The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy

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The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy Page 8

by Duncan Whitehead


  “Have you actually ever read the Bible?” I asked.

  Walter’s ear stopped flicking, and he raised his head and stared at me straight on before yawning.

  “Sort of,” said God.

  “Sort of? What does that mean? Sort of? It’s your book. It’s about you! How can you quote the Bible when you have only ‘sort of’ read it? I’ve even read part of it, and I’m Jewish. For a start, it’s not the book of ‘Revolution,’ it’s the book of Revelation. How could you not know that?” Deep down I already knew the answer, and I did not expect a reply. Walter stood up and arched his back to stretch, which he always did after a nap. He yawned again, jumped down from the sofa, and made his way to where his food and water bowls lived inside the kitchen.

  “I was meant to proofread it before they released it. I kind of glanced through it, you know, got the general gist of things. What I read seemed fine. A few spelling errors, the odd grammatical error, and some chapters were better than others, but overall, I thought it was a good effort, good plot, great characters, and I enjoyed the bits I read in detail. To be honest, we had a whole team working on it, proofreading, re-writing, editing; there wasn’t much more I could add. And anyway, writing isn’t my sort of thing. I leave that to the eggheads and scholars. I am a much more hands-on, give-me-a-screwdriver, give-me-a-hammer, give-me-a-Universe-to-create sort of fellow.”

  God paused to allow Walter to drink from his bowl of water before he spoke again. Walter licked his lips, and I was sure he was going to start on his fish-flavored dry food, but instead, he left the kitchen and returned to the sofa and sat, once again, on his haunches.

  “With Armageddon just around the corner, I thought it was time you started to earn your keep.”

  “My keep?” I queried.

  “Just a figure of speech. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. Scratch that, there is no keep, bad term of phrase,” apologized God, rather too readily, I hasten to add, and it didn’t go unnoticed. In any case, I had more pressing concerns.

  “What do you mean by ‘just around the corner?’ What do you mean by Armageddon?” Once again, I hoped the nervousness in my voice was not as apparent to God as it was to me. God seemed to ignore my questions and continued to speak in his unnervingly jolly and pompous sounding voice.

  “Anyway, we really need to get cracking; we have no time to lose. We need to get you out there on the streets, collecting the lambs for saving, and all that, getting everyone prepared.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Sorry,” said God, “for a minute there I thought you said ‘no.’” Walter had jumped down from the sofa and flicked one of his toy balls with bells in it along the floor. The jingle jangling was slightly distracting.

  “I did say ‘no.’ No, I am not interested. I don’t want the job. Thanks, but no thanks. Great meeting you, no hard feelings and all that, but I am not interested in your offer. I get the feeling that Armageddon is probably not a good thing, and if my memory is correct, I am sure it involves violence and destruction and hassle. I do not need hassle in my life. The fact that you said ‘around the corner’ is also not a good indication. I don’t think this is the job for me. I think you should go to plan B.”

  Walter stopped flicking the ball and rolled over onto his back.

  “No plan B,” said God, “and anyway why ever not?” He sounded a little upset. “It’s a great job.”

  “Because I am quite happy with my life as it is, thank you very much. For a start, I already have a great job. I am happy, and I don’t need this right now. Not now, not ever. I am sure it won’t be too difficult for you to find somebody else. Surely there is another virgin birth out there or at least someone whose parents just did it once. Is it really that important, this whole virgin thing? I know I am your son, and I know this is of course a family commitment, but couldn’t you maybe adopt? Why not adopt some super priest who knows karate or something? Surely there is a better candidate out there than me.” I hoped I didn’t sound too desperate.

  Walter stretched his claws on my sofa. He had never done that before, and I suspected it was God’s influence. I thought about smacking him on the head but reconsidered.

  “I would appreciate it if you would stop that. This sofa is new,” I said. Walter stopped clawing at the couch and returned to sit on his haunches. I inspected my furniture and saw the damage was minimal.

  “I am sorry,” said God. At first I thought he was going to apologize for scratching my sofa. “I am afraid the job is yours. There is no one else, and you are it. The one. El numero uno. Do you think there is another virgin-born child out there? You think I have a ready stock of virgins just hanging about, hoping they miraculously become pregnant? What, I need to place an advert? ‘Wanted, male, age 32, born to a virgin mother, prepared to save the world in the upcoming battle against evil. Long hours, some traveling, and excellent benefits. Training package provided. Come on, son, be realistic. Adopt? A super priest? Karate? I have to say, I’m a little disappointed in your attitude.”

  I could tell from his tone he was getting annoyed. I got the feeling not too many people said ‘no’ to God. I also got the feeling that I should not push him too far. I was sure he probably had a temper. I think I had read that somewhere. His voice was getting louder, and I noticed Walter staring at me. Usually, I always won our little staring competitions. In fact, I always won. But Walter’s gaze was not diverting. I felt even more unnerved. I broke away from Walter’s gaze.

  “You think I wanted it this way? You think this is how I planned it?” shouted God. “Did you not hear me when I told you about the couple from Wisconsin? They were ideal. It’s not my fault we are in this forsaken predicament. I cannot believe any son of mine would be so uncompromising. I would have thought you would have jumped at the chance. I really do not understand your reluctance.”

  God’s tone softened slightly, “Come on, Seth, be a sport; most people would jump at the chance of being the Messiah, and you know some people out there actually dream about things like this.”

  “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

  11

  I KNEW THAT GOD HAD left the moment Walter meowed. Th
at 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.

 

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