“This is the deal,” I began, “first of all, he is happy for you to be a disciple, so officially you’re on the books; you’re in.”
Bob was delighted with this news. “Yes!” he exclaimed, clenching his fist as if he had scored a home run. I was a bit taken aback by Bob’s excitement. I wish I shared his enthusiasm; unfortunately, however, I was still dubious about the whole thing. I choose not to comment on Bob’s animated response, and I continued to speak.
“He wants me to feed some hungry people, a multitude, and he wants me to produce food from thin air and distribute it to a crowd. It’s not a dissimilar miracle to the one performed by JC with the fishes and loaves and the five thousand.”
“JC?” queried Bob.
“Jesus Christ,” I clarified.
“Oh, I see,” said Bob. “Nicknames, eh? You got one?”
“No,” I replied quickly. “Anyway, he suggested I feed the multitude, find some hungry people and feed them, produce food from thin air, and he wants you to film it, as proof, so we can send it to the media.” I knew Bob had a camera, and I knew he was a competent cameraman. God hadn’t actually suggested Bob film it, I had, but I felt it sounded better if I said it was God’s idea.
“What do you feed them with?” asked Bob. It was a good question, and I had asked God the same thing.
“Well, those were my exact words to God. I tried to explain that I had no idea how to produce food from thin air, and that thus far my miracle-working skills were zero.”
Bob jammed his omelet into his mouth eagerly. The man could eat, and I was sure he would order another; I could tell that he was listening intently, though; the same as when he ate hot dogs at Yankee Stadium at the same speed and never missed a play. A piece of onion fell from his fork onto his plate. He scooped it up with his finger and popped it into his mouth. “So, how do you do it? How do you make food appear from nowhere?” he asked between large mouthfuls.
“Well, he, God, my father made a pretty good point. He asked me if I had ever attempted a miracle before. Obviously the answer was no. Why would I have? He told me all I have to do is will it to happen, and it will happen. Apparently, I have had this power all my life, but of course, I never knew I did. I can do most things, within reason, but as a novice, I can’t expect to be on par with JC; not yet anyway,” I said as I chewed on a piece of steak. Bob nodded.
“That makes sense, I suppose,” he said as he continued to eat.
“Well, I have already tried one. A miracle. Last night,” I said proudly.
“You’re kidding,” said Bob as he wiped away melted cheese from his chin.
“No, I am not kidding. God talked me through it. It was, if I say so myself, pretty impressive,” I boasted, genuinely pleased with what had occurred the previous evening. As Walter had been my only witness, it was good to include Bob in my moment of triumph.
The night before, while discussing the miracle idea with God, he had instructed that I pour tap water into a glass—just regular, New York City tap water, into a standard, normal, everyday glass. I did as instructed. With the phone pressed tightly to my ear so I would not miss any instruction and with God’s encouragement, I concentrated hard. God had told me to focus on the glass of water. According to God, I needed to will it to happen and to have faith that it would happen. What “it” was, I wasn’t sure. While I was the one who performed the miracle, I couldn’t do it without God’s help. He was the one actually performing the miracle, but he needed me to act as his vessel. Only his son could be the vessel, hence the fact that only Jesus and I could perform miracles.
At first, there was nothing. For at least fifteen minutes, I sat, staring at the glass of water, and nothing happened. God told me to be patient, which I naturally was. But to be honest, I thought I was wasting my time, which was another problem. I was missing the faith aspect of miracle working. God explained that I needed to believe the miracle would happen, and his gentle coaxing and encouragement enabled me to relax. And then it happened. The miracle. My first miracle. The first official miracle in more than two thousand years. Right in front of my eyes, the water in the glass began to stir. I could not believe it, and my eyes widened in wonderment.
The water seemed to effervesce, slowly at first, then, as if an Alka-Seltzer had been deposited into it, the color of the water began to change. It turned darker, slowly at first, then it picked up speed, and gradually it changed color completely. The water had changed. In front of me was no longer a glass of water. The liquid inside the glass was now a golden color. The liquid was familiar. It seemed to seduce me, to tempt me; it was a beautiful sight to behold. The gentle fizz sent bubbles climbing up the glass to disappear into the air. Soft, frothy foam settled at the top of the miracle nectar. It was a wondrous and magical moment. God invited me to taste the golden liquid in front of me, and I didn’t need to be asked twice. The miracle nectar. The liquid of God, the miracle brew. It was Bud Lite.
There was no mistaking the taste; it was genuine Budweiser Lite, my third favorite beer. I also drank Guinness and Sam Adams, but I suppose that they would have taken a little more effort. It tasted fine, better than fine; I had fancied a beer all evening and had none in the apartment, so when the Bud descended down my throat, I felt exhilarated. It was my first miracle. I had turned water into beer. It was confirmed. I was the Messiah.
“Far out,” exclaimed Bob, who sat opened mouthed as I relayed the events surrounding my first miracle.
“I know,” I said feeling rather proud of myself. “It blew my mind. I swear it wasn’t a trick, and it tasted perfect. It was even cold!” I tried to contain my delight; aware other diners might overhear our conversation.
“The possibilities are limitless,” said Bob “we could open up our own bar,” Bob wiped away more melted cheese from his lips. “We never need to buy beer ever again. We shall never run dry. We could produce it in bulk, and take it to games. We can sit in a bar and order water for free, and hey presto, abracadabra, we have two brewskis!”
“No,” I replied. “No, apparently I can’t. God warned me that my miracles were only limited to the needy, and I needed his assistance to do them; therefore, I can’t ‘sneak one in.’ I wouldn’t be able to ‘miracle for profit,’ as he put it. Kind of makes sense, I suppose.” I was as disappointed as I sounded. I had the same idea and thought as Bob, but God had curtailed my enthusiasm by listing a whole set of rules which meant it was extremely difficult for me to profit from my miracle doing.
Bob agreed that it made sense we shouldn’t miracle for profit; however he did point out that we both knew people who needed beer every day, and maybe we could exploit a loophole regarding the “needy,” should we be so inclined. I promised I would point that out to God the next time we spoke.
Unfortunately, we had more pressing matters to discuss. We needed to work out the best way to perform my first public miracle and plan a strategy that would not only work but would produce suitable camera footage we could distribute to the world’s news networks.
“You see, when JC did this one, he had a crowd of five thousand, give or take, and word of his powers had already spread. At the time he performed his fish and loaf miracle, he was already an established attraction. People came from miles around to catch a glimpse of him. At the moment, I am a nobody; I have no following. What we need is a crowd, a hungry crowd at that, and maybe some publicity.” Bob nodded that he concurred with my thoughts as he took a sip from his third cup of coffee.
“Finding hungry people in this city shouldn’t be too hard,” said Bob. “I mean, people are always hungry. How does God define hungry? Does he mean starving, or does he mean peckish, or does he mean famished? What’s the play here?” It was a good question and a good point.
“Well, the homeless are not necessarily always hungry, and God didn’t specify what level of hunger deemed a miracle,” I replied. “The problem is the location; we need a crowd, in a public place, suitably hungry and ready to accept a miracle. As it’s not football seas
on, we can’t turn up at the Giant’s Stadium and offer to get the hot dogs, and the Yankees are on the road this week, so Yankee Stadium is out too,” I surmised.
It was Bob who came up with the idea, completely out of the blue. It was sheer inspiration. “Central Park,” he said, matter-of-fact, “Central Park is where we should head. There are always crowds, and I bet you’d find a hungry crowd amongst the throngs of tourists, dog walkers, and joggers. All you need to do is stand up and shout ‘free food.’ Create a noise, a scene, and people will watch. They always do.” Bob, as I thought he might, ordered a second omelet, and was busily chewing away. He was right, of course. If anyone shouted and waved their hands in Central Park in June, a crowd would flock, especially the Japanese tourists and out-of-towners.
Admittedly, I wasn’t entirely happy about shouting out for free food in the middle of Central Park. There was probably some city code against giving out free food, though if this applied to miracles, I did not know, and I wasn’t sure which department I should call to find out. Bob continued with the good ideas, which seemed to be flowing from his mouth that morning.
“Obviously, I will alert the media; call CNN, ABC, NBC, or Fox, maybe even all four, and tell them a miracle is about to occur in Central Park, and it is all related to the events around the world: the chaining to the church and everything happening in London and Australia. I will tell them to get their cameras down to the park. Once they set up, you produce the bread and fishes. Hey presto, the whole world sees your miracle. Then you then go on record, proclaiming yourself the son of God, the Messiah, the Christ, spread the word about the approaching apocalypse, and I guarantee, I guarantee, every loon and nut out there will be lining up to follow you.” Bob had convinced himself this plan would work, and it sounded plausible.
The “every loon and nut out there” aspect of it perturbed me slightly, but I got the drift. I had to agree it was probably the best way forward. I really couldn’t think of a better plan. Bob and I agreed to meet the following morning at Central Park. He would call the press and bring his camcorder as back up.
CHAPTER
14
YOU MAY BE WONDERING HOW I had managed to meet up with Bob and organize to meet him the following day without it encroaching on my work. Earlier that morning, I received a very odd phone call from Henry Peel, my boss. Henry began the call saying how pleased he was that I was associated with his company, and he thanked me for my years of loyal, exemplary, and dedicated work and how he would like to get on record that he would like to increase my salary by fifty percent, effective immediately.
He had also organized for a courier to drop off my new contract, which he urged I sign immediately and return just as quickly. He summarized the details of this improved contract, which was speeding its way to me as we spoke, the main aspects being the improved salary, a place on the board, and a partnership deal if I committed to a minimum of four more years with Henry.
In itself, receiving a call at seven in the morning from my boss offering me the deal of lifetime was strange; however what was stranger was the fact that it had come completely out of the blue. Henry had evidently drafted the contract, had it approved by the board, and organized the courier either the previous day or during the night. Of course, I was curious as to what had prompted this startling offer. As to the best of my knowledge, I had done nothing to warrant such a spectacular and unexpected revised contract.
“Henry, slow down for a second, take a deep breath, and please explain to me what this is all about,” I asked as I sipped on a glass of orange juice.
“It’s all about the contract you secured. It’s excellent, absolutely fantastic, and the fact you did it all on your own is even more remarkable; we, the board and I, that is, are absolutely delighted. Well done. And the contract we are sending over for you is a token of our thanks and appreciation,” gushed Henry. I had never heard the man so happy. Unfortunately, I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Remind me,” I said, “what contract did I secure?” I was extremely confused. Henry proceeded to tell me about the call he received from the head Bishop of the Episcopal Church in the United States, whose offices were based in the city. Apparently, the bishop had informed Henry that the church wanted to build information centers in every major city in the country. The church would use the information centers to showcase the Episcopal religion to potential new members in an environment other than the confines of a church. These information centers would house office space, mini cinema facilities, and some would host conferences and visiting guests from out of town. The concept was previously unheard of, but the bishop had an epiphany, was convinced the idea would work, and had gained approval to begin the project.
While the bishop did not elaborate on how this idea had come to him, he had, according to Henry, suggested divine intervention, which Henry had found amusing, but had, like any good businessman, kept this amusement to him. The bishop’s vision initially entailed twenty-five of these city-based information centers built on land already owned by the church, with the option for twenty-five more should they prove to be a success. They wanted blueprints, designs, and plans. They wanted contracts signed and sealed immediately. They wanted Henry’s company to oversee all aspects, from design to build. It was a multi-million dollar contract, the biggest the company had ever procured, and one of the largest deals ever won by any building firm. However, the bishop had one stipulation. And it involved me.
Apparently the bishop was a big fan of mine. He had followed my career closely and enjoyed the concepts and designs I produced. He had often marveled at the architecture I had developed. I did ask Henry to specify which buildings the bishop enthused so much about, but Henry, in his excitement, had failed to ask. In any event, it was of secondary importance to Henry. What was important was that I agreed to do it, hence my contract offer and the need for my signature. It also seemed the bishop had recommended I abandon projects I was currently working on and hand them over to colleagues to prepare for the task ahead. The bishop suggested that Henry give me a well-deserved vacation so I could begin the church project refreshed and revitalized. Henry had agreed that this was a great idea and proposed I take four weeks off work immediately on full pay.
Only a buffoon would not realize this was more than a coincidence. I had no doubt this was the work of my Father, and though I had no idea how he had gotten into the bishop’s head, it was obvious he had. I did not believe for one minute that the bishop was a big fan of my work. It was ridiculous; however, the contract was genuine, and our company accountant had already received a deposit. Just as genuine was the contract, that arrived from Henry while he was still on the line. I duly signed it and sent it back with the courier to Henry. Henry said it was a miracle. I tended to agree.
I met Bob at ten o’clock sharp the following morning as arranged. We met at the Sherman Monument located at the main entrance to the Park. If you have never visited Central Park in the summer, then you have never lived. One of the great things about living in Manhattan and being a New Yorker is the park. For two guys like Bob and me, Central Park in the summer was a Shangri-La. We could spend hours ogling female tourists in skimpy outfits, lunching office workers in skimpy outfits, and to be honest, any female of the species in a skimpy outfit that happened to be enjoying the park. I hope you do not form the impression that Bob and I were perverts; it was that we appreciated the female form, and Central Park was a great place for the voyeur. So we ogled; what man doesn’t? It doesn’t make us perverts, despite what Nancy thought. Nancy had often cited our visits to Central Park as perverted. She had often claimed it was unhealthy for two men to visit the park in the summer for the sole reason of feasting their eyes on attractive women. Bob and I thought it perfectly normal. I assumed Nancy wasn’t jealous, because though she chided Bob, she never stopped him from going. She just found it “disturbing.”
Disturbing or not, our visit to the park that morning had nothing to do with ogling scantily clad females. Luck
ily, though, Nancy had no idea what we were doing for as of yet, Bob had not informed her of his new role as a disciple to the Messiah Seth. I was glad he hadn’t. Bob had managed to sequester the Nancy family camcorder and depart the house that morning without disturbing his sleeping wife, who still worked the night shift. I was sure if she had risen from her slumber, then her natural curiosity and domineering and overbearing personality would have forced Bob to admit he was heading down to the park to film me, her nemesis, perform a miracle as ordered by God. The last thing I needed was Nancy’s hulking frame looming over me as I attempted to feed the multitude. I doubted even with God behind me I could produce enough food to quell her appetite anyway. It was probably wise not to mention free food when around Nancy, even if you had unlimited powers. Feeding five thousand is one thing; feeding Nancy Nancy is another.
“Did you call them?” I asked Bob as we walked into the park, referring to media channels that Bob had promised to call.
“Indeed I did,” said Bob as he looked around as if waiting for someone.
“And are they coming?”
“I’m not sure, I can’t see them,” said Bob as he continued to look around, “I called all of them, and the local news channel and the newspapers. I can’t see anyone yet though.” Bob continued to look around. This I found slightly irritating, as I wasn’t sure what he expected—hordes of reporters charging toward us, or a fleet of news choppers circling overhead? It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Bob or thought him incompetent, I just felt I probably needed to ascertain exactly what he had told the media.
The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy Page 11
