“Well, it seems as though you may have a problem.” That was the understatement of the year. I was relieved, though, that Bob’s first words hadn’t been “you’re nuts.” At least that response indicated that he believed me. “If you ask me, this God character of yours is a real piece of work. At the very best, he seems to have no idea how to run a large organization. Sounds as if the whole thing is a pig’s ear from the start.” As I said, Bob pulled no punches. He said it how it was, and I usually agreed with him. My initial fears that Bob would declare me mad, inform the nearest asylum, and have me carted away were totally abated. Luckily, Bob and I had shared many a strange drunken conversation, and I suppose he just accepted what I had to say. I mean, let’s be honest, who would actually invent such a crazy story?
“It seems to me you really need to get out of this thing. The Armageddon thing does not sound good. In fact, it sounds bad. It seems God is putting a heck of a lot of pressure on you. It’s like going from the minors to the majors overnight and finding yourself in the middle of the World Series,” surmised my friend in terms we could both relate to. I agreed with Bob. It was imperative I got out of being the Messiah. I hoped Bob had a plan.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have a plan,” said Bob, “and as I see it, there is one underlying and unequivocal problem. As God has clearly pointed out, there is no replacement. There is nobody else that can fill your shoes, and it seems to me that you have little choice for now but to go along with it.” My heart sank. I knew Bob was right; he usually was. “The most pressing concern in my mind,” continued Bob, “is that unless you take up the mantle, then the world is doomed. By the way, have you read Revelation the whole way through?”
I replied that I had not. Luckily, Bob had more knowledge of it than I did. “Well, basically, if memory serves me correctly, the whole return of the Christ and the second coming culminates in this big battle between Heaven and Hell, kind of like the Return of the Jedi, where Luke has to fight Darth Vader. Seems to me that if the Bible is correct, then you win; however, there appears to be some elements that don’t quite fit. I mean the seven riders of the apocalypse and all the signs. It seems to me as though some bits are missing. The Bible was very specific on the events surrounding your manifestation.”
I explained to Bob about God’s tardy proofreading of the Bible, how it was possible that certain things may not be one hundred percent accurate, and that the Bible, while it might be a good reference point, was not reliable on its contents being completely gospel, so to speak.
“Well, that may be so, but one thing that must be considered is the possibility that your life is in danger,” said Bob after a brief pause for thought. This was something I did not want to hear and hadn’t previously considered.
“In what way?” I asked.
“Well, on a number of fronts actually. I am sure there are nut jobs out there who would love to take out the son of God. God’s not as popular as he thinks. He may have a lot of fans out there, but there’s always the nut factor. Let’s not forget the anti-Christ either, your arch enemy, your nemesis, your Darth Vader, the son of the devil, the beast, the serpent, you know—the bad guy. Let’s not forget him. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to face him.”
Bob had a point. Even if I didn’t take the job and went on with my everyday life, then all this “beast” character would need to do would be to knock me off, and the battle would be over. I was probably better off with God on my side, protecting me, than if I buried my head in the sand. Even if I didn’t want to save the world—and really, apart from Bono, who actually did?—then I needed to at least save myself. Bob and I both agreed that the forces of darkness probably had a lot of resources and that maybe I was better siding with God and obtaining some sort of protection, guidance, and training.
“So you think I should go along with this whole thing?” I asked Bob.
“After considering all the implications, you have no choice. I hate to say it, but yes, you should go along with it. Not totally, maybe long enough to defeat Satan and save the world, but more importantly, save you. Then you can forget it. Try and negotiate some sort of short-term contract; take it to Armageddon and reconsider your options. Maybe take the job on a trial basis.” I wasn’t sure how God would react to contract negotiations, but it was better than refusing point blank. At least it was a compromise, and considering the alternatives, I didn’t have much choice. The problem was I had no idea how I could contact God and put forward my proposal.
I had taken enough of Bob’s time, and chances were that Nancy was on her way back home.
“Bob, thanks for listening, I will give you a call if there are any more developments. One more thing though; I wouldn’t mention any of this to Nancy. You know what she’s like when it comes to me. I think the fewer people who know about it at this stage, the better.” Bob agreed that telling Nancy would be a disastrous move while no doubt she would find it highly amusing at first, there was no telling what she would do. She could have me locked up as a madman for all I knew. I wouldn’t have put it past her.
“Hey, listen, I just had a thought: you’re going to need disciples, a team of helpers like Jesus had,” said Bob just as I thought our conversation was over.
“Disciples?” It was something I hadn’t had a chance to consider, but it sounded a good idea. If they were good enough the first time around, I saw no reason why they shouldn’t be good the second time.
“Yeah, disciples. Listen, I’m your man, count me in. I’ll be your chief disciple, your number two. Hey, I’ve got six more weeks off school! Nancy’s got no vacation time, and I am getting tired of watching Doctor Phil and Judge Judy,” said Bob, who sounded excited at the prospect of joining me in my misery.
“God didn’t mention disciples,” I said. “He said a lot, but he didn’t specifically mention disciples. I’m all for it, and I could use some help and support. I’ll run it by him during contract negotiations,” I promised my friend.
“Well, make sure you do, I’m very interested. Think about it, and don’t forget to run it by him when you next talk. Hey, I’m with you man, I’m there for you. It could actually be fun if you discount Armageddon and the end of the world.” Unfortunately, “fun” was the last word that sprang to my mind as our conversation ended.
After concluding my call with Bob, I waited for God to either call back or talk through Walter. I watched Walter for any sign that would indicate he was about to speak, but none came. The scotch I had drunk earlier was beginning to take effect, and I decided a lie down was the best course of action. I hadn’t slept well in the easy chair at my parents’ home the night before, and it was no surprise that my eyelids felt heavy.
I slept well for four hours straight. No dreams or visions from God molested my thoughts, and when I awoke at five in the afternoon, I felt refreshed and revitalized. During those first initial seconds of awakening, I felt relaxed, calm, and contented. I stretched my arms and legs and smiled to myself; there was nothing quite like an afternoon nap. It was only when my brain shifted into gear, and my senses were fully restored that I remembered. The events of the morning came flooding back, and my original feeling of contentment vanished, and my stomach knotted.
I rechecked that Walter was still Walter, and I satisfied myself that the ball of ginger fluff curled up on a sun-drenched patch of floor near a window was indeed my cat by whispering, “Are you there?” into his ear. When I received no response, it was clear to me that God was not here. The phone hadn’t rung while I slept, and I had no messages. I grabbed the TV remote control and switched on the local evening news.
I wasn’t paying much attention to the news, but when I saw a familiar figure pass onto my screen, I increased the volume and leaned toward the screen. Nancy, her frame unmistakable, was giving an interview to a reporter on the street. Nancy, who always looked ridiculous in her super-sized NYPD police uniform, was obviously the police spokesperson for whatever the news channel was covering.
It seemed that
downtown traffic had been brought to a standstill all day. Nancy explained that while the situation was not yet over, it was contained. The reason for this chaotic traffic situation was due entirely to the events at Christ Church, located at the corner of Park Avenue and 60th Street. A man, previously unidentified but now known to be Ronnie Misfud, aged thirty-eight of Queens, New York, had chained and padlocked himself to the railings that surrounded the church. He had used extra strength chain and had super glued the twenty-five padlocks that fastened him to the railings, thus making it virtually impossible for the police locksmith to pry him from the railings. Various types of bolt cutters had also been called for, but none were strong enough to break the chains that entwined Ronnie’s body with the railings.
The progress to remove Ronnie was slow, as he had chained himself to the church railings for well over nine hours. The police, represented by Nancy, were confident they would remove Ronnie within the hour; extra-strength bolt cutters had been called for. Meanwhile, traffic slowed to walking pace in the vicinity of the church as onlookers, television news crews, and emergency vehicles blocked the adjacent avenues.
Some suggested that all the police needed to do was merely saw through the railings, but the church had expressly forbidden any actions that could result in damage to their historic railings. Because of that, the process of freeing Ronnie was slow and laborious and had taken up many police resources.
I found the whole thing quite amusing, and a smile spread across my face. Not because it seemed Nancy struggled with the reporter’s questions and veiled implied remarks of police incompetence, but also because if I had gone to my office today, I would have been one of the tens of thousands stuck in traffic with a cab’s meter ticking away. It was only when the reporter touched on the reason for Ronnie’s actions that my smile disappeared.
It seemed, according to Ronnie himself, that he had had a vision from God earlier that morning. In this vision, God had informed Ronnie that he had been chosen to spread the good news that the Messiah was amongst us, and soon the new son of God would reveal himself to the world. It also seemed that God had told Ronnie that the forces of darkness were readying themselves for what Ronnie described as the final conflict between good and evil, as prophesized by the book of Revelation.
Ronnie had told the assembled media that the only way he could think of gaining public attention was to chain himself to the church and cause as much disruption as possible. It seemed psychiatrists were on the scene, and an ambulance stood by to transport poor Ronnie to the nearest mental hospital for tests and treatment the moment Nancy and her colleagues freed him.
Naturally, I found this rather disturbing. Was Ronnie a deranged lunatic, hell-bent on causing disruption to the New York City traffic, or had he genuinely received a message from God? According to the reporter’s research, Ronnie did not have a record of any mental health problems, and according to friends and family who had gathered at the scene and who were now giving interviews to the press, he was not an overly religious man, and none could explain why Ronnie had secured himself to the railings.
Usually, a news item like this would not keep me glued to the television, and even considering my current predicament, only so much footage of Ronnie chained to a railing could keep me enthralled. I was about to switch channels when the reporter said something that sent shivers down my spine. Apparently Ronnie was not the only one to receive word from God that morning.
Reports were coming in from around the globe of individuals causing disruption and attempting to gain media coverage while claiming they too had spoken to God, and just like Ronnie’s story, it seemed the Messiah was amongst us, and preparations were afoot for Armageddon.
The reporter informed her viewers that an unidentified man had attached himself to the Sydney Harbor Bridge, causing disruptions to early morning commuters. In London, where it was approaching midnight, Big Ben would not be chiming, as another unidentified male had perched himself on the hour hand of the famous clock. In Los Angeles, the airport halted lunchtime flights while several airport police tried to coax a rather animated and naked young man from the main runway at LAX. While these events, according to the reporter, were not directly linked, it seemed every individual was proclaiming the same thing: that God had spoken to them and told them to spread the word that his son was on Earth, and to prepare the people for the battle for souls.
I was jolted from my thoughts by the telephone. It was Bob calling me to see if I was watching the news. I confirmed I was, and he whistled and hewed, which didn’t help matters, but it confirmed what I thought: God was serious. I said I would call Bob back as I needed to keep the line free for God’s call. I also woke Walter by throwing a cushion at his still-sleeping mass. He raised his head and stared at me indignantly. I urged him to speak, but he appeared uninterested. Bob told me to call him immediately if there were any developments and not to worry about Nancy, as she had called home to say she would be working late. Apparently Ronnie was going to take longer to remove than the police were telling the assembled media. Before hanging up, Bob said he thought Nancy looked great on TV and that maybe they would make her the department spokeswoman. I declined to comment and told him I would call him with news when it came.
A split second after I replaced the handset of the telephone onto the receiver, it rang again. I answered it quickly, hoping it was God. It wasn’t him, but the second best thing: my mother. Like Bob, she asked me if I was watching the news, and I told her I was. I also told her I had spoken to God that morning. Luckily, Thursday nights were her bridge night, so we didn’t stay on the line for long, and she cut the conversation short, which saved me from telling her to get off the line. I did not feel like going into my refusal to take the job or any of the other details of my morning’s talk with God, so it was a relief that she was not on the line for long.
After I had hung up the phone, I waited for it to ring. It didn’t, so I resumed viewing the chronicles of Ronnie chained to the railings. Shots were now coming in from London where a crowd had gathered, and spotlights had been erected to highlight the man perched on the minute hand of Big Ben. He had some sort of sheet he was using as a banner, which, when unfolded, proclaimed, “The Messiah is amongst us.”
It was while pondering the fates of all the global announcer’s of my arrival that the phone rang. It was him, at last.
CHAPTER
12
“RATHER IMPRESSIVE DON’T YOU THINK?” said God, the voice no different from the last time he called.
“So you are responsible. You know these poor men will probably all be arrested, don’t you? I think poor Ronnie could be heading to a psychiatric ward.” I was genuinely concerned for the welfare of these individuals. I felt somehow responsible for their predicaments.
“That’s my boy,” said God, “compassionate and caring. Don’t worry, I will see no harm comes to them, and I assure you that they will not be charged or detained in any institution.” I was relieved to hear this; the last thing I wanted on my conscience was any of those modern-day prophets to fall to their death or incarcerated in mental wards.
“Good. That makes me feel a little better,” I said. “Look, I’m glad you called. I felt sorry about the way things went this morning. I feel I should apologize. Maybe I came across as being a little abrupt.” It was I suppose, an apology.
“Apology accepted,” said God, “and I trust you don’t need me to do the whole cat thing again, do you? I found it a little uncomfortable, and I am sure poor Walter wasn’t pleased.”
“I’m fine with this,” I confirmed, convinced I was indeed talking to God, that God was indeed my father, and that I was indeed the Messiah.
“Maybe I am the one who owes you an apology,” God said, “I think maybe we did get off on the wrong foot, and it was probably down to me. I do that sometimes, come across all almighty and demanding. I should have considered your feelings. It’s not every day you find out your whole life has been a lie.” I felt that was a little dramatic
, but it was a good feeling, hearing God apologize. It seemed we might have turned a corner in our relationship.
“It’s been a busy day around here,” continued God, “and the committee and I got together to discuss things. Well, you, really. The upshot of the meeting was that maybe I, we, them rushed you into this and that maybe we should have broken you in gradually.” That was good to hear, I thought to myself. “Mind you, we still do not know for sure what the other side is planning. We need to get you trained and vested in my ways as soon as possible. While there is a set of rules pertaining to Armageddon, the final conflict, and indeed Satan, I have discussed the matter in the past, and I have learnt that we must approach dealings with him with caution. The committee and I all feel we must progress but at a slower pace than I had earlier anticipated. I take it you’re in? I mean, you have reconsidered? You will do it, won’t you?” I got the feeling God already knew the answer.
“Yes, I will do it though I do have a few conditions—” God interrupted before I could outline my conditions.
“Not a problem, the committee has agreed to your terms already.” So God had been watching me. I wondered how closely he, his angels, or even one of the committee had been watching. I was sure I hadn’t masturbated that afternoon, so that was a relief.
“Who actually sits in on this committee?” I asked, intrigued, and, of course, interested as to who might have had the job of watching me over the years, and who was responsible for compiling my file
The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy Page 9