The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy (10 page)

“I’m not most people,” I answered.

“Please?” pleaded God.

This was ridiculous. Not only did he want me to take the job, but he also wanted me to take the job at probably the worst possible time: at the beginning of the end of the world. I hadn’t read the Bible all the way through, and I was no expert, but I had seen the movies. Brimstone, fire, volcanoes, pestilence, plague, disease, famine, great special effects, maybe, but what a time to appear.

“Listen,” said God, his tone hardening, “it’s not negotiable anyway. You are doing it, and that’s final. There is no one else; if you don’t do it, then I am afraid that you are going to let a whole lot of people down. Millions are relying on you. If you do not step up to the plate, then the forces of darkness will win the day, and that will really put a bad spin on the whole Universe. The consequences would be, well, unimaginable. I do not think you fully realize the implications of you doing nothing. I don’t remember it being as difficult as this last time.” Walter paced the living room, his tail flicking from side to side, as it did when he was annoyed.

“Oh, do come along and say you’ll at least give it a try. A volunteer is worth a thousand pressed men,” pleaded God again.

“No,” I said.

“You will do it,” said God. The anger had once again returned to his voice, and I felt slightly intimated.

“I won’t do it,” I said. There was shakiness in my voice, and I knew he would pick up on it.

“You will!” shouted God. The outburst startled me, but I remained steadfast.

“I won’t,” I said calmly. I could not believe I was even having this conversation. Walter sat on the coffee table, his face inches from mine. I could smell the tuna on Walter’s breath.

“Oh yes, son, oh yes, you will do it. This isn’t the last you’ve heard of this,” and then Walter meowed.

CHAPTER

I KNEW THAT GOD HAD
left the moment Walter meowed. That meow signified that the conversation was over, and God had left the building. Walter resumed his sleeping; he curled up in a ball in his favorite position on the sofa. I eyed him for a few moments, half expecting him to raise his head and for the discussion with God to start again. Once I was satisfied that this was not going to happen, I decided the one thing I needed was a drink. I poured myself a neat scotch and drank it quickly. While not unusual for me to take a drink alone at home, it was unusual for me to drink before noon. I felt the burn in my throat as the whiskey descended my throat. I sighed and took a deep breath. I needed that.

I made a mental note to call my parents. I supposed I owed them an apology. It seemed they were not as mad as I had first thought, however, their failure to inform me of the full facts surrounding my birth until yesterday remained contentious. I held off calling them immediately. The encounter with God that morning had actually taken it out of me. I had a lot to ponder and a few more questions for God. I was not happy that our conversation had ended so abruptly. I was usually not so confrontational, but he had rubbed me the wrong way. I felt his attitude, while maybe acceptable wherever he came from, was not going to work with me. Maybe I had gone too far, and maybe I hadn’t shown the respect due to the creator of the Universe, but the fact that he felt he could waltz into my life and proclaim me his Messiah galled me slightly. He certainly had some nerve.

I wrote a list of questions in preparation for our next encounter. I felt if I had a direct line to the Almighty, I needed some important questions answered. Despite our conversation that morning ending abruptly, I was sure he would be back in touch once we had both calmed down. I supposed I might have hurt his feelings by turning down his job offer, but I could not see myself as the second coming. There were reasons, many reasons, as to why I was not a suitable candidate to be the Messiah. I imagined the looks of sheer horror on the faces of Christians the world over once they realized their savior was a podgy, Jewish architect from Greenwich Village. In any case, who would ever believe it? I was sure that history was full of pretenders, who claimed to be the second coming of Jesus Christ, and everyone laughed at them and they were incarcerated, or worse. I was sure I would be the least believable of them all despite the fact I actually was the Messiah.

I was intrigued, though, as to what Armageddon entailed. Did it actually mean the end of the world? Had God passed me crucial information as to the destiny of mankind? I wasn’t sure what my next move should be. Should I call the Pentagon and warn them that the end of the world was nigh?

I took another mouthful of scotch and closed my eyes. I needed to share my burden. I also needed the views of a third party. In a situation like this, a man turns to one person for advice, the one person who could shed light and reason on all of life’s tribulations, the one person a man can truly rely on—his drinking buddy; mine being Bob Nancy.

I had known Bob Nancy for five years, and I considered him to be my best friend. While, on the surface, it seemed we didn’t have a lot in common, but if one scratched away a little, you would find we shared a lot of common interests and had similar thought processes. Our main common interest was baseball and the Yankees. We were both season ticket holders and avid fans. Like me, Bob had been a fan since childhood, and as we were the same age and both originally from Brooklyn, I guessed our paths probably crossed on many occasions as children without either of us ever realizing.

We attended games together during the season, and when the Yankees were on the road, we would sit in bars together watching our team and partaking of our second common interest: drinking copious amounts of beer. In the history of my life, I have not had many friends, wholly due to my mother’s interference during my college and high school years. However, I made up for my lack of fun growing up by drinking more beer than any college kid ever has with my good friend Bob Nancy. Our drunken nights were the highlight of his life and one of the highlights of mine. We would talk baseball, eat chicken wings, watch girls, and talk crap. Bob and I were soul mates when it came to sport, drinking beer and talking shit.

Bob was a teacher of elementary kids at a school in Harlem, the name of which eludes me. Harlem was also where he lived with his wife, Nancy. Yes, you read that correctly, his wife Nancy—Nancy Nancy. Bob and I first met at a party hosted by a friend of Nancy’s whom I was dating casually; we were both wearing Yankee pins, both against the wishes of our respective partners, and were both completely and utterly bored with the party. While my relationship with Nancy’s friend eventually fizzled out, Bob’s and my relationship blossomed, much to the annoyance of his wife.

Nancy didn’t care for me much, and I guessed there were numerous reasons why she didn’t. No doubt her friend whom I had dated and then dumped had blackened my name. I am sure tales were told of the way I had callously ended the relationship. Though Nancy had never confronted me, I got the feeling from her stares and the hostility I sensed from her that she thought I was “flaky.” Maybe the hostility was also due to the fact that I was single, and I spent a lot of time with her husband. It was always my fault when Bob returned drunk or late from a game or bar. I was her nemesis, and Bob assured me that in any argument between the two of them, they would mention my name at least five times. I therefore only called Bob when I knew Nancy wouldn’t be around. I had only visited Bob’s home once, and my apartment had become a haven for him whenever he needed time away from Nancy.

Bob was, by all accounts, a good teacher, and if I had had kids, I would have been happy for a guy like Bob Nancy to be teaching them. I liked Bob because he listened, and he was objective. I liked Bob because he liked me and because Bob was the least judgmental person I had ever met.

Bob and Nancy had no children. Nancy was a cop, one of New York’s finest. Being a cop meant that Nancy spent most of her time either sleeping or out of the house, which was good for Bob’s and my relationship, as she hardly ever veered from her monthly scheduled roster, of which I had a copy, provided by Bob, so I knew when the coast was clear to call.

The Nancys were not a religious couple. I wasn’t even sure what religion they were. Bob and I had never discussed religion, as it was something neither of us considered important in our lives. I knew they were married in a church, though; I had seen the photographs. Bob had shown them to me once when Nancy was working her shift. I think he was trying to show me that Nancy had once been an attractive woman, which I was sure she had been, maybe one hundred pounds ago.

The Nancy’s were an odd-looking couple. Though she had a pleasant face, she was massive. When I say massive, I mean obese. When I say obese, I mean morbidly obese. She is a big woman, and I am sure the mere sight of her strikes fear into the hearts of the city’s criminal fraternity. I am sure New York City is a safer place thanks to Officer Nancy Nancy and her equal dedication to both duty and donuts. In stark contrast, Bob was as skinny as a beanpole. I mean, really thin. Despite our joint consumption of calorie-laden beer and fast food, Bob never put on weight. He was tall too, six feet three, and he had the face of a weasel, but even though he did look like a cunning mammal, he was the nicest guy you could ever wish to meet.

One thing was for sure, though; Bob Nancy was my best friend, and right now, I needed a best friend. I checked Nancy’s duty roster, which I had placed on my refrigerator, secured by a Yankee’s fridge magnet and was satisfied to see the coast was clear for me to call. As it was summer break, I knew Bob would be home, so I hit the quick dial button that housed his number and took a deep breath.

“Hi, Bob,” I said when the phone was answered, secure in the knowledge that only Bob would answer.

“Mr. Miller, how nice of you to call,” replied Bob jovially. He had programmed my number as Mr. Miller rather than Seth into his phone. Nancy did not know my surname, and it was a devious plan of Bob’s should she ever catch him talking to me. She inevitably always wanted to know who he was conversing with, and he would point to the display. She presumed Mr. Miller was just another school teacher. A cop she was, but a detective she wasn’t.

“She’s not there, is she?” I asked, double-checking in case he had brought the Mr. Miller ruse into play because Nancy was home.

“No, just kidding around, she’s working, as per her schedule; no change there. In fact, she could be working more; there’s some crazy stuff going on. Some guy’s chained himself to the railings of some downtown church. He’s been there all day, apparently. I’ve been watching it on the local news. It’s causing chaos with the traffic,” said my friend.

I could hear the TV in the background; I imagined Bob stood watching the TV while he talked with me with the remote control in one hand, the phone nestled under his chin, and probably a sandwich in his other hand. Bob had a lot of free time in the summer, and while I envied his hours and holidays, I didn’t envy his paycheck.

“Never mind that,” I said, relieved that Nancy was not there. “I’ve got something to tell you. And it’s kind of crazy.”

“Go ahead, I’m listening,” said Bob. I told Bob to sit down and listen with an open mind. I felt I needed to prepare him fully for what I was about to tell him. If my fate was sealed and there was no getting out of this thing, then I had to start somewhere. Sooner or later the world would have to know who I was, so I started with Bob.

I threw caution to the wind and told Bob everything. I explained it all from the start. From Mother’s phone call to the talk with Walter, the English accent, the other planets in the Universe, the apocalypse, Dad’s affair with Marla, the whole thing, committees, clerical errors, computer programs, and post-it notes. I made sure I left out no detail. I relayed to him every event that had occurred in my life in the last twenty-four hours. Just talking about it helped. I felt a wave of relief pass over me. It was a cleansing feeling; it was as if by telling all to Bob, I had somehow shifted some of my burden on to him. When I had completed my story, I waited for Bob’s response.

“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.