Bob cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, sir… your highness… your Lordship,” he said, his voice filled with nervousness.
“‘God’ is fine,” said God.
“Ok, Sir, God, I have a suggestion,” said Bob. I would have been happier if Bob had run his idea through me first. I felt uneasy when Bob had ideas. He seemed to be far more enthusiastic than I was in revealing myself to the world.
“Yes, Bob, please feel free to add any input into this forum. I like to run an open house. Any suggestion would be welcomed. By the way, how is Nancy?” God’s welcoming tone belied the fact that I couldn’t help but think he was probably sniggering at the thought of Mrs. Nancy Nancy and her ridiculous name. In fact, I was sure I could hear stifled laughter emitting from the phone speaker. Bob didn’t seem to notice; he was too busy grinning from ear to ear.
“Wow, you know me? You know Nancy? Wow, we’re both fine, thanks; you actually do watch over us all. I have to say, it is an honor to speak to you. By the way, how is Mrs. God?” I shook my head in disbelief. God did not answer Bob’s question. He was too busy trying to curtail the muffled laughter from others who were obviously in the same vicinity as him, and I could definitely hear sniggering in the background.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “are we on speaker phone too?” I asked, annoyed that God had us on his speaker phone without informing me. I was also curious as to who else was listening in.
“No,” said God, but I knew he was lying. I let it drop, but he hadn’t fooled me.
“Well, Bob,” said God eventually after the muffled giggles had subsided, “what is your suggestion?”
For all the time I had known him, Bob Nancy had never had a good idea. And things weren’t about to change. Unfortunately, God didn’t seem to see it that way. God thought Bob’s idea was great, ingenious, fantastic, and inspirational. God was so pleased with Bob I thought he was going to make him a Saint there and then! However, I doubted even God would make a Saint Bob. Bob’s idea primarily consisted of me walking across the Hudson River. I am serious. I couldn’t believe my best friend would propose such a ridiculous stunt either!
It transpired that Bob had been doing some research into the Bible and miracles. As I had already made clear, I would not be going near dead, or people close to death—all resurrecting and healing miracles were out. Bob, by his own inclination and entirely independent of me, had spent the previous evening not only unsuccessfully attempting to repair the ability to record sound on his camcorder, but had taken the time to research Jesus and his miracles. He had come to the conclusion that the best way to grab attention, ensure media coverage, and get tongues wagging was not to get the media to come to us but to go to them.
Through the night, Bob, thanks to the wonders of the internet and information gleaned from Nancy, had discovered that tomorrow, New York City would be hosting the Ambassador of Peru. During the visit of the Peruvian Ambassador, the Mayor of New York had organized a tour of New York Harbor in his private Yacht. Though no one anticipated large crowds for such a minor diplomat, the city expected a small gathering to demonstrate against the Peruvian Government’s alleged intention to start the farming of llamas, exporting their meat as a delicacy. Bob assured me that at least one news crew would be present at the Mayor’s Harbor Launch pier, which was located south side of pier sixty and West 23rd Street.
This information was all courtesy of Nancy, who would also be present along with several other New York Police Department colleagues should the demonstrators become unruly. I personally had not heard of either the Ambassador’s proposed visit or the llama meat debate. It had also come as a shock to me that the Mayor had his own yacht!
Bob’s idea was if it hadn’t involved me, quite clever. Unfortunately, as the main protagonist, it did include me. The idea was for me to walk toward the launch atop of the water. Yes, that’s right, atop the water and approach the yacht. As there was likely to be a demonstrating crowd and several NYPD officers present, we would have our reliable witnesses, the news crew would divert their cameras from the demonstrators to me, and to top off the whole thing, we would have not only the Ambassador of Peru as a witness, but Mayor Giuliani himself! I could reveal myself and prepare the world for whatever lay ahead. I was still unsure of what did lay ahead. God had been playing that one close to his chest.
I wasn’t entirely satisfied the plan would work. There were a number of reasons for my reluctance, the prime reason and most overbearing was that I did not relish the opportunity of walking on water. It sounded extremely complicated, and though God reassured me that I could do it, the thought of sinking to the bottom of one of the most polluted rivers in the world did not endear itself to me. Also prevalent in my mind was the reception I would get from a hostile crowd of llama-loving fanatics. The attention I would grab would detract from their protesting; millions of llamas could die because of Bob’s “great” idea. Finally, there would be no escaping the fact that I would be propelled into the media spotlight. If Bob’s plan worked, then there would be definitely no getting out of it or turning back. Regrettably for me, God was in a buoyant mood and loved the idea. I reminded myself to thank Bob for his great idea; I also made a mental note of not including Bob in any more family meetings.
The Mayor and his party, including the Ambassador, would be arriving at the pier at around ten the following morning. God encouraged me to have a good rest, and before ending the call, once again thanked Bob for his ingenious idea.
“What an absolutely charming man,” gushed Bob after I hung up the phone. “He is not half as bad as you said. In fact, I would have loved to have had a Father like that.” I looked at Bob, shook my head and sighed. He had no idea the pressure that came with being the Son of God. “And what a fantastic memory the man has,” continued Bob, “and he is so charming, him remembering that I’m married to Nancy. It just shows you he really is watching and does care. He is one heck of a guy!” Don’t worry; I didn’t have the heart to tell Bob what God had said about his nuptials!
I have to admit I did not sleep easy that night. After Bob left my apartment, still gushing on about how great God was, I made some hot chocolate—from a packet, not miraculously—and surfed through the news channels looking for any discussion of llama meat, which I did not find. I actually wondered what llama meat would taste like. I supposed it would taste like chicken. I decided a bath would be in order. Luckily, I didn’t lie on the water, but I fully submerged myself into the warm water and bubbles. I did try to practice floating, but I merely sank into the tub. I had hoped a bath would help me relax; I was tense, and once again, the knots in my stomach twisted and turned. The mere feel of the water on my skin, though, was a constant reminder that the next day I could be kicking and flailing in front of the world’s media, swallowing polluted water.
It didn’t help that every time I pictured myself drowning, I also pictured Nancy’s bulking frame rolling with laughter as I gasped for breath. I went to bed early, but I lay awake, running over the likely events of the next morning. It was only nine thirty. It was a Friday night. I fleetingly thought about masturbating, but the thought of Mother Theresa watching my every move doused my enthusiasm for private pleasure. I looked at Walter, who sat watching as he sat on the chair in my bedroom. “Walter?” I asked, making sure it was Walter in there. No reply. Good. God wasn’t around. I dressed and locked up the apartment, heading out into the night.
CHAPTER
16
BEFORE I WAS ABLE TO head into the night, I first had to navigate around Harvey, who was manning his post at the entrance to the building.
“Why, Mr. Miller,” said Harvey playfully as I appeared from the elevator. He raised his hand so I could slap it.
“Good Evening, Harvey,” I said politely as I slapped his palm.
“All right! And where are you heading this fine evening?” asked Harvey, not that it was really any of his business, but as I said, Harvey was unique.
“Just going for a stroll,” I answered, a
nd for some reason, I felt I needed to justify my actions, so I added, “I can’t sleep,” and smiled at Harvey, who stared at me without emotion.
“Uh huh,” said Harvey in a tone that indicated to me he disapproved, “I see your skinny-ass friend been round today.” Harvey was referring to Bob. “Man, he is one ugly mo-fo,” continued Harvey. “He’s a teacher, ain’t he?” I confirmed that Bob was indeed a teacher. “Man, I wouldn’t let no child of mine near that brother; man, they’d be having nightmares and all other scary shit from him and his rat face. Ain’t he married to the fat-ass lady cop? Man, does that woman not know how to ask for the check? She one lardy-ass bitch.” Harvey sucked on his teeth. “Man, that crazy-ass bitch sure does enjoy a pie.” Harvey shook his head and stared into the distance as if imagining Nancy scarfing down a family-sized apple pie, a look of disgust covering his face. “Well then, Mr. Miller, you be careful out there,” Harvey pointed onto the street, “don’t be getting all drunk and wild and getting yourself mugged by some brothers.” Harvey winked at me. I acknowledged Harvey’s concern and for a split second debated whether to invite Harvey for a beer after his shift had ended but decided against it.
Milligan’s was a great neighborhood bar and only two blocks away. It was one of those long bars that seemed always to be in semi-darkness no matter what the time of day, so days and nights always seemed to merge into one. It was never crowded, but you always knew you wouldn’t be drinking alone. It didn’t open until late and only seemed to close when the last customer decided they could leave. Even though I wasn’t a regular, by that, I mean an every night patron, the barman always recognized me and greeted me by name.
“Hi there, Jackie,” greeted Sean, the usual barman. As I said, he always greeted me by name. Just not my name.
“Hi, how’s it going? I’ll have my usual, please,” I replied. Sean nodded. I decided against calling Sean, Steven, in retaliation. My usual drink at Milligan’s was a Sam Adams. They had it on draft, one of the few bars that did, and it was all I ever drank in there. Sean returned with a pint of Guinness. I thanked Sean and sat at the bar with my beer. It was by all accounts, a quiet night for a Friday. The regular crowd seemed to have taken their seats either at the bar or around tables that were secluded in booths, and the atmosphere was muted. Soft music played in the background. Actually, I felt a little miffed, as really, technically, I could have quite easily have made my own drink. What I should have done was to order a glass of water and changed it into a Guinness, Sam Adams, or whatever. I could have done it, had I been inclined.
How Sean would have reacted would have been a different matter. No doubt the story of “Jackie” turning his water into a Sam Adams would become the stuff of bar legends, I imagined, because “Jackie Boy” always drank Guinness. Now, Guinness is not my usual beer, and to be honest, it is a little strong for me; not that I can’t drink, but for some reason, Guinness gets me tipsy quicker than Budweiser or even Sam Adams, but that didn’t stop me ordering another, and then another, and then another. Usually four Sam Adams were enough for me, and then I would hit the weaker Budweiser. Maybe I just wanted to drink, or maybe I didn’t want to upset Sean, who kept refilling my glass. It dawned on me that I was actually on the verge of getting drunk, and I realized that if I didn’t puke then, it would be my second miracle of the day. I hadn’t eaten all day and for some reason, I felt a compulsion toward a fast-food fish sandwich. I debated whether to produce one, but once again, I thought better of it. Anyway, I wasn’t sure if Sean would be too happy with me bringing in outside food, miracle or not.
I had become the barfly, the drunk at the bar who talked drivel. Luckily, no one ever listens to drunken men in Irish bars in the middle of summer in New York City. In Milligan’s, people sometimes punched them, but they hardly ever listened to what was coming from their mouths, which in my case, was a good thing. I had proceeded to tell Sean the whole story. He had been a good listener, and in between serving other customers and drying glasses, he nodded and shook his head at all the appropriate times, whistled when he felt it warranted it. He agreed with me that the whole thing was crazy, and what was God thinking? Luckily, he hadn’t believed, understood, or maybe even listened to a word I said. It was the trick of the seasoned barman, to pretend to listen and be interested in your customers’ woes whilst plying them with more alcohol to compound their problems even more.
Unfortunately, even though Sean hadn’t been listening, SHE had heard it all, and for some bizarre reason, SHE had believed every word. I hadn’t noticed her sidle up next to me at the bar. She must have arrived at either Guinness number three or Guinness number four. She could have arrived when I bought Sean and I a chaser shot of whiskey. I had been in full flow, recalling my story to the attentive Sean. Maybe I hadn’t noticed her slide up next to me because Sean had pressed the secret button on the bar that made the bar spin around; it was only slightly, but I could definitely feel the room spinning. I wondered why he did that. It was very annoying.
I thought I could smell something, though, a sickly sweet smell that seemed to drift up my nostrils that I found irritating. The smell was familiar initially, and in my intoxicated state, I had thought it was the smell of English cider, but then realized it was perfume. A lovely scent, though whose fragrance, after the initial introduction, seemed to settle nicely in the air.
“Far out,” she said. “Great story, no, fantastic story, amazing story, kind of neat. Hey, being the Son of God and all, sounds fun,” she nudged me and winked. I was startled. I hadn’t realized she was even there. I turned to face my new and uninvited audience.
To be totally honest, I did find her attractive almost immediately. I was in no fit state to say that, because, let’s face it, after five pints of Guinness, I would have found Seabiscuit attractive. She had kind eyes, whatever that meant; how eyes can be kind, I did not know. I had never heard of eyes helping old ladies across the street, nor had I heard of eyes donating to charity. I suppose what I meant by kind eyes was that they seemed to sense my pain. It was as if her eyes were a beacon for the angst and tension that encompassed me. Her eyes drew me in; they were large and brown and full of life. Her hair was short, almost boyish, and her features I would describe as elfin. I don’t mean she had pointed ears, I mean she looked cheeky, kind of sexy, but boyish, friendly. Not that I liked boys, friendly or otherwise, nor was I confused as to think that this was not a woman next to me, when, in fact, it was a hobbit. She was definitely a woman. She was petite too. And had great tits.
She wasn’t large or hefty, more tiny and petite, and she was properly proportioned. In food terms, I would say she was like a capon, a smaller version of a chicken, yet an adult, evenly proportioned, yet tinier. She wasn’t, though, I hasten to add, a little person, despite the description I just gave.
“I’m sorry,” I slurred, “but what did you just say?”
“I said, it must be neat,” she placed a cigarette in her mouth and lit it with a Zippo lighter she produced from her jacket pocket, “you know, being the Son of God and here to save the world.” She inhaled on her cigarette and blew the residual smoke into my face. “He sounds kind of cool, too. It must be great.”
“Are you crazy?” I asked in disbelief, not because of what she had said, but because she had believed what I had spurted out to Sean. Despite the fact it was all true, it was so crazy that even an uninvited eavesdropper with an ounce of sense could see it was a farcical tale.
“No,” she replied. “Why?” She once again blew smoke into my face. I waved my hands to disperse the smoke and to highlight that I did not appreciate her actions. Why Sean was allowing her to smoke in the bar was a mystery in itself. It violated the city codes and had I been sober, I would have told her.
“Two reasons spring immediately to mind. Number one, why would you believe such a wild story, for Christ’s sake?” I looked upward and said jokingly, “Sorry, ‘JC,’ didn’t mean to bring you into this.” I stared at her with an incredulous expression on my face. �
�You are listening to a drunken man in a bar on his own on a Friday night! How can anything I say be reliable? You are either drunk yourself, or you are crazy. I go for crazy,” I chuckled at my comment though it wasn’t amusing, but in my drunken state, I thought it hilarious. I continued to speak. I became more animated. For some reason, I pointed at my half-full glass of beer as if it could back me up.
“And B—”
“You mean ‘two,’” interrupted my uninvited companion.
“What?” I said.
“You said ‘one, why would you believe such a wild story?’ and then you mumbled something I didn’t hear, and then you said ‘B.’ Your second point should have been ‘two.’ If you had said, ‘A, why would you believe such a wild story?’ and then said ‘B,’ that would have been correct,” once again, she blew smoke into my face. Technically and grammatically, she was correct, but really, who gave a shit? I shifted in my seat to face her head on.
“Who are you?” I asked, still slightly slurring my words. Despite her uninvited intrusion, the blowing of smoke into my face and her apparent insanity, I liked her.
“Maggie,” said my new friend as she offered me her hand to shake. “Maggie De Lynne.”
CHAPTER
17
“YOUR NAME IS MAGGIE DE Lynne?” I asked. It wasn’t really a question. I laughed out loud as I took another swig of Guinness. I shook my head. “Maggie De Lynne,” I said again.
“Yeah, freaky eh?” said Maggie.
“Your parents certainly had a good sense of humor.” I turned to face her once more and once again; I found her eyes and face appealing.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. I suppose it is funny. I’m not sure they realized the connotations, though—my parents, that is.” She inhaled once more on her cigarette, but this time, she blew the residual smoke over the bar and not into my face. She then took a sip of her drink, which I guessed was either vodka or gin.
The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy Page 13