Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgement
Chapter: 1
Chapter: 2
Chapter: 3
Chapter: 4
Chapter: 5
Chapter: 6
Chapter: 7
Chapter: 8
Chapter: 9
Chapter: 10
Chapter: 11
Chapter: 12
Chapter: 13
Chapter: 14
Chapter: 15
Chapter: 16
Chapter: 17
Chapter: 18
Chapter: 19
Chapter: 20
Chapter: 21
Chapter: 22
Chapter: 23
Chapter: 24
Chapter: 25
Chapter: 26
Chapter: 27
Chapter: 28
Chapter: 29
Chapter: 30
Chapter: 31
Chapter: 32
Chapter: 33
Chapter: 34
Chapter: 35
The Author
© 2014 Duncan Whitehead
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
As always, for Keira
I would like to acknowledge the following for their assistance, help, inspiration, and patience during the writing of The Reluctant Jesus: Robert Peel, Gissell and Ashley Pozna, Keira Whitehead, and LJ Anderson
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CHAPTER
1
I FEEL IT IS IMPORTANT , just to make sure that there are no misunderstandings, especially at this initial stage of our acquaintanceship that I point out that I was, and still am, an ordinary guy. I blend into a crowd; I am one of life’s extras, never destined to be a major protagonist in any scene, drama, or act. You see people like me every day, but you do not notice. I was just, well, to put it bluntly, there. If I ever committed a crime, which, to the best of my knowledge, I never have, and a witness was requested to describe me, I am sure the word boring would be used, probably more than once.
I do not ever recall doing anything that could be described as remarkable. I kept to myself, and not only did I like it that way, but I am sure that others also did. I went about and minded my own business; I went through the motions of a boring and uncomplicated life: I came, and I went, I worked as hard as the next man, but I did not over assert myself. I got along just fine. My ambitions were healthy and realistic, and I knew my limitations. To my recollection, I had never performed any act of bravery, kindness, or selflessness that would stand me out from any other rational human being, nor, by the same notion, had I ever performed any act of cowardice, unkindness, or selfishness. I was not overly generous, but I was by no stretch of the imagination mean. I always tipped the required fifteen percent in restaurants and bars and on occasion had been known to go as high as twenty, for the exceptional waiter, server, or bartender. I had in the past donated to charity, and I am sure clothing I once wore is now clad upon a deserving recipient delegated by the Salvation Army; however I have not given to beggars on the sidewalk, nor do I tip for fast food.
According to friends I was a stereotypical confirmed bachelor with no emotional responsibilities or ties. I did not have any other human being reliant on my income, my goodwill, my moods, the contents of my fridge, my apartment, or my television remote control. I was able to come and go as I pleased. No one questioned me, and in turn, I did not question others. I lived and let lived and considered myself a free spirit. I had no sexual hang-ups, and the stack of Playboy and Hustler magazines under my bed, not actually hidden, were a clear indication that I insisted that my partners always be of the female variety.
I worked for money, and that money provided me with an apartment in New York City and all the trappings of a bachelor life that revolved around my love of sports—primarily baseball and the New York Yankees—TV, drinking beer, and enjoying myself. I shared my one-bedroom, but extremely desirable and comfortable apartment in Greenwich Village, Manhattan, with a house-trained and totally undemanding ginger tomcat named Walter, who used the litter box provided, shed minimal hair, and was an exceptionally good companion as he never said a word. Walter, who let me come and go when I pleased, was, I am told, probably the most low-maintenance feline known to man.
My name is Seth Miller, and though my surname does not suggest it, I am Jewish by birth though I cannot recall the last time I attended temple. When it came to religion, I could take it or leave it, so I left it. I enjoyed my rather unremarkable but happy and contented life. I did not consider that life was passing me by, but that I was merely pacing myself, and if I equated my life as if it was a marathon, then I was comfortable in the pack, with my eye on the pacemaker, but do not fear, if you are betting on me, for I am not letting the pacemaker out of my sight, and when the time comes I will change gear and break away from the pack, but only when I am good and ready.
The New York City summer of 1999 was not an unusually hot one. However, that particular Wednesday seemed more torrid than usual. The Manhattan Streets were flooded with secretaries and (female) office workers in short skirts and skimpy tops which contained less cotton than a Tylenol bottle. Delivery men and couriers were wearing shorts and T-shirts; the street vendors were selling ice-cold cans of Coke and Pepsi by the dozen. All welcomed the fresh breezes that emitted from shop doorways, office blocks, and apartment complexes as air conditioning met nature. It was indeed a hot day—the day Mother called and changed my life forever.
I had a breakfast meeting with Henry Peel, my boss and senior partner of the well-respected construction firm that I worked for in my capacity as senior architect in residence. My field of expertise was office blocks, those towering skyscrapers you see that complete the panoramic view of every major city in the world. I designed them, drew up the proposed plans, and located and researched potential sites. It was a responsible and highly-paid career that I enjoyed, mainly because I was good at it, and it provided me with little stress. I had arranged to meet with Henry to discuss a potential contract and proposals by a Japanese consortium that wanted to create office space on the Upper East Side. I was excited and very happy to be alive. I loved to start new projects, and this was going to be an exciting and adventurous structure that would help not only my own reputation but also the firm.
That Wednesday I rose earlier than normal; I allowed Walter to sit on my lap for a few minutes, or was it Walter who allowed me to have the pleasure of him sitting on my lap? I never knew with Walter. I fixed some coffee and drank it, maybe a little too quickly, before grabbing my briefcase.
Harvey, my apartment building’s doorman with whom I had a unique relationship (more of Harvey later), hailed me a cab, and if I recall correctly I arrived promptly at The Barking Dog Diner on 3rd Avenue for my breakfast meeting with Henry and the Japanese consortium’s representative, Mr. Hyomoko, who had flown in from Tokyo the previous evening. That meeting, I am pleased to say, was successful, and hands were shaken and a deal proposed. I felt I had ascertained a good idea of what was required, and I agreed to meet Mr. Hyomoko later that week at the proposed site, which his consortium had recently purchased, in close proximity to the Guggen
heim Museum on East 87th and 5th. Once we had eaten breakfast Mr. Hyomoko left to relay the details of our meeting to whomever he had to report to, leaving Henry and I to grab another coffee, congratulate ourselves on a deal well done, and to stroll leisurely back to the offices of Peel and Associates situated on 93rd and Lexington, a ten-minute walk from the diner.
Henry and I arrived at the office at eleven or thereabouts. I answered a few e-mails; I drank coffee; I chitchatted with some of my co-workers about nothing in particular. There was a general feeling of excitement in the office that morning as news of the deal secured by Henry and I had already filtered back to my colleagues, which meant the mood was good. I wasn’t too busy, so I decided that I might as well begin work on what was now known as ‘Project Hyomoko.’
I called Bob Nancy, my best friend, whom you will meet later, to tell him about the lucrative contract I secured that morning and to invite him for a celebratory drinking session on Friday night. Life was easy, simple, and good, and I had the perfect life, of course, that was before Mother called……
CHAPTER
2
“SETH, I HAVE YOUR MOTHER on line one,” announced the voice of the firm’s receptionist, Jennifer, who, as my mind was on the subject, would have been an ideal candidate for my next sexual encounter. She was my type, but then again, they were all my type.
“Thank you, please put her through, Jennifer,” I instructed. Usually, I flirted with Jennifer; in fact, I flirted with every unmarried woman in the office, but it did not seem appropriate to flirt while Mother waited on the other end of the line. God forbid she ever heard me flirting!
“Hello, Mother, how are you?” I inquired once I heard the click indicating Jennifer had put Mother’s call through to my phone.
“Hello, dear, is this a good time? I hope I am not disturbing you.” Mother always said that. It did not matter whether she was disturbing me or not; the fact of the matter was that even if she were, she would not have cared. If I was a stereotypical bachelor, then she was the stereotypical Jewish mother, and as an only child to a Jewish mother, living the lifestyle I had, you can imagine I had to make allowances when dealing with her.
“No, Mother, I am not that busy. How’s Dad? How are you? Is everything ok?” Looking back, my reply was entirely false. The call would definitely disturb me, and I was busy. In retrospect, I should not have said that. I should have told Mother I was extremely busy and that she should not call me at the office anymore, but I craved a quiet life, and for a quiet life, I had to sometimes tell a little white lie or three to my mother.
“Yes, dear, everything is fine,” she replied, and that was the second lie of the conversation because everything was not fine. Not by any long stretch of anyone’s overactive imagination was everything fine. Without any exaggeration, this one call from my mother was the catalyst that would change my life forever. Yes, sir. This was the call, and everything was certainly not “fine!”
Before the call, I have to say I had a strained relationship with my parents, Ely and Irma Miller of Borough Park, Brooklyn, New York. Since the call and as time has passed, we have become closer, but that day, that Wednesday in June now fourteen years ago, it certainly redefined our relationship and how I viewed both of them. My parents have been described by other relatives and friends of the family as, amongst other things, slightly “quirky.” Slightly “quirky” is a good descriptive because they certainly are not your typical parents. “Strange” would be a better analysis of their personalities, but they were my parents, and to me, they were just Mom and Dad. I never referred to Mother as Mom to her face; she was always Mother.
My dad, Ely Miller, was born and raised in Brooklyn, the younger of two sons born to immigrant parents who fled Ireland after Hitler took power in Germany. Why my grandparents fled a neutral country still remains a family mystery. What isn’t a mystery, however, is that my dad was an excellent car mechanic. He ran a neighborhood garage, which became mildly successful, and though he did not have an academic or great business brain, with the help of Mother, they grew the venture into one of the most successful car repair facilities in Borough Park, eventually employing six mechanics and office staff.
My dad was an amiable old guy who people always liked. I remember as a kid he would take me to play softball; it seemed as if he knew everybody on the way to the park and everybody when we arrived. Dad was popular with the other kids’ dads, and he would always be greeted with a warm handshake and a smile. Like me, Dad was a Yankee’s fan, and he and his brother, my uncle Jacob, would take me to games at Yankee Stadium when I was a boy. Those trips to the Bronx are among my favorite memories of my childhood.
Nowadays, Dad was known as “Mr. Pipe and Cardigan” due to the fact that he would tend the front yard dressed in his cardigan, wearing his house slippers, and smoking his pipe. Mother had deemed their home a smoke-free zone, so the only time Dad could enjoy his pipe was in the garden. Dad was a few years older than Mother, and he did look it. Dad did not speak much, which was understandable, living with my Mother for thirty years. He followed her; by that, I mean, he was always a few steps behind her, lagging behind or pulling up the rear, to use a military phrase. It seemed these days Dad no longer walked; instead, he seemed to shuffle. I presumed it was a combination of old age and years of living in the shadow of a strong-willed woman that had reduced my father to a shuffler; it was as if he hadn’t the energy to raise his feet to walk anymore. Either that or he was extremely lazy. It wasn’t that my dad was slow, though he was a little slower than the average person; it was more that my mother was quick, always in a hurry, and that was apparent whenever they went anywhere.
On the odd occasion they went out for dinner, she was usually seated and ordering her entree before my father had taken off his jacket. His slowness and her quickness defined their whole relationship, such as a few years ago when Dad traded in his old station wagon for a Lexus.
He had driven them to the dealership in Bensonhurst. It was a Sunday, and the dealership’s customer parking lot was full. Poor Dad could not find anywhere to park, not even on any of the adjacent side streets, so he dropped Mother off at the entrance to the dealership and asked her to wait a few minutes while he scooted around searching for a parking space. It must have taken him not longer than ten minutes to find a suitable spot, but by the time he had locked up the car and shuffled the short distance to the dealership, Mother had not only picked out a vehicle for him, but she had also negotiated a deal, organized the finance, arranged delivery, and was waiting on Dad to sign the papers. Thus was the basis of Dad’s role in the relationship. He certainly could not be described as the mouthpiece or spokesperson of the operation. She spoke, and he did.
I have to say, though, I never once heard my father complain. He seemed to accept that Mother was Mother, and she was the boss. I guess he put up with her dominance because he loved her, though as time passed, and especially after I had left home, I could see that maybe he wasn’t as happy as he could be. I felt sorry for him, and maybe seeing the state of my father was the reason I did not want a committed relationship. Maybe Mother had put me off marriage. Of course, I dared not ever say that to her. Just as my dad, where Mother was concerned, I felt it best to toe the party line and accept how she was. I kept my mouth shut.
My mother, Irma Miller (née Crystal), was a dynamic woman whom I adored and respected as much as I did my father though she infuriated me more than anyone else on this planet. She was a larger-than-life woman. I don’t mean she was a big woman, though as the years progressed she lost her swimsuit figure and had put on a few pounds, which meant she was like me: “slightly” overweight. But neither I nor anyone with any sense, would ever tell her that to her face. That face was still attractive despite the fact that she was well into her sixties. She had always been a beautiful woman with a pretty smile and big brown eyes. It was very rare as a child that I would ever see Mother not in full makeup, and even today, she will not leave the house without lipstick, blush, her h
air perfectly arranged and set, and all ten fingernails manicured and polished. Even at sixty, despite her slightly expanded waistline, she could still turn heads. Mother always seemed to dress impeccably and with a hint of sexiness about her. Please don’t get the wrong idea: I do not have any thought of motherly infatuation. I am merely being honest in my description of her. She was classy, and at family gatherings she would be the center of attention, women complimenting her hair, makeup, and clothes, whilst men would congratulate Dad on snaring such a fox.
Unfortunately, they did not know that beneath the surface, my mother was a strong-willed control freak who ran my father’s life for him and attempted to control mine as much as she could. Behind the glitzy frontage of a beautiful face, elegant clothes, and an abundance of jewelry, she was a no-nonsense woman who knew what she wanted and knew what she wanted for her family, even if we didn’t know what we wanted ourselves.
When dad’s business began to take off, and he grew successful, Mother stepped in and took over. Even though she had no experience, she initially took over his bookkeeping to allow him to concentrate on the mechanical side of things. Then as business grew and more staff was hired, she appointed herself managing director and ran the office—taking bookings, ordering the spare parts, and putting herself in charge, reducing my dad to nothing more than an extra mechanic.
It became so you would have never known it was Dad’s business. She hijacked it from under him. The only relief for Dad came after I was born, and she acquired a new focus for her controlling persona. She hired her older sister, Marla, to run things whilst she stayed at home and raised me. Mother would still issue orders, using Marla as her mouthpiece, and though she was equally as unqualified as my mom, Father accepted Marla as his new boss with carte blanche responsibility, as he was directed by Mother to deal with the hiring and firing and general running of the business. Mother didn’t care what she did or said as long as it suited her and her plans. She was the boss, there was no doubt about that, and she ruled all the roosts.
The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy Page 1