Jesus Christ Lord of Hosts Meets L.A. County
By Holly Day

Holly Day's poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have most recently appeared in Canadian Woman Studies, Skyway News, and Ruah. She currently works as a reporter and a writing instructor in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and lives with her two children and husband. Her hobbies include skateboarding, crocheting, and trying to peaceably communicate with uncooperative vending machines.

 

(1)

      Jesus is walking down an empty stretch of road next to a poorly maintained farm dotted with scraggly yellow grass and dried-up shrubs. The sun beats down on His back and neck, unbearably hot, and finding a shade tree to sit beneath is becoming more and more important than reaching L.A. before dark. He knows He should have started off earlier this morning, but His ridiculous nomadic compulsions don't ever seem to occur at convenient or logical times.
      There is a small stream up ahead, running parallel to the highway, barely a trickle, but obviously steady enough to support the decent-sized group of trees crowding the banks. He picks up His pace and hurries towards the oasis, praying it's real, not some wicked mirage.
      It is not a mirage. Jesus kneels down on the sandy bank and splashes cool water on His face, on His neck, sucking up whole handfuls as quickly as He can. The trees provide more than adequate shade, the grass is soft here -- His eyes begin to close against His will and He has to lie down. He sinks to the ground and rests against a pile of smooth gray boulders. Cattle have been here recently, their stink still thick in the air. Jesus notices that the boulders under His head feel soft, warm, and smell like yeast. He finds His stomach is not asleep. The flat, gray stone breaks off easily under His fingers. He puts the pieces to His lips, in His mouth, and gratefully swallow the warm pebbles, remembering to thank Him who is responsible for these impromptu miracles.
      "Hey, Mister," says a voice behind Him. He turns around, and two boys on bicycles are staring at Him. "Hey, mister," the taller of them says again, a freckled red-head. "Are ya lost?"
      "No," Jesus replies, but that isn't the end of the conversation.
      "This is my uncle's land," says the boy. "I don't recollect him invitin' nature freaks to camp out here."
      "I just need to rest a while and I'll be on my way," He answers. "I'm not looking for trouble." Jesus finishes His meal as He speaks, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. The boys stare at Him, at the gray crumbs on His face, the half-eaten boulders broken beside Him, and walk away slowly, backwards, facing Him until they are far enough away to leap on their bicycles and speed away. Jesus chuckles to himself and turns over onto His side for a nap.
      When He awakes, the boys have returned. They have brought three older men with them. Jesus sits up quickly, wary of their intentions. The men are dressed in flannel shirts and ripped-up jeans and have little or no teeth left in their mouths. One of them, a slightly-pinheaded man with a limp, hobbles up to Jesus and grins idiotically. "My name is John," he says.
      "Hello, John," Jesus answers. He holds out His hand. The farmer stares at it in puzzlement. Jesus lets the hand hang there for a moment, then drops back down to His side.
      "My name is John," the man says again, then shuffles back to join his friends. Jesus scoots back a little against the rocks, nervous. John is kicking at little clods of dirt, the stupid grin back on his face.
      "You a magician?" ventures another one of the motley crew.
      "Why, no," Jesus answers, even more nervous. "Why do you ask?"
      "You eat rocks." The man gestured to the boulders broken up around Jesus's feet.
      "These?" Jesus laughs. "I don't know what they are, but they're not rocks. Someone dropped some bad bread or something. They're just dirty loaves of bread. See?" He picks up one small rock and finds that it is heavy, solid. He tries to find another of the faux rocks and decides that He must have eaten them all. The old man smiles triumphantly at his friends.
      "You eat rocks," he states again. "You eat rocks."
 

(2)

      Jesus is sitting on a concrete bench in one of the worst areas of town. The streets are slowly emptying, the better part of rush hour over, and the bus is late. Crime lights are flickering on all down the street, one after the other, the store fronts following suit with neon signs reading "Live Girls," "ADULT Books," and wonderfully, simply, "NUDES NUDES NUDES."
      A different sort of crowd begins to fill the streets. Slim Hispanic boys in L.A. Kings jerseys meet on the corner and form packs, their slow, weaving walk sensual in a reptilian way. They stare Jesus down as they pass, but He is bigger than they, and He is not afraid.
      "Hey, handsome," says a woman's voice behind Jesus and to His left. He turns around, and a tall woman in black stiletto pumps and mini-dress is smiling at Him. "The bus doesn't come by here anymore."
      "It came by here earlier," Jesus answers.
      "That was earlier." She smiles. "I can give you a ride anywhere you want to go."
      He feigns naiveté. "I need to get down to Venice. This bus is supposed to go straight to the boardwalk."
      She shakes her head and leans forward to whisper in His ear, "That's not the kind of ride I was talking about." Before He can react, she has her whole tongue in His ear.
      "I have exactly enough change for the bus," Jesus tells her, pulling His head away quickly. She jumps back as if burnt, a sour expression on her heavily-painted face. The street lights catch the thin black shadow on her jaw line -- this is not a woman. The prostitute walks away, swishing his/her hips in exaggerated femininity. His/her walk reminds Jesus of the gangsters' walk, that same slow slither in and out of shadows.
      The bus is late. The clouds hang burnt orange in the pitch-black sky, the stars obliterated by the streetlights' killing glare. Jesus leans back against the cold stone of the bench and wishes hard for a cigarette.
      "Got a light?" cracks a new voice. Jesus looks up to see a girl sitting on the curb next to the bench. Her pupils have pinned to the point of near-invisibility, her body wasted from too many rides under the needle. Jesus reaches into the pocket of His flannel and pulls out a book of matches. He lights one for her, as her hands are shaking too bad to get a decent strike. She smiles gratefully and leans into the flame, eyes closed. She continues tilting forward even after the tip of her cigarette catches fire, almost toppling into the flame. Jesus catches her thin body with one hand and gently pushes her upright. She shakes herself and blinks as though just waking up. "Gotta stop doing that," she mutters.
      "It's okay," Jesus says, even though it's not okay, she shouldn't be in this condition in the first place. "Can I bum a cigarette off you?"
      "Sure, honey," she croaks, and hands Him a mangled pack. "Go ahead and take a couple."
      He shakes out two cigarettes and puts one in His pocket. He lights the other and fills His lungs with stale smoke. The girl must've been caught in the summer shower earlier this morning, must've been caught in the rain with these cigarettes on her.
      "I'm Mary," the junky offers, getting up from the curb and sitting on the bench next to Jesus. He scoots over slightly to make room for her.
      "I'm Jay," He answers, sucking on His cigarette. Under the streetlights, Mary looks about fifteen, but Jesus knows she has to be older than that, she's been living this life for a long time now. She brushes the scraggly hair out of her face and peers at Him with those bloodshot eyes.
      "You don't look like a Jay," she says. "You look more like a Paul or a Jacob." She suddenly laughs, and it's such an odd, free laugh, odd because it couldn't possibly have come from her. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I have a problem with saying the first things that pop into my head."
      "It's okay." Her body has shifted on the bus bench until her thigh is lightly pressed against Jesus's thigh. He can feel the warmth of her body in that one spot on His leg, that one spot comes alive from contact with another human being. "Oh," Mary says suddenly, clutching her stomach. "I feel funny."
      He holds her hair back from her face as she pukes into the gutter, and as she pukes, He strokes her sweaty forehead with His fingertips. Some of the yellow bile splashes onto Jesus's feet, and she dabs at it futily with her t-shirt. When she is done, her eyes have lost their feverish gloss, her skin has grown from sick parchment to a healthy farm girl glow. Jesus's body is tingling with static energy as another wish is granted by the other He, flesh slithers up around Mary's arms and legs to cover her bones, to fill the pocks inside her elbows and on the tops of her hands, her body inflating before His eyes.
      "I'm sorry about your shoes," she says, falling back on the bench. "I have some perfume in my purse that might cover up the smell." She opens up her purse and pulls out a spray decanter. Without asking permission, she anoints His feet with the amber fluid, spraying liberally until the insides of His shoes are damp. "It's not a good policy to get on a city bus smelling like vomit."
 

(3)

      Jesus spends a good part of the bus trip trying to see if He can tell exactly where Los Angeles ends and turns into Santa Monica, and then into Venice Beach. There are no dividing areas of country road between each city, only little blue plaques off to the side of the road saying "Welcome to (Blank)." He gets off at the Venice boardwalk, exiting through the back of the bus. The boardwalk is relatively empty save the early-morning joggers and a couple of bums clutching bottles wrapped in paper bags. A tall black man wearing a turban is sprawled out on a park bench, a pair of roller skates on his feet and a beat-up guitar case propped up next to him. His eyes pop open as Jesus walks past.
      "Good morning," says Jesus, smiling. The black man grunts, nods his head, and closes his eyes as if going back to sleep, but Jesus can tell he's still watching from behind his heavy eyelashes.
      The restaurants along the boardwalk are beginning to open for the breakfast crowds. Young girls in bathing suit tops and cut-off shorts are dragging card tables out onto the boardwalk, opening huge picnic umbrellas to shield whatever customers choose to sit outside. Two old men are already seated at one of the tables, a chess board set up between them, sipping coffee and smoking cigars. Jesus stops to watch the game, and one of the men invites Him to sit with them. "Glad for the company, son," the old man says. "You can play the winner -- which will be me, of course -- if you like."
      "Am I supposed to let you win this time?" snorts the other old man. "Is it your turn to win already?"
      "Don't listen to him," says the first old man. He leans conspiratorially towards Jesus. "You got a dollar bill on you?"
      Jesus searches His pockets and comes up with a crumpled dollar bill. The old man spreads it out on the table and takes a long puff on his cigar. "Now you see this dollar bill," he begins. Jesus nods, pulling out and lighting a cigarette for Himself. "Now, we got the number one on each corner, right? One, two, three, four corners. Now, flip over the dollar bill and what do you see?"
      "It's your move, Ray," says the other old man.
      "Hold your horses," says the first man, and moves one of his pawns. He nudges Jesus. "Do you see it?"
      "I'm not sure," Jesus answers, shrugging.
      "'E. Pluribus Unum!' Three words! Add that to the four numbers from the front and what do you get? Seven! D'ya like that one?" The old man cackles hysterically. "The System is based on groups of seven. They sneak that number into everything. Here's another one. What's the two most powerful political groups you can think of? The two that really run everything?"
      "It's your move again, Ray."
      "All right, all right." He moves another pawn. "Give up?"
      Jesus nods politely.
      "OPEC and USA. The two most powerful political organizations in the world. Seven letters! D'ya like that one?" He rocks back and forth in his chair, thoroughly pleased with himself. "I got a million of 'em!"
      Jesus shifts nervously in His chair. He looks out at the ocean and down along the boardwalk. "Does anyone know what time it is?" He asks.
      "Don't wear a watch," answers Ray. "See, if you count all the numbers on the watch face, and zero's not a number, you get fourteen, right? Fourteen divided by two is seven. Uhn-uhn-uhn -- you won't catch me that easy! Hee-Hee! D'ya like that one?"
      "It's almost eight o'clock," says the other man, holding out his wrist for Jesus to see his watch. "It's a little fast, maybe five minutes at the most."
      "I gotta go," says Jesus, standing up. "I have to meet someone."
      "You can't stop for just one game?" asks Ray, something close to desperation in his eyes. "You mean I have to play against Art twice in a row?"
      "I'm sorry," says Jesus. "I really have to go." He stubs His cigarette out in the little aluminum ashtray on the table. "It was nice talking to you. Maybe I'll stop by later." Jesus feels bad saying this, because He knows He won't be back this way. But it's not really a lie, not when the word "maybe" is there.
      He heads out toward the ocean, along the oily sand littered with used rubbers and hypodermic needles. Halfway down the beach, a large black dog with a red handkerchief tied around its neck bounds up to Jesus, carrying a white Frisbee. It drops the Frisbee at Jesus's feet and stares up at Him expectantly.
      "Hello, dog," says Jesus, reaching down and picking up the Frisbee. "You want someone to play with you, don't you?" He walks backwards away from the dog and throws the Frisbee up in the air. It flies in a wobbly crooked path and falls into the surf. The dog yelps in delight and splashes into the water after the Frisbee. Jesus follows the dog and takes the Frisbee from its mouth. He throws it again, further into the ocean. The dog takes off after it, not realizing that it's running along the top of the ocean. Jesus walks out on the water and claps His hands. The dog bounds along the tops of the rolling waves and drops the Frisbee at Jesus's feet, panting expectantly. They drift further and further out to sea, out past the end of the fishing piers and the tethered buoys.
      Suddenly, the dog stops still and howls. It stares straight into Jesus's eyes and shivers all over. Jesus runs to grab the dog, but its head is below the surface before He can reach it. Jesus reaches down into the water and fumbles around for the body, contacting slick fish and garbage before catching hold of the dog's tail and dragging it to air. The dog is in some state of shock, its eyes are closed and rolled back into its head. Jesus cradles the dog in His arms and carries it to shore. He ignores the crowd of people gathered on the beach and stretches the dog out on the sand. He puts His hands on the dog's chest, on its head, on its stomach. After a few seconds, the dog kicks its hind legs and slowly opens its eyes. It sees Jesus and whimpers. Jesus backs away from the animal, and it climbs to its feet and slinks away, disappearing into the mob of bodies.
 

(4)

      Jesus walks down Venice Boulevard, past the rows of alternative clothing and record stores, each alternative store looking exactly like the one that came before it. The sun is crawling past the noon mark, and the midday heat is nearly unbearable. Jesus takes off His flannel shirt and ties it around His waist, taking shelter beneath store awnings to keep His shoulders and back from getting too sun burnt. He has run out of cigarettes, and can't seem to shake the beginning nic-fit as easily as He'd like. "Messiah, heal thyself," He mutters under His breath.
      A group of teenagers wearing leather jackets and sporting mohawks and shaved heads comes down the sidewalk toward Him. They stumble from one side of the sidewalk to the other, talking in rambling nonsense sentences. A couple of them are holding hands as they walk, swinging their arms like children.
      "Hey, got any money?" one of them asks Jesus, a tall skinny kid with green hair.
      "Nope," Jesus answers. "Any of you got a cigarette?"
      "Hey, man," slurs another boy, a short, bald Mexican kid. "We're the L.A. Death Squad."
      "Yeah, I got a cigarette," says the first boy, pulling out a fresh pack and fumbling unsuccessfully with the wrapper. He finally hands the pack to Jesus and grins. "Could you get me one too?" he asks sheepishly.
      "Me, too," pipes in one of the girls.
      "No problem." Jesus pulls out cigarettes for everyone in the group and one for Himself. He hands the pack back to the owner. "Thanks a lot."
      The boy with green hair cocks his head and squints at Jesus. “You look kind of familiar," he says finally. "You in a band?"
      "Nah," Jesus answers. "Guess I just got that kind of face. A familiar one, that is." He walks off before He gets trapped into a real conversation. He contemplates cutting short the group's drug trip, but He suspects that might not be the safest thing to do. A man on a twelve-foot unicycle rides by down the middle of the street, weaving in and out of the lunch-hour gridlock, nearly tipping into traffic several times. He waves at Jesus as he passes and shouts, "Two-for-one pizza deal at Maxine's on the Pier!" He tilts a little too far to the left, and Jesus holds His breath until the man rights himself just in time to avoid falling under the wheels of a jacked-up Ford pickup truck. "This is one crazy place," Jesus says to Himself, shaking His head. He sucks down the last of His cigarette and puts the butt in His pocket, saving it for when He passes a trash can. "One crazy place." He squints against the white sunlight reflecting off the asphalt and wonders if He can get back to the Valley before nightfall.
 

(5)

      Jesus is standing in the soft shoulder of the Ventura Freeway, impatiently scanning the horizon for oncoming traffic. The tops of His flip-flop-clad feet are burning up from near-constant exposure to the sun, the bottoms swollen from walking all day over blacktop and concrete. He considers taking His flannel shirt off and just carrying it, but decides being a little warm is much better than being completely sunburned. "There is no such thing as gridlock," He suddenly says out loud. "There is also no such thing as a lunch rush-hour." He bites his lip and looks nervously up at the sky. "A car will be coming to pick me up shortly," He tries. "It will rain soon."
      It seems to be getting hotter. Summer insects trill happily in the waist-high yellow grass as the sun climbs higher and higher in the sky, burning away the last traces of the early-morning fog. Jesus sits down by the side of the road and wipes the sweat off His forehead with the edge of His shirt. His fingers drag along the sand beside Him, impossibly feel damp gravel beneath the cracked topsoil. He grins at something somewhere in the sky before enlarging the now-damp scratches in the ground. Water seeps into the hole, fills the hole and over the side some. It is cool, sweet, and soon Jesus is back on His feet, walking along the road once more. He reaches into His pocket for the empty pack of cigarettes and finds that, amazingly, there is still one left.
      He finds he also has exactly one match left. "I promise I'll quit tomorrow," He says as He lights the cigarette. Smoke rushes into His lungs, fills them completely from the very first drag on.
      The hills are high enough here for Jesus to see over the smog, to actually see the smog as a thin yellow strip separating the city from the sky. It's not as bad as it used to be, He reminds himself, but it could still use some work. The ocean glitters white and sapphire in the distance, appearing impossibly close. He cuts diagonal across the road in order to get a better look, and is nearly mowed down by a badly-dented, white '67 Chevy.
      The car screeches to a halt inches from Jesus. A scared-looking girl with dirty blond hair and a bad complexion is yelling something at Jesus, He can't hear what she's saying through the closed windows. He smiles, waves, and walks over to the driver's side of the car. "Hello there," He calls out pleasantly, tapping lightly on the rolled-up window with His knuckles.
      The woman rolls her window down. "What are you, fuckin' nuts? Didn't you see me coming? For chrissakes, what are you doing walking around up here? You're going to get yourself killed!" She beings to roll her window back up, then stops halfway. "Say," she says. "You're not wandering numbly away from the scene of a terrible accident or anything like that, are you? I mean, should I be concerned?"
      "Nothing like that," Jesus says, still smiling pleasantly. "I'm just trying to get a ride back to town, that's all. I walked up here, and now I don't feel like walking back down."
      The girl snorts and shakes her head. "Crazy! Sounds like something I'd do." She reaches over to the passenger's side and flips the door lock up. "Get in," she says. "I could use someone to talk to."
      Jesus climbs into the vehicle, ducking low to keep from hitting His head on the doorframe. The inside of the car is much cooler than the road outside, the air-conditioner running at a sputtering full-blast. The floor of the car is littered with debris from six or seven different fast-food restaurants. "Excuse the mess," the girl says, shrugging half-embarrassed, half daring Him to say something negative about her lifestyle. "I'm on the road a lot, don't get much chance to eat at home."
      "Hey, doesn't bother me a bit," answers Jesus, struggling with the seatbelt. "I'm just happy to be getting out of here." He suddenly realizes He has no idea where He is supposed to go.
      "Well, I'm going all the way past Malibu, so I can drop you off just about anywhere. Just tell me when to stop." She reaches across to the seat behind Jesus and produces a black pouch full of cassette tapes. She drops it on Jesus’ lap. "Here," she says. "You pick something."
      Jesus stares blankly at the pile of home-made tapes on front of Him. He tries to read a few of the labels, but can't make out the cramped scribble-handwriting no matter how hard He tries. He gives up, pulls a tape out at random, and hands it to the girl. She squints at the tape, grunts, looking as though Jesus has perhaps failed some sort of test, and pops it into the tape player.
      "You can drop me off in Malibu," Jesus says after a bit. "I really don't have a destination. I'm just kind of traveling along the coast, exploring, I guess." He glances sideways at the girl, is relieved to see her grin.
      "Crazy!" The car is going very fast now, whipping around the sharp turns going down the hill. "I'm Sheila, by the way. I'll be your captain, pilot, copilot, and stewardess for the duration of the flight." She laughs maniacally, both hands wrapped firmly around the rubberized steering wheel. Jesus grips the strap of his shoulder harness, watching the speedometer soar up to fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty.
      "I'm Jay," He manages, a little weakly. Yellow hills flash by at a frightening speed, the ground quickly rising and falling beside the car like the filled-in lines of an oscilloscope. He can feel the whole car wobble every time the wheels hit a small rock or dip into a pothole in the road.
 

(6)

      Jesus is standing in the soft shoulder of the Ventura Freeway, partly-shaded by a withered magnolia scrub. Sheila stands by her car, hands on her hips, talking wildly to no one in particular. "If you drive slow, the car overheats, dummy!" she suddenly shouts, kicking the right front tire of the car. "Ouch!" she says, collapsing on the ground, holding on to her injured foot. "You fucking asshole car! Fuck you, car!"
      Jesus has had enough. He walks over to where the girl is sitting and squats down next to her. "Hey," He says. "It's okay. You just got to let the car cool down a bit, and then we can drive some more. It's okay."
      “We need water!” Sheila snarls, whirling on Jesus. "We don't have any goddamn water to put in the car. We're not fuckin' goin' anywhere!" She brushes the loose hair back from her face and glares at Jesus angrily. "What're you lookin' at?"
      "You're getting a sunburn," says Jesus, softly, patiently. "Your face is all pink, and your eyes are a little puffy. You should get out of the road and sit in the shade. I'll push the car to the side of the road and join you in a moment." Without waiting for her to respond, Jesus gets up and walks around to the driver's side of the car. He opens the door and turns the wheel to the right. In the rear-view mirror, He sees Sheila get up and obediently walk to the magnolia tree. She sits on the ground beneath the tree and watches Jesus push the car over to the shoulder of the road and up the shallow slope of the hill a little ways. He rolls down all of the car windows and opens the rear hatch.
      "Sorry I yelled at you," Sheila says when He comes back to sit beside her. She has begun drawing a series of pictures in the dry earth with the sharp end of a stick, little whirls and stick figures and a three-dimensional box. "I just hate cars, that's all. I like to drive fast because the faster I get to my destination, the less time I have to sit in that damned car."
      "I prefer walking, myself," Jesus agrees. He picks up another stick and pokes it into the dirt. The stick stands upright by itself for a few seconds, then slumps back to the ground. He tries again in another spot with the same results.
      "What are you doing?" asks Sheila, putting her own stick down. She leans in closer to Jesus for a better look.
      "Making a better tree for us to sit under," answers Jesus, trying yet another spot. This time, the stick stays upright for nearly a full minute before imperceptible shifts in the sand cause it to fall over again.
      "You're a nut!" she exclaims, clapping her hands and laughing outright. The color on her face has faded from pink to a light tan. "Oh, that's wonderful." She leans back a bit and pulls her knees up to her chest. She reaches into her shirt pocket and takes out a pack of cigarettes. She lights two cigarettes and passes one over to Jesus.
      Jesus takes the cigarette gratefully. It seems to have grown a little cooler, but that could have something to do with His present state of inactivity. He wipes clean the pictures of stick men and flowers and scribbles with the bottom of His shoe and begins a new sketch, wavy lines and perfect circles. He takes a deep drag on His cigarette and closes His eyes for a moment. Then He opens them.
      "There was this guy I knew," Jesus says, "a long time ago. Pete. Pete Myers. Went to school with him until his parents moved to another city. We kept in touch for a little while, then I got lazy and stopped writing." He takes another long drag from His cigarette, pauses sufficiently before continuing.
      "Pete and I used to ditch school all the time together and go hang out at this little patch of overgrown farmland at the edge of town. There were almost enough trees there to call it a forest. The whole time we were supposed to be in class, we'd be playing War, and Urban Commando, and GI Joe. We had these big sticks that we'd pretend were guns, have little pieces of bark for knives and pistols. Fourteen years old, and we were still playing War."
      "It sounds like fun," says Sheila, softly. She rests her head on the tops of her knees and stares out at the hills in the distance, at the far-away ocean, listening.
      "Yeah. It was. Growing up sucks. Anyway, one day we were out there, making idiots of ourselves, when we came across this girl lying in the middle of the field. She was about our age, maybe a little older, wearing blue jeans and a ripped-up t-shirt, and she was all curled in a little ball around a real gun. We thought she was dead at first, but she sat up real quick when we poked her and pointed the gun at us and said something like, 'Don't move, I'll shoot,' or something like that." Jesus shakes His head and absent-mindedly sketches out a stick figure with a top hat in the dirt.
      "Turned out she had gone out there to kill herself. Something about her parents getting divorced and fighting over who would get custody of her, and some guy or another dumping her the day before, and her dog or cat getting run over by a car -- it was pretty much The End, in her mind, like things couldn’t and shouldn’t get any worse. Oh, and she was flunking some class or another as well. She had come out to the middle of our field to shoot herself, got scared, then decided to just lie there and will herself to die. She'd already been there a full night and part of a day when we showed up."
      Jesus pauses and leans back against the stunted tree, watching Sheila out of the corner of His eye. Her eyes are still fixed on the ocean in the distance, the cigarette dangling between her fingers, obviously forgotten, a good inch-and-a-half of ash clinging to the end. Jesus draws a picture of an A-frame house next to the figure with the top hat, followed by a crude picture of a dog with big teeth. It is getting darker, the air growing even cooler. Crickets chirp in the long yellow grasses behind them. He is beginning to think He should have told the fishing story instead when Sheila suddenly leaps to her feet.
      "And what?" she shouts. "Then what? This isn't a story, dammit! What the hell happened to her? Did she kill herself? Did you all end up having sex together? What! What's the fucking point!""
      "There's no point, Sheila," Jesus answers, quietly. "I guess I just felt like talking about someone I used to know, and someone I didn't really know at all. I'm pretty sure the girl didn't kill herself. People don't usually want to kill themselves. I think a lot of people kill themselves because they think they're supposed to. All they need is someone to come along and tell them they don't have to."
      Sheila comes back over to sit beside Jesus. After a few minutes, she leans her head against Jesus’ shoulder and whispers, "How did you know?"
      “That’s easy,” he answers, just as quiet. But he finishes the “I’m Jesus” so softly not even she can hear him.
 

(7)

      Jesus wakes up to early-morning sunlight pouring in through the cracked windshield of the '67 Chevy. The girl in the driver's seat moans, fighting hard against consciousness. Jesus reaches over and brushes the thin blond wisps of hair from her face with His fingertips.
      "Jay?" Sheila is slowly beginning to wake up. She creaks her eyelids open and stares at Jesus through gummy lashes. "You're still here," she says, smiling, suddenly becoming fully awake. "Wow."
      "Of course I'm still here," Jesus says. "We got water in the car now."
      "Oh, good." Sheila turns the key in the ignition and the car roars to life. "Someone stop by while I was asleep?"
      "Yeah. A truck driver pulled over late last night. He offered to give us a tow, but I told him we just needed water." Jesus doesn't feel like discussing faith and miracles this early in the morning.
      Sheila nods sleepily and turns the key in the ignition. The engine starts right up, without sputtering or rattling, as it always will from this day forward. "Nice car," Sheila murmurs, patting the dashboard, and pulls out onto the road. The dying tree that provided them with shelter the day before has grown taller overnight, dark green leaves and fleshy white magnolia blossoms unfurling like tiny flags in the muted light behind them.
      "Did you sleep all right? Sheila asks Jesus, passing Him a lit cigarette. Jesus thinks about refusing, remembering His promise to the other He, then decides to be polite and takes the cigarette. She continues without waiting for Him to respond. "I've fallen asleep here more times than I care to count," she says. "There aren't any springs in the seats." She punches the side of Jesus’ seat lightly. "It's all foam rubber. My idea," she adds, beaming proudly.
      "Very nice." Jesus shifts position, somewhat anxious. He is supposed to be some place else right now, and the car is not going in the right direction. At least it doesn't feel like it is.
      Sheila notices His discomfort. "Hey," she says, softly. "I appreciate you listening to me last night. I'm not in the habit of picking up hitchhikers in the first place, and I'm especially not in the habit of telling complete strangers my life story. I think I really needed someone to listen to me last night, and I'm glad I ran into you." They are at the bottom of the hill now, almost to the beach. "Can I buy you breakfast or something? I'm starving, so we've got to stop for food anyway."
      "Sure." Jesus isn't really hungry, but Sheila seems so eager to feed Him He relents. The California coast stretches out before the car, the Malibu peninsula far away and barely visible through the thick early-morning fog. A few surfers dot the clear green waves, bobbing like ducks just above the waterline. Jesus rolls down His window and breathes in the cool moist air. He can smells the rotting seaweed on the beach, the sweet sea salt, the faint trace of cities in the distance. He almost asks Sheila to stop the car right there, let Him out so He can walk the rest of the way, but He doesn't.
      "Oh, look!" exclaims Sheila, pointing to a little wooden stand just around the next corner. She pulls the car over to the side of the road and screeches to a dusty halt. "I wonder if it's even open yet. Have you ever eaten here before?" Jesus shakes His head. The smell of lard and potatoes frying reaches Jesus through the thick fog, hung there in front of Him as if trapped. He is suddenly very hungry after all. "Come on!" Sheila calls, climbing out of the car, gesturing for Him to follow her. "This place is great!"
      The stand is located as close to the edge of a cliff as safely possible, ruling out possible mud slides and floods. Waves crash loudly against the bottom of the cliff, hollowing the rock face a little bit each time they attack. There is already a small cave dug into the rock, barely visible from where Jesus is standing. A bleary-eyed fry cook greets the pair from inside the stand. "Man, are you two up early!" the fry cook says, grinning. "I just turned the stove on a couple minutes ago!"
      "What do you feel like having?" Sheila asks, pulling her wallet out of her pocket and quickly rifling through the faded bills inside it. "Get anything you want."
      Jesus scans the menu, mouth watering. At this point, everything looks good. He settles on a large rare hamburger with onions and green peppers ("At this time in the morning, man? You're crazy!) followed by a strawberry milkshake. To assuage His guilt at spending most of Sheila's money, He quickly heals a cluster of deep acne scars on the right side of her face. The miracles are coming easier, He notes, somewhat surprised. Sheila orders herself some sort of standard breakfast sandwich and an orange juice, oblivious to Jesus’ ministrations.
      They sit at a wooden picnic table overlooking the ocean. Directly below them, the waves strike the cliff face with such force that jets of sea spray splatter the couple lightly. Off in the distance, the last dolphins of the morning go through their acrobatic routines one more time before heading off to hide in deeper waters.
      Jesus is halfway through His burger before He hears the child crying. Sheila notices it first.
      "Hey!" she says, putting her drink down and walking over to the edge of the cliff. "Did you hear that?"
      Jesus gets up as well and stands beside Her, peering down into the ocean. The sound is louder now, impossibly rising above the sound of water smashing into rock. No words, just one almost continuous wail of terror, the voice warbling now and then as though the screamer was swallowing massive amounts of water.
      An arm, a small black head, a bright blue windbreaker. Jesus sees the boy, stares uncomprehendingly for several seconds before realizing He's looking at a child. "Oh my God," moans Sheila, clutching at Jesus’ arm. "We've got to do something!"
      "Get the guy at the stand. Tell him to call someone, the police, anyone. Hurry!" Jesus shakes Sheila, a little too roughly; she blinks, pulls away from Him, and stumbles towards the little shack. Jesus watches her retreat for a moment before turning back to the struggling child.
      You can save him, says a little voice in Jesus’ head. You could just climb down there and pull the kid out and carry him back up the cliff with you. Hey, You're the Messiah, right? Hell, if you wanted to, you could fly down there and save him, just like Superman. You’re just as good as Superman, ain’t you? Ain’t You? Jesus shakes His head until His ears buzz. "There's got to be a better way," He says out loud. "There has to be." He lies down flat on the rock and inches as far as He can over the edge of the cliff, face down, trying to get a better look at the situation.
      The child has both arms wrapped around a rock now, clinging desperately for his life. Jesus tries to get a look at the boy's face, tries to catch the child's attention, but there is too much confusion below. You can save him, the voice says again. He looks around, sees Sheila waving her arms excitedly at the bleary fry cook, looks back at the churning waves just beneath Him, at the small white hands fighting to keep a hold on the smooth wet rock. The morning rush hour has just begun, the winding road behind Him gradually filling with compact cars speeding towards both pleasant and unpleasant destinations. No. He has been here before.
      "I'm sorry," he whispers to the struggling child, then repeats himself, shouting this time, "I'm sorry! Please," and His voice trails off. The child seems to hear Him, turns to face Jesus full-on, and it's not the face of a child down there, not even the face of a human being, it's something so bright and powerful and beautiful that Jesus is momentarily blinded. When His eyesight returns, the child is gone. Sheila is staring down at Him, obviously concerned. "Hey, man," she says, finishing off the last of Jesus’ strawberry milkshake. "Are you all right? Are you, like, an epileptic or something? My dad's one," she adds quickly, embarrassed. "An epileptic." She puts the empty cup back on the picnic table and sits down on the bench. "You were gone, Jay. I don't know, should we call an ambulance or something? Are you going to be okay?"
      "Yeah, I'm fine." Jesus climbs slowly to His feet and brushes the sand off His clothes. "Let's just go. I'm all right."
 

(8)

      Jesus gets off at the bottom of the long, winding driveway that leads up to the J. Paul Getty Museum. "Are you sure this is all right?" asks Sheila, leaning across the passenger seat and sticking her head out the window.
      "Yeah, this is great," answers Jesus. "I'm just going to walk around here for a while, maybe camp out in the forest or on the beach tonight."
      "Well, if you say so." Sheila rights herself on the driver's side. "It was nice meeting you, Jay. Maybe I'll see you again sometime."
      "More than likely." Jesus backs up a bit from the car. "You take care of yourself, okay?"
      "Yeah, you too." Sheila looks as though she's about to say something else, then shakes her head and starts the car. Again, the engine starts up perfectly. The car pulls out onto the road, turning much more sharply than necessary, and is gone.
      Jesus begins the long walk up the side of the hill. The cool ocean breeze keeps the concrete from becoming unbearably hot -- still, Jesus walks as quickly as possible to get inside the air-conditioned museum. Scarlet tanagers and azure parakeets chatter noisily in the trees planted beside the winding driveway, flowers of every real or imagined hue bloom in the underbrush and poke out through the cracks in the concrete.
      Apparently, the museum has just opened for business, as there are only two or three vehicles stationed in the carpark. A very sleepy young man in a museum uniform stands by the front door. He looks at Jesus through bleary eyes and touches the brim of his cap. "Good morning, sir," the man says. "Do you have a reservation with us?"
      "No," Jesus answers, confused. "I was just passing through, thought I'd stop in for a couple of hours."
      "Where'd you park?" The man begins to look a little more awake. He peers down the drive as if he would recognize Jesus’ car by sight.
      "No car," says Jesus. "A friend dropped me off at the turnoff and I walked the rest of the way."
      "Oh, that's no problem, then." The man hands Jesus a ticket and steps aside for Him to pass. "We don't have much parking space in the garage, so we like people to make arrangements beforehand if they drive up. You have a nice day now, Sir."
      Jesus steps past the man and into the cool interior of the museum. Nike's badly-eroded frame greets Him from the front room, only the lower half of her body left intact, the tips of her wings barely recognizable as such. Other old gods and goddesses are half-visible from adjoining rooms, owl-eyed Ishtar, a wind-worn frieze of Nut, an unnamed Trinity from Mycenae. Jesus shivers -- these are not the reminders of the past He wants to see right now.
      He walks down the hall and through the statue-lined atrium, heading toward the section of post-Renaissance and modern art, His feet guided by something or some One other than Himself. Half-remembered centuries flood by Him as he walks, dredged corpses of bronze horsemen from days past in Rome, busts of Greeks portrayed now as prominent statesmen but barely known in their own time. Here are ornate panels pulled from the wreckage of bombed-out Catholic churches and temples of Diana and Apollo, fragments of stained glass rescued from the Nazi invasions of England and France.
      He remembers all of these artists, tortured and sane, Van Gogh's temper tantrums, Rembrant's extravagances, Bosworth's dangerous genius. The Piet Mondrian's are upside-down, as usual, a problem Jesus corrects immediately without setting off any alarms or rousing museum personnel. Renaissance-era children beckon to Jesus from oversized pastoral scenes painted predominantly in blues and greens, fair-skinned boys and girls in settings that speak of a universal Home.
      It is quiet here, the illusion of isolation from the outside world complete. There is no need here. For the first time in a solid week, Jesus is standing in a room where no one needs Him. There are benches lining the cream-colored walls of the museum, benches put there in anticipation of weary patrons, mock Egyptian daises and Victorian-era divans. Jesus picks out an especially-comfortable one, a long couch covered pastel needlepoint flowers and grape vines, and lies down, facing the row of paintings on the far wall. From here, the paintings become blurred swirls of bright colors, half-recognized images of faces and buildings and geometric shapes. He stares at the paintings until His eyes begin to close of their own volition, closes His eyes to sleep, to wait, to stay in this one spot, marble-still and quiet, until the inevitable custodian comes by at closing to nudge Him back out into the real world, once more.

© 2005 Holly Day

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