The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy (15 page)

CHAPTER

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, and 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

“
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.

It wasn’t that funny; it was an amusing name, given my current circumstances, but funny? Not really.

“Yeah, it’s pretty funny,” I said.

“Bit of coincidence, though, don’t you think?” said Maggie as she lit another cigarette and blew the smoke behind her. “Given your circumstances,” she added once she faced me.

Didn’t I just think the same thing? It was a very odd coincidence; however, that didn’t concern me. What did was the fact that this woman actually believed I was the Messiah. I guessed her name was probably Jane or Sarah and that she was playing around with me. I decided not to play, though.

“Yeah, what is?” I said, pretending I wasn’t paying attention.

“You being the Son of God, the second coming, the resurrection of the spirit, and the Messiah, and me being named after the one woman who some say could have been at very best his wife, or at worst, his whore.” So that was it. Maggie was a hooker touting for business, and this was her ploy to get me to pay her for sex. Maggie didn’t look like a whore, though.

“Are you a prostitute, Maggie?” I asked directly. The last thing I needed right now was to be seen with a hooker, especially as tomorrow I would be expected to save souls. I could imagine Sean telling the press how the Son of God picked up a prostitute the night before he walked across the Hudson River. I am sure Mother Theresa would be horrified, not to mention Mother Irma, at the potential headlines.

“No, I’m a lawyer,” she said as she faced me dead on, her kind eyes looking deep into my suspicious ones. It seemed she hadn’t found my question offensive, which begged the question, why not? She certainly dressed like a lawyer, and I had never seen her in Milligan’s before.

“You come here regularly?” I asked, slowly beginning to sober up. Maggie shook her head.

“No, the first time.”

I looked around the bar. We were the last customers. Sean was at the other end of the bar facing a stack of dirty glasses he had collected from the empty tables.

“Maggie, I have a question,” I said as I slowly began to merge into sobriety. A thought which had entered my head a millisecond before began to grow. “Do you have any animals at home?” Maggie shook her pretty, elfin-like head.

“No, none.” She lit another cigarette.

“In that case, did you get a telephone call tonight from a guy with an English accent claiming to be God, telling you to come here this evening and find me?” This time Maggie nodded and once again reverted to blowing smoke into my face.

“I sure did,” she replied.

It seemed my mother and I were not the only ones who received telephone calls from God. Maggie De Lynne, it transpired, had been conversing with God for the past two days. Initially, God had come to her in a dream, informing her she been selected for a very important task; to assist his son in his preparation for the final conflict on Earth between good and evil. She would provide guidance and a female perspective and would become a disciple of the new Messiah. Maggie told me she had totally disregarded the dream as a by-product of a late night cheese snack, despite its vividness. God, though, persevered and appeared in a further dream while she took an afternoon nap in her office. This time, God told her he would call her on the phone, as he did with my mother and I, and not to be perturbed by it. When she awoke, she was unsure of the validity of the dream; it was only after he called that she realized God had a mission for her.

Initially suspicious that the voice on the phone claiming to be God was either a nut or a joke playing colleague or friend, she gave him a few tests. First, she hid objects around her office and instructed God to tell her what she had hidden and where. He was correct each time. Though semi-convinced it was indeed God on the phone; she set one final task. Should the owner of the voice on the phone be watching her through a telescope or a hidden camera with the caller watching her every move on CCTV, Maggie decided on a foolproof test. Maggie thought of a number and asked God to guess what it was. When God immediately replied two million, three thousand, and seventy-two, Maggie was convinced. He then told her she was going to ask him to think of a color, and that color would be lilac. Maggie told him to stop. She didn’t need any more convincing. God re-explained what he had told her in the dreams—that she was on a mission for God to assist the Messiah and to wait for a call with further instructions.

That was yesterday. Maggie, obviously curious as to why God chose her for the mission, wondered if it was anything to do with her name. God admitted that her name fitted the role he chose her for, but it was mere coincidence that the name Maggie De Lynne resembled Magdalene. God chose her for her determination and open-mindedness.

Maggie’s latest call from God had come an hour ago. He had called her at home and told her she was coming into play sooner than had been anticipated, and she would find the Messiah at Milligan’s Bar in Greenwich Village. She had arrived midway through my drunken talk with Sean, and it didn’t take a genius to realize who amongst the bar folk the Messiah was. He would be the one at the bar confessing all to a bored barman.

Maggie De Lynne was indeed a lawyer. Her chosen field was property law, which meant we did have something in common professionally. I would come to learn that she was aged twenty-eight and lived alone in a plush apartment in the TriBeCa district. She was born and raised a Roman Catholic in Hackensack, New Jersey. She was not overtly religious, and indeed her religion had lapsed, which made God’s calling even more puzzling to her. She had no siblings, and both her parents were dead. Her father had died several years before, and her mother had passed away recently. The dying wish of her highly religious and devout Catholic mother had been that Maggie return to the Catholic faith and re-find God. I guessed that maybe her mother had probably nominated her for the role she was to play. Her father had left her a reasonable sum of money on his death, which paid for her plush apartment in TriBeCa and meant that Maggie lived a comfortable life.

Maggie was, therefore, a good catch, as she was wealthy, professional, and attractive. It was a surprise to me that she was single, but then again, this was New York. Maggie had enjoyed various relationships, but like me, found it difficult to commit long term. She had once been engaged to a fellow lawyer, a colleague at the firm she practiced. Unfortunately, she had caught him in the photocopying room with a paralegal in a compromising position, and that was the end of that. It didn’t help that the paralegal was called Phillip. Losing her fiancé to another man, especially when all her co-workers knew of the affair and she didn’t, had left Maggie somewhat scarred. She dated as I did, and though open-minded, she was not what you call promiscuous. She spent her evenings reading and planning vacations, and I would have suggested if I had known her better, that she was lonely. I guessed that was another reason God had selected Maggie; she needed a purpose in her life. And now she had one. I had sobered up enough to assimilate the information Maggie had passed. I had to admit, I liked her.

“You weren’t hard to convince,” I said as we left the bar area and found a table secluded in a booth. Two new customers had entered the bar, and Sean was chatting away, pouring drinks, and wiping glasses. Maggie smiled.

“I think the number did it; he is very convincing.” She didn’t have to tell me that. God had managed to convince me to walk on water. He was very convincing.

“Did God expand on your role? What are you actually meant to do? I mean, did he give you a game plan? You know everything I presume, as much as I do, at least. What’s your take on this?” I asked, now completely sober.

“Well,” she said, as she stubbed out her cigarette, “I presume I am going to have to sleep with you, for a start.”

At last, a perk. God was apparently making up for lost ground. He was trying to make up for my childhood abandonment. Unlike most fathers and sons, we hadn’t been fishing together, camping, or even been out for a beer. Maggie was obviously a gift. He had found a lonely, attractive woman with a similar sounding name as Jesus’s alleged wife who would sleep with me and not want commitment. That was Maggie’s role, and the reason God had selected her as my disciple. What a great guy. I was beginning to like him more. I knew of dads who had paid for their college-aged son’s first sexual experience, but this was better than that. For one thing, no money had changed hands.

But Maggie wasn’t a gift, and God’s plan hadn’t included free sex for me. As soon as Maggie said she was going to sleep with me, I paid for our drinks and tipped Sean. It took us less than eight minutes to reach my apartment. Admittedly, I walked faster than I usually did, but who could blame me for wanting to get home quickly? I hoped Harvey’s shift had finished and that I wouldn’t have to parade Maggie past him. Unfortunately, I had no such luck.

“Well, what do you know?” said Harvey, “You been a busy boy, dog.” I smiled at Harvey pleadingly. I hoped he was going to be nice to Maggie.

“This is Maggie, an old friend of mine,” I lied. Harvey nodded and sucked on his teeth.

“Oh really,” he said. “Isn’t that nice?” he added, nodding his head and looking Maggie up and down as if inspecting a secondhand car. “It’s a great feeling when you unexpectedly bump into an old friend, ain’t it?”

We both nodded and agreed it was a great feeling. Luckily, the elevator arrived before Harvey could say anything else. It was obvious he knew I was lying, but I had no idea why I felt so guilty. As we entered the elevator, Harvey leaned and tilted his head so all Maggie and I could see was his face covered with a beaming, gold-and-white smile.

“You two old friends have a good evening, you hear?” The elevator door slid shut, and I thought I heard Harvey call me an “asshole,” though I wasn’t sure.

“Is he your doorman?” asked Maggie.

I nodded. “Sure is,” I said as if it were normal doorman behavior for him to act like my mother.

“Why did you lie to him?” asked Maggie.

“Uh?” I answered, pretending that I did not know what she meant.

“Your doorman, Harvey, why did you tell him we were old friends?” she asked again. The truth was I wasn’t sure. I felt kind of guilty, like Harvey would be disappointed in me for what I was about to do. I couldn’t explain it, so I didn’t. I shrugged. The moment we entered my apartment, the telephone rang, and there are no points for guessing who it was.

“Don’t answer it,” I cried as I hurriedly undid my shirt buttons.

“Why not?” Maggie asked as she pulled one leg from her trousers and hopped on the other.

“It will be him. My Father, God, I’m sure of it,” I replied as I too hopped on one leg.

“So answer it,” said Maggie as she removed her sweater.

“No way,” I said as I removed my T-shirt and threw it onto the chair where Walter sat watching.

“Typical,” said Walter as he dodged the T-shirt and jumped from the chair onto the floor to stare up at the half-naked Maggie and the entirely naked me. “That’s just typical of you humans, that is,” said God through Walter. “Sex over everything, typical.” He sounded pissed. I should have known God would get our attention somehow.

“Is that God?” asked Maggie “It sounds like God.” She bent down to stroke Walter.

“Yes, Maggie, it is me,” said God, as Walter stood and bent his head to one side to allow Maggie to stroke his face. “Maggie,” said God, “I would be grateful if you desisted from that; it is extremely off-putting, despite how nice it feels.”

Maggie stopped stroking Walter, who returned to sit on his haunches.

“Oh, sorry,” she said and flashed an apologetic smile at both Walter and myself.

“Thank you,” said God. “Now, Maggie, indeed,” God sounded like an English headmaster, “you do realize this isn’t necessary.” Walter seemed to be staring directly at me. “You know you don’t have to sleep with him. It isn’t part of my plan, you do know that?” I closed my eyes and shook my head. “If you did, it would be a big mistake,” continued God as Walter rose and stretched. Walter stared at the half-naked Maggie. I was relieved that he had averted his gaze from me, and I quickly put my pants back on. I made a mental note to thank God for this; his timing was impeccable.

“You really don’t have to,” reiterated God, “so why don’t you get dressed? I am sure Seth will call you a cab.” I was about to reach for the phone when Maggie spoke.

“I know,” said Maggie. “I know I don’t have to, but I kind of like him.”

Yes! You tell him girl. I moved my hand away from the phone, and Walter turned his gaze once more to me.

“Are you sure?” said God, as if the mere thought that Maggie found me attractive was ludicrous. “Well, in that case, there is not really much more I can say,” said God. “You’re both adults.” Phew. That was close. For a minute, I thought God had blown it for me. “Well, do me one favor, Maggie: sleep on it. Think about this, you know he gets around.”