Jesus sits beside me at the bar. It’s not really a bar, it’s a “social club,” so smoking rules don’t apply. I pop a Newport between my lips, and look over at him before lighting it. He’s already smoking. What?
“Jesus, you smoke? Isn’t that like a sin?” I ask him.
He rolls his eyes, and takes a deep puff, and exhales. It smells good.
“It’s a clove cigarette,” he says, matter-of-factly.
I don’t know how that’s much different but he’s Jesus so who am I to judge? I pull out my handy cool-guy zippo, flip the top, and light my cig. The bartender comes over.
“What’ll it be guys?” he deals coasters to us like playing cards.
Jesus antes up, orders a scotch on the rocks. I stare at him in disbelief.
“What?” he says, disgust on his face.
“Well, I was thinking. Shouldn’t we just, you know, order water? Turn it into, you know.”
He takes a sip of his drink, looks behind the bar then back at me shaking his head disapprovingly. I feel like I’ve disappointed my father, only worse, Our Father.
“Order your drink, will you?” he says, and turns to the bartender, “can you make mine a double? My friend here’s gonna pay.”
And he’s right. I am.
“Hit me with a Long Island Iced Tea,” I say and Jesus looks amused.
“What?” I say.
He laughs, “You thought I was going to turn your water to wine, and then you order a Long Island Iced Tea?
I see his point.
“Yeah, well it has lots of different liquors in it.”
“What’s your favorite type of wine, Kevin?”
“I don’t know, red? Why you judging me?”
Jesus just looks at me.
“Ohhhhhhhh,” I say. I mean he is my Lord and savior, right?
The Long Island Iced Tea comes and I feel slightly ashamed. I drink fast.
“So, you’re finally here,” I say. “Not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?” he says, a serious look on his face. Makes me nervous.
“Well, you know,” I take a huge swig and let the five liquors coat my gullet. “The robe, the beard, the hair.”
Jesus is not wearing a robe. He wears black jeans and a white t-shirt like he’s The Fonz without the leather jacket. He’s cool. He’s got short cropped black hair, no beard, and a tan complexion.
“You were expecting whitewashed Jesus huh?” he says.
“Another?” the bartender appears in the nick of time.
“Yes, please,” I say.
Jesus waits for my answer but then goes on, “What did your grandma tell you?”
He definitely makes an impression. My grandmother was a shaman, she said at some time after I turn 25, Jesus will come for me. And here he is. An apparition.
“Are you in disguise?” I blurt out.
“Why would I be in disguise?”
I drink Long Island Iced Tea through a straw, my buzz is getting stronger. My chain wallet clinks on the bar stool as I shuffle in my seat.
“I don’t know. So, what happens now? I thought my grandma was crazy.”
“She was,” Jesus says, holds up a finger to the bartender without even looking at him, and another double scotch is dealt faster than a losing hand in an overpriced game of Black Jack. “But here I am, on the last day of your life.” He smiles.
This isn’t good. The last day of my life? This guy must be crazy. He can’t be Jesus, look at him. No way. I raise my hand to the bartender to order another drink, and Jesus laughs at me.
“What?” I say.
“Is this how you want to spend your last day on earth? Drunk in a social club drinking Long Island Iced Teas through a straw?”
I order my drink.
“How do I know you’re really Jesus?”
“You just do, you feel it in your gut.”
He’s right, but the room has a slight spin to it from all these liquors. I see a few other apparitions in the room, it’s not unusual. One guy at the end of the bar has Elvis. Maybe it’s an impersonator. Is Elvis really dead? I still have my doubts. Maybe this guy’s a Jesus impersonator.
“How do I know you’re not an impersonator?”
“That’s easy. First, have you ever met a Jesus impersonator? Some guy marrying couples in a Las Vegas chapel looking like the deluded Western vision of Jesus?”
“No, but…”
Jesus cuts me off. “If I was an impersonator wouldn’t I wear a beard, and robes, and have those long brown locks? Those stupid sandals?”
Jesus wears Converse, shit. Holy shit I mean.
“Jesus, you’re right. Sorry. Should I call you Jesus? Mr. Christ? Why am I dying?”
“Why not? The world’s a weird place.”
“Well, I guess it’s a relief you’re here. Means I’m going to heaven, right?”
Jesus raises his eyebrows, finishes his drink and says it’s time to go.
“Wait. Like go go, or leave here?”
He sighs.
“Can I just get one more?” I ask him.
“Sure, but you’re getting sloppy and I’ve got work to do.”
“What kind of work?”
“Work,” he says.
“Carpentry?” I ask, amused, my five-liquor buzz doing its job.
“Oh, and Elvis is dead. Don’t be stupid,” he says.
He read my mind. He really is Jesus. I don’t like this.
“Do you have any quarters?” I ask him, “I want to play a last song on the jukebox before we go.”
“What is this, 1996?” he says. “Use a credit card.”
He’s right, these machines don’t take quarters anymore. I down my drink and think, I’m gonna make for the door, the jukebox stands only inches away from it.
I get up and strut to the jukebox. I look back and Jesus is facing the bar, sipping his scotch. I slam into the door, pushing with my entire body to get out as fast as I can. The door doesn’t budge, it’s like a brick wall and I land on my ass, the hard floor coming at me fast.
I look at Jesus, he laughs, his head shaking.
“Are you stupid?” he mouths across the room. He really is all-knowing.
Okay, I think, maybe I don’t need another drink. I stand in front of the jukebox, woozy, tap my credit card, and decide on my last song. Jesus startles me, he’s standing against me, looking over my shoulder.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says, as I was getting ready to hit play on “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”
“How about The Carpenters,” I laugh, but Jesus ignores me, takes my credit card, and walks back to the bar. Weirdo.
I turn back to the jukebox and the screen goes blank. “Out of Order” blinks its goodbye. Jesus appears again, makes me jump out of my skin.
“Here, drink this,” he says, presumably a glass of water. I listen, he’s Jesus. I sober up real fast.
“What was that?” I ask him. “Holy water?”
“Yeah, holy water. What’s wrong with you?”
He reaches for the doorknob and pulls the door open. No wonder it didn’t budge for me. And into the outside we go.
“What about my bill?” I ask.
“I paid with your card,” he says.
It’s a miracle it wasn’t declined, this guy really is Jesus.
Outside we’re drenched in sunlight and I realize I’m not sober at all. The sun sears my eyes, my stomach a gurgling mess. I trip over nothing, try to grab on to Jesus but he’s not there for me. He’s an apparition, I fall through him and hit the sidewalk.
“I’m gonna be sick, what was that you gave me?”
“Water,” he says. “Just plain water. Now let it out.”
The Long Island Iced Tea tastes just as bad coming up as it did going down, and once the bile flows from my mouth I know I’m good.
I get up, light a Newport, and get back to being me. Jesus waits, impatiently.
“Want to get something to eat?” he asks me.
“The last supper,” I exclaim, my sense of humor still intact.
I suggest we hit up pizza shop on the corner and order a couple pepperoni slices.
Jesus takes a bite and I begin to think.
“Isn’t eating meat on Friday a sin, Jeez?” (yeah, I feel like I can call him Jeez now).
He swallows his bite, and answers, “I’ve been killed for less.”
Wow, Jesus doesn’t fuck around. Who knew?
“This pizza is sinful though, sacrilege,” he says, finishing off the end of his slice, disgusted with the greasy slop he just consumed. But even bad pizza is still pizza, I get it.
“I know,” I tell him, “I guess I just needed something fast. What now? Is this it?”
“It is,” he says, in his Jesus style. “For me anyway. I gotta go.”
“What do you mean? What now? You said this is my last day on earth.”
“I did say that.”
“But, I’m still here.”
“I say a lot of things.”
“So, what did you mean?”
“The day’s not over,” he says.
Then up he floats, heading back to the other side. Just like that.
“He has risen,” I say out loud, standing on the sidewalk lighting up a Newport, amused with myself.
Maybe I’ll go back to the bar. I check my wallet and my credit card is missing. Was I just robbed by Jesus? I go back into the pizza joint. It’s not there. I retrace my steps (not quite as drunkenly) back towards the bar and catch sight of it on the sidewalk just outside the entrance. Thank God, I say to myself. Or is it thank Jesus? I don’t know.
I bend down to pick up the card and the sun hits it just right and I swear it’s like when people see the image of Christ in a painting or a piece of toast. It’s him, his face glaring at me from the card. Is this the second coming? My Newports fall from my pocket and I leave them on the ground. A sign? I let the cig in my mouth fall and stomp it out.
Will I live to see another day?
I decide to head home.
On my walk a man afflicted with homelessness asks to bum a cigarette. I check my pockets and remember I dropped them.
“Sorry man, I don’t smoke,” I say and shrug my shoulders.
He gives me a quizzical look and punches me square in the mouth. I can hear Jesus laughing.