this was something that had weighed upo
n him for a long time.
“We forget that Jesus was a man, like us. He had to constantly prove himself because people had no faith in him when he first started out. His father was well known, loved and respected, and Jesus had some big shoes to fill when he walked on water. Jesus’s father was a war hero who brought down the walls of Jericho for the Israelites while his son—God Junior—refused to fight, not because his son was a coward, as people said, but because he was a man of peace. The Lamb of God who demonstrated the courage it takes not to fight now, not because you’re afraid, but because you have great battles to fight in the future.”
George gazed at Junior as if he’d found a new savior.
“My heart goes out to Jesus. It’s not easy having a father who’s above criticism while your enemies crucify you—God Junior—here on Earth. His father created the lion and the lamb, while God Junior created loaves and fishes. ‘Good,’ people said, ‘but not as good as his father.’ His father led the Jews out of Egypt, while God Junior led twelve disciples around the desert. ‘Good,’ people said, ‘but not as good as his father.’ His father was an overnight success who created the world in seven days, but God Junior wandered in the wilderness for forty days and forty nights and could barely afford to pick up the tab for the last supper. ‘Good,’ people said, ‘but not as good as his father.’ When Jesus died he probably felt like a failure. His business of saving souls was a start-up, and everyone knows rendering unto Caesar can eat up your capital when you’re just getting going. God Junior made mistakes, like all young businessmen do. He hired Judas. Not a smart move. He chased the merchants and moneychangers out of the temple, when he should have been networking with them and taking them out to lunch. Not a smart move. He performed miracles free of charge, when he could’ve charged top shekel for leper-care. Not a smart move. But it’s hard to be all-knowing when you’re trying to keep your business all-growing.”
Jake kept trying to catch Junior’s eye to indicate to him to wrap it up, but Junior avoided looking in his direction. George appeared concerned when Junior appeared to choke up.
“There are some days when, like Jesus, I just want to shout, ‘Father, father, why hast thou forsaken me?’” He sniffled a bit. “But Jesus will have a second coming, a second chance to prove himself to his father. And I believe we all deserve a second chance to prove ourselves to our father.”
Junior looked upward with a beatific smile, then gazed on us.
“Thank you.”
There was an enthusiastic round of applause as Junior sat down, and Bush was among those clapping the loudest. Jake now looked at me and repeated with a renewed emphasis that I was going to give a “brief” statement. I walked to the lectern but felt nervous as I tried to follow Junior’s lead as best as I could.
“My son has said his father has forsaken him, but I can assure him and all of you that his father can no more forsake him than Jesus’s heavenly father could forsake him. But that doesn’t mean a father and son can’t have differences. It wouldn’t surprise me if sometimes among his disciples Jesus referred to his father as ‘my Old Man.’” There were smiles and nodding heads in the audience.
“And I’m sure Jesus’s Old Man was old school and didn’t care for his son’s long hair and beard, but his Old Man held his tongue. And I’m sure Jesus’s Old Man thought, ‘You’re thirty-three years old and it’s time to settle down,’ but his Old Man held his tongue. And I’m sure Jesus’s Old Man worried about his son riding a donkey late at night after drinking wine with his fishing buddies, but his Old Man held his tongue.”
I was winging it and worried that I sounded ridiculous, but the men in the crowd were raptly attentive.
“And I’m sure his Old Man would’ve taken one look at Judas and said, ‘Son, you don’t need the Tree of Knowledge to tell that he’s one bad apple,’ but his Old Man held his tongue. And you can bet Jesus’s Old Man wasn’t crazy that the one single woman in his son’s life was Mary Magdalene, a well-known sinner who needed to have seven demons cast out of her, when his son could have had his pick of nice girls with only five or six demons inside them. But his Old Man held his tongue there too.”
I don’t know where the seven demons came from, but I’d always found certain Bible stories memorable in my after-school Roman Catholic catechism classes.
“You see, Jesus’s Old Man loved his son and wanted him to succeed. He didn’t want to meddle in his son’s business, and it took every ounce of willpower for Jesus’s Old Man not to interfere. When Jesus was arrested, his heavenly father could have bailed him out, but sometimes a father has to show his son tough love and let his son carry his own cross. I know every father here knows that when your son makes a mistake it’s the father who feels crucified. But I’m here tonight because I love my son and want him to know all is forgiven.”
The moderator caught my eye and pointed at his watch.
“Thank you.”
It must have gone over well. I also received a strong round of applause, and when my eyes met Bush’s he grinned at me. For an instant, I actually felt a connection with him as another man struggling to figure out his life.
Jake stood up and resumed his place behind the podium. “Thank you for such an . . . an interesting profession of faith,” he said briskly. “Now this week’s Bible lesson is the Miracle at Cana. I know some of you didn’t do your homework, which means you’re going to hell, but I’m going to be merciful and clue you in—in case you’re not familiar with this miracle.”
I’d heard about Jesus’s major miracles: raising the dead, walking on water, the loaves and fishes, but wasn’t familiar with the Miracle at Cana. I’d always thought there’d be plenty of time to read the Bible in the afterlife.
“You see, Jesus and his mother were guests at a nice family wedding at Cana, a suburb of Nazareth,” Jake explained. “Well, during the reception Jesus’s mother told her son they were running short of wine. Now this was a social calamity in both BC and AD. What to do? They needed vino pronto. But there were no Wal-Marts or pickup trucks back then. By the time you rode a donkey to the wine merchant and back, the honeymoon would be over and the bride would be due any day now. Jesus’s mother knew this, and she looked at her son with a mama’s steely eyes. Jesus felt his mother was pressuring him to be the Savior of the party. His mother guilted him into performing a miracle, and he turned six jars of water into wine. And not just any wine either. The Chateau de la Manger was delectably sippable—carrying oaky signs of the cross without being woody, displaying subtle top-notes of frankincense and myrrh—leading the master of the banquet to commend the bridegroom for saving the best for last.”
Jake cleared his throat. It sounded like he was trying to dislodge a badger from its burrow. “What can we learn from this story?”
There was an expectant silence as everyone waited for someone else to supply the answer.
“A good Christian will always offer to do a beer run,” a heavy-set man suggested, prompting chuckles from the group.
“Drink deep because Jesus is buying,” a wizened man wearing a John Deere cap offered.
Jake nudged the room into a more serious discourse. “When someone buys a round for the bar, isn’t his love and generosity unconditional? Well, Jesus was saying, ‘drinks are on me.’ And his tab is still open. What other things does this story reveal about Jesus?”
Other voices piped in from around the room.
“Jesus didn’t want to end a good time.”
“He cares for our happiness.”
“We’re never to give up hope.”
Bush raised his hand and Jake acknowledged him with a nod. “Jesus never closes down the bar, proving that his love for us has no last call.”
“Amen,” cried several members of the audience. “Christ is my drinking buddy” and “He’s my designated driver to heaven” were precepts that every man in the room embraced.
The study group met for a little over an hour. After Jake concluded the meeting with a hymn, several men headed
straight for the door, while others broke into conversational huddles. A few men came up and welcomed me to the group, and I chatted with them while trying to keep Bush in sight. George spoke briefly with a few men but kept moving steadily toward the door. I caught Junior’s eyes and excused myself before George departed. We discreetly tailed him out to the street. The rear end of his car leaned into the curb. “Shit!” he exclaimed as he examined the flat tire. He looked up and caught my eye.
“Damn,” I said as we stopped on the sidewalk. I couldn’t remember using “Damn” as a curse word before, but I’ve since discovered that when visiting the South, your mouth will soon sound like it’s aching for a harmonica or corncob pipe.
George slammed the hood of his car. “That’s the last time I buy Fat Fuck French tires. Those are only six months old and I don’t have a goddamned spare.”
“I just bought one,” Junior said.
I tried to think of something to say to George, but the first thing that came to mind was screaming “You’ve killed more Americans than bin Laden!” Then I remembered I was supposed to behave like Junior’s father and said to George, “I told him not to buy it.”
“You tell me everything I do is wrong,” Junior said.
“No, I don’t.”
“So I’m wrong about that too?”
George laughed and shook his head. “I have to remember that, next time my dad calls.”
Introductions were made, and when he said, “George . . . George Bush,” I had to suppress the urge to ask if he was related to that other George Bush asshole. Junior followed up by asking, “Are you related to the vice president?”