“What did they say when you told them about me? In fact, how did you broach the whole subject?” I asked.
“Well,” Bob began, “they didn’t seem too enthusiastic. They all appeared to think I was some sort of nut job. I got a similar response from them all, actually, but they said thanks and they would note it, and if they felt it was warranted, they would send a news crew.” That didn’t sound too promising. I could imagine the reaction of the media organizations quite easily. It would have been the same reaction I would have given forty-eight hours ago. We had to face facts; they weren’t going to show.
“You can stop looking around, Bob,” I said dejectedly. “You know they won’t show up.”
Bob stopped his searching and sighed. “Yep, I guess not. At least I’ve got the camcorder, and at least we will have some footage?”
“Of what, though?” I said, still unsure how the miracle would manifest itself.
Deep down I was slightly relieved that the media had given us the cold shoulder; no doubt convinced Bob was some sort of weirdo jumping on the Ronnie bandwagon. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to be catapulted into the spotlight just yet. For a start, I was skeptical of how the public would receive me; it occurred to me that I was probably not what people expected when they imagined the Messiah. I had toyed with the idea of growing a beard but decided against it. What significance a beard had, I wasn’t sure, but it seemed a “Jesus” thing to do. I could imagine outraged Christians the world over disappointed that a tubby Jew was their new figurehead. I could also imagine the vast majority of the world calling me a fake and hounding me until I confessed to it all being a giant hoax. So the fact the media wasn’t going to be present came as a relief to me. Unfortunately, though, Bob felt otherwise. He was bitterly disappointed that we wouldn’t be featuring on the six o’clock news. Not tonight, at least.
My stomach was in knots. Though I was confident my face wasn’t going to be splashed around the world that night, it was still nerve-wracking that I would have to speak in public. I had read that just as many people feared public speaking as they did death. Unaccustomed as I was too public speaking, which in itself was daunting, performing a miracle at the same time, was even more so. I was about to be exposed as the Messiah, and I wasn’t ready. To be honest, I was hesitant about the whole thing. Things were moving too quickly, and I didn’t like it. Maybe it was nerves or perhaps in the cold light of day in the middle of Central Park, I realized the enormity of what lay ahead.
“I can’t do it,” I said, stopping in my tracks and staring directly at Bob.
“You have to,” said Bob, urging me to continue walking, “you know you have no choice.” He was right of course, no matter how reluctant I was. God had made it very clear that there was no alternative, and despite my own trepidation, I was “it.”
“Well, what now?” I asked Bob, thankful I had my friend to support and assist me at least.
“Gather a crowd,” said Bob as he looked around him once more. We had stopped next to the Swedish Cottage. The Swedish Cottage was a former tool shed converted into a children’s theater, and it was located on the west side of the park.
Gathering a crowd was a lot harder than it sounded. Initially, we were both reluctant to accost passersby, who were predominantly tourists. After thirty minutes of us both standing around like idiots and with no crowd gathered, Bob decided he would try enticing a crowd by shouting. For the following two hours Bob stood, shouting like a madman. For two hours in the middle of Central Park, people ignored Bob. They did not just ignore him; they avoided him. Those park users who did walk by tried not to make eye contact with him. The mere sight of Bob waving his hands and shouting was enough to disturb anyone.
A cop patrolling the park eyed us suspiciously. Bob stopped shouting when he saw the officer approaching, and luckily, the cop continued his patrol, glancing back at us. I supposed we weren’t breaking any law, and as it was a free country, Bob could shout what he wanted, but it was obvious our tactic wasn’t working. However, Bob was adamant, and for another two hours, he continued to shout and try and draw attention, but to no avail. I tried to encourage Bob, and I also did my fair share of shouting. However, there came no crowd.
“This is hopeless,” I said. “Where are the hungry? Where is the multitude? Where are the five thousand?” I looked upward and raised my hands. “Come on, Dad, show a little compassion. Help us out here, do something, anything,” I pleaded jokingly. “Give me a sign,” I yelled in mock desperation. I think Bob was not that amused by my antics. I noticed his expression was stern. “Come on,” I said, “lighten up. Look, it’s two thirty. I am starving, which I know is a bit ironic, but I am. Let me buy you lunch. Let’s face it, it’s not happening. I’m only kidding around; there is no need to look so stern.”
But Bob seemed to be ignoring me; he wasn’t staring at me, he was staring behind me. I turned to see what had grabbed his attention. As I turned, I saw Bob point, his mouth open. And then they came.
Bob had seen them first, hence his open mouth and dumbfounded look, which I had mistaken for sternness. He pointed for my benefit. At first I couldn’t quite make them out. They seemed to appear from nowhere on the horizon. It was definitely a crowd or a large group. Without any doubt, it was the most people at one time we had seen all day. They came from the east side of the park, and they were heading toward the Swedish Cottage, and therefore, us. It was the crowd, a hungry crowd, the multitude. Well, sort of; there were at least twenty of them.
Troop twenty-three was a Boy Scout troop located in West Salem, Oregon. Each summer, eighteen members of the troop plus two adult supervisors embarked on a field trip. That year, they choose New York. Troop twenty-three was heading our way. Led from the front by a grown man dressed in full scouting uniform, which made him look ridiculous, and behind him in columns of two, came his troop, all eighteen of them, and brought up at the rear was another male adult, dressed as they all were, in their resplendent Boy Scout uniforms. I looked at Bob and Bob looked at me. We were thinking the same thing: could this be them? Was this a sign from God?
Eventually, the man leading them, with his troop following close behind, reached the point where Bob and I stood.
“Excuse me,” said the man, “you couldn’t help us out here, could you? We’re actually lost.” I had always thought Scouts were expert navigators and could read maps and compasses. How lost could they be? They were in Central Park with signs everywhere. Only an idiot could be lost in Central Park.
The man spoke again, “We’re troop twenty-three from West Salem, Oregon.” I nodded that I understood. “I’m Lester Smith, Troop Leader.” Ah, so that’s why he was a grown man dressed as a boy. I shook his outstretched hand; they sure were a friendly bunch from Oregon. “The thing is, we are completely lost, and to top it off, we have forgotten our lunch,” he said. “Jason here,” a small, bespectacled scout appeared from the crowd of boys. I guessed he could not have been older than twelve. Troop Leader Smith playfully ruffled Jason’s hair, who did not seem too pleased at this. He shrugged, and for a second I thought he mouthed an obscenity. Oblivious to this, the troop leader continued to speak. “Jason, here, was meant to collect lunch this morning, but forgot.” He once again playfully ruffled little Jason’s hair, much to Jason’s chagrin, as he again shrugged and grimaced. I was sure he mouthed a word that would make a sailor blush. “So we are kind of stuck, and we ran into a very friendly police officer back there,” he pointed back in the direction they had just come, “and he told me that there were two guys giving out free food in this direction near the children’s theater, so I put two and two together. Have you seen two men giving away food? We are starving.”
Apparently two and two equaled five for Troop Leader Smith. I was amazed that any parent would entrust their child to this man. It must have been a sign. Surely God had done this. I knew it wasn’t the multitude that my half-brother had catered for, but at least it was a start. Who knew why young, foul-mouthed Jason forgot to co
llect the lunch. From whom and what that lunch had been, I did not know, nor did I think to ask. I had been presented with a chance to perform my first miracle. So the media were not present; it didn’t seem to matter. I instructed Bob to prepare the camcorder. This was it.
“Ok!” I shouted, my fear of public speaking somehow diminished and my confidence soaring. I felt that if God had produced a crowd, then he was behind me and with God behind me, I could do anything. Bob nodded, indicating the camcorder was filming. “Come on gather around,” I shouted, and with the help of Troop Leader Smith, the Boy Scouts gathered around me, forming a semi-circle two deep. I closed my eyes and concentrated. I could hear groaning coming from the assembled throng, and I was sure I heard one of the scouts call me a name. I guessed it was probably Jason; however, I did not let the chiding distract me. And then I spoke. Why I said the words that I did, I did not know. They just came to me.
“Ok, listen, I want you all to reach into your left pocket of your pants and feel around.” I heard Bob wince; maybe they were not the best words for addressing young boys, but I had no control. I had no idea why I had made the command or what it entailed. Something compelled me to say it; it was like before, with the water turning to beer; it just happened.
As instructed, the Boy Scouts placed their hands into the pocket. I watched intently as one by one, they all removed their hands from their pockets. This was it; this was my first public miracle. I watched as the troop leader delved into his pocket, and I saw Jason delve into his. This was the first miracle in over two thousand years performed in public. This was an event. This was history. This was a defining moment in time. This was not what I had expected.
“Wow,” said a voice from the crowd of Scouts.
“Great trick,” said another.
“Cool,” said another.
“I don’t like them,” said one more.
“How did he do that?” said another voice.
“I hate them. Can’t we have something else?” said the detractor again.
I stood motionless as each Boy Scout removed his hand from his pocket and revealed what was there. Each Scout, including Troop Leader Smith, held in their hands a piece of paper. I squinted to get a better look. They looked like coupons.
“Great stunt,” exclaimed Troop Leader Smith as he showed me what he had pulled from his trouser pocket, “how did you do that? You some sort of magician or illusionist or something? Fantastic trick, utterly incredible. I take it they put you up to it? The restaurant that is. Great idea. I suppose we have to buy the fries and drink, though, that’s the catch, I bet, but so what, eh? A free meal is a free meal!”
Catch? What was he talking about? It was a miracle, not a trick, and who were “they?” Where was the food? Where were the loaves and where was the fish? I took a closer look at the voucher that the scout leader handed to me. “McHUNGRY’S FREE FOOD VOUCHER, FILLET OF COD SANDWICH, DOES NOT INCLUDE FRIES OR DRINK,” proclaimed the slip of paper. Accompanying the text was a photograph of a fried fish sandwich. It looked genuine; in fact, it was genuine, McHungry’s issued those vouchers to customers who called their hotline to complain about the service in one of their thousands of restaurants based all over the world. They were tokens of McHungry’s concern that someone had not enjoyed their meal. They were genuine all right; I had seen them before.
I flipped the voucher over. I handed it back to Troop Leader Smith. So that was it? Feeding the hungry scouts with free, fast food, courtesy of compensation vouchers, was the miracle? While the fish and bread were a miracle, they had to purchase fries and a drink?
“Wow man. It was awesome. Thanks a lot,” said Smith, who despite, being an idiot had assumed what any other rational human being would have assumed, that they had witnessed an elaborate publicity stunt performed by an illusionist. I was no more a miracle worker in the eyes of my dispersing crowd than a Las Vegas conjurer was. I watched in silence as Smith assembled his troop and led them back the way they had come. I heard Jason say that he had seen a McHungry’s earlier, and he knew the way. Off they went to claim their free sandwich.
For those of you who do not care for fast food or have never heard of McHungry’s, please allow me to enlighten you. Let me take this opportunity to describe and tell you what exactly a fillet of cod sandwich is. If I may, I would like to quote McHungry’s own website, where, on my return home, I found the description of the McHungry’s Cod Sandwich: A McHungry’s fillet of cod sandwich is a golden, crispy fish filet, topped with American cheese and special tartar sauce on a toasted bun. It makes a perfect snack, or with fries and a drink, a perfect meal.
If I may, I would now like to quote the Bible:
“Then, taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to Heaven, he said the blessing, broke the loaves, and gave them to (his) disciples to set before the people; he also divided the two fish among them all. They all ate and were satisfied. And they picked up twelve wicker baskets full of fragments and what was left of the fish. Those who ate (of the loaves) were five thousand men.”
As you can see, it is not too dissimilar. What had occurred in Central Park mirrored exactly what had occurred in the Middle East two thousand years ago. The similarities were astounding. It was as if history had repeated itself. And if you believed that, then you are as mad as a hatter!
“What was that?” asked Bob as he lowered the camcorder. “Was that it? Was that the miracle? Please tell me that wasn’t the miracle.”
“It would seem so,” I answered as the last scout disappeared from view.
“I don’t get it,” said Bob, “fast food vouchers? That’s what you gave them?”
“Did you get it on tape?” I asked Bob, not exactly sure what “it” was.
“Well, yeah, sort of, but it’s not much. It’s basically a group of scouts putting their hands in their pockets, acting all surprised, and then walking off. To be brutally frank, it looks crap.”
Bob was right. I needed another talk with God.
CHAPTER
15
“WELL, TECHNICALLY I DO THE miracles. I thought I had explained that ” God had called the moment Bob and I entered my apartment.
“If that’s the case then why didn’t you do something a little more dramatic?” I asked.
“Well, let me see. When I say I do the miracles, what I mean is we do the miracles; it’s my power channeled through you, and it’s more a joint effort, but you are as responsible as I am for the success of these things. Obviously we were not ready for anything too dramatic, but it is 1999. I suppose it was the modern day equivalent. Not ideal, but it was a start. I managed to find the Scouts for you, didn’t I? On the whole, I would say it was a good day.” God sounded pleased with the day’s events. Unfortunately, I was not as pleased.
“Listen, I have Bob with me. Can I put you on speaker phone?” I asked.
“Sure, why not?” replied God.
I proceeded to explain to God that despite his enthusiasm, the day hadn’t gone as well as he had presumed. For a start, the Boy Scouts hadn’t acknowledged the miracle. By that I meant none of the witnesses to the miracle understood that it was indeed a miracle. Troop Leader Smith and his troop of Scouts believed they had met an illusionist who was in the employ of a fast food chain. Being from out of town, they assumed that this was the sort of thing that happened in the Big Apple. They thought we had treated them to a free magic show and complimentary vouchers to entice them into McHungry’s. There had been no opportunity to explain to the assembled throng of Scouts that what they had witnessed was divine intervention to cure their hunger. As I tried to explain to God, the human race was far more skeptical than they were two thousand years ago.
“Well, at least you got it on film,” said God, conceding that it was highly unlikely Scout Troop Leader Smith realized he had witnessed the first miracle in two thousand years. But, there was even more bad news for God. Bob and I had watched the recording made on Bob’s camcorder whilst we had God on speakerphone through my televisi
on and video system. It wasn’t exactly Stephen Spielberg. The first problem was the sound or lack of it. Bob had failed to mention that his camcorder’s microphone was malfunctioning so there would be no sound. Therefore, all the footage we had was of a group of Scouts, led by a grown man dressed as a Scout, placing their hands into their pockets and pulling out paper. You could clearly see Troop Leader Smith and a few other Scouts smiling and disappearing into the horizon. It was hardly the sort of footage the news media outlets would be clamoring to air. I was not visible in any shot. It was, by Bob’s admittance, an unmitigated disaster.
“Well,” began God, his tone sharp and his voice filled with disappointment,
“JC certainly didn’t have this trouble. It went very smoothly when JC did it; in fact, they talked about it for years afterward. When he did it, there were no snags, no ‘technical problems;’ there was no doubt it was a miracle. It was an extremely successful miracle. It is a proven miracle; it works hence why I thought a re-run would work.” I got the feeling God was annoyed, but luckily, his tone softened slightly. “I know you must be a tad disappointed, but it was only your first try. Half the secret of these things is the crowd. The audience needs to be just right. The mass hysteria, the chanting, and the expectation, sometimes screaming, sometimes fainting: that’s what makes these things memorable. You need a good audience. Maybe I am to blame a little; I should have thought harder about what type of crowd to pull in.”
The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy Page 12
