I snapped out of my thoughts of Maggie and decided I had better call Bill to organize tomorrow’s meeting. I dialed the number he had given me, but there was no reply. I checked my watch. It was approaching eight. Maybe he was still at his costume convention. I decided to try again later. I got the feeling Bill was not a night owl, and that his bedtime on a Saturday night was probably before ten. I called again at nine, ten, and eleven, and still no Bill. I left him a message with my cell phone number and told him to call me when he got in. I thought Milligan’s would be a good place for us to meet on Sunday, and my message included this suggestion.
Maybe Bill’s convention went on longer than I had thought. Still, I would have expected him to be home. Usually on a Saturday evening, I would be having fun in the city, but I was tucked up in bed with thoughts of Maggie by eleven thirty. I drifted off to sleep, and I slept well, very well; it was good to be back in my bed after the previous night on the sofa, but I wished Maggie had been with me.
I awoke suddenly; something was making a noise, something that didn’t make a noise usually at six am on a Sunday morning. I could hear a humming sound, and I could feel vibrations. Confused, I fumbled in my bed until I found the reason for the disturbance. My cell phone, which was set to vibrate, buzzed and shook. I had a call.
“Hello?” I said groggily as I answered the cell phone, ending its incessant jig.
“Seth, it’s me, Bill. I just got your message.”
I rubbed my eyes; it was indeed six in the morning. “You just got it?” I asked still a little groggy.
“Yes,” exclaimed Bill, “I just made it home.”
I found myself becoming more alert. There was something different about Bill’s voice, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
“You have been out all night?” I asked. Bill didn’t strike me as someone to stay out all night.
“Yes, kind of had a heavy one.” I heard laughter in the background, female laughter.
“Have you got someone there with you?” I asked. Once again, I heard laughter and possibly the clinking of glasses.
“Oh, them.” Bill, I presumed, cupped the receiver at his end before shouting, “You two, keep it down will you? I am trying to make a call.” Bill returned to me, “Sorry about that, it’s the twins.” The twins? Bill had a pair of female twins at his place? The laughter became louder, and then I heard different sounds, disturbing sounds, like zippers being undone, moaning, and more laughter.
“Bill, are you still there? Are you all right?” I asked, images appearing in my head that really should not have included Bill.
“Yes,” replied Bill as if he was being pulled around. “Look, I will meet you at Milligans I know it; I saw it yesterday. I will be there at noon.” I heard female cries of disappointed in the background. “Ok, one. I will see you at one, but come alone.” Either Bill hung up or one of the twins yanked the phone from him because I got the impression they dragged him off as the line went dead. As I was awake, I got up and showered, made coffee, fed Walter, popped outdoors for the Sunday paper, made some eggs, and relaxed.
I wondered why Bill wanted me to come alone. It was a disappointment, as I wanted to see Maggie, and now I had no idea when I would see her again. I waited until the hour was more reasonable and called her. I explained Bill’s phone call and how it seemed totally out of character; he hadn’t sounded nervous or even remotely timid. I mentioned the twins and what I had heard in the background. Maggie said Bill sounded like a party animal, and I had to agree that it did seem I may have underestimated the man. But how? How could the timid, shy, nervous, allergy-ridden nerd whom I had met less than twenty-four hours ago have suddenly transformed into Hugh Heffner on acid?
I checked Nancy’s schedule magnetized to my fridge and saw her shift had started an hour ago, so the coast was clear for me to call Bob. I knew he would be exhausted after his night of passion with his mammoth wife, but I woke him anyway to tell him about Bill. He agreed with Maggie that Bill sounded like the proverbial party animal and agreed with me that it was a strange metamorphism for Bill to go from Woody Allen into Woody Harelson overnight.
At 12:45 I made my way to Milligan’s for my rendezvous with Bill. Harvey, who had just started his afternoon shift, accosted me as usual, as I attempted to leave my building.
“Hey, man,” he said, “how’s it hanging, homey?” He raised his hand for me to slap it, which I did, despite thinking it was a ridiculous thing to do. “Where you headed, dog?” asked Harvey, moving from side to side as if dancing to some imaginary beat only he could hear. Harvey made drum machine noises as he moved; it was slightly distracting and a little annoying.
“Just going for lunch, meeting a friend,” I replied, unsure why I continually answered Harvey’s question about my movements and private life. Harvey nodded and carried on moving his body.
An elderly couple who also lived in the building walked through the lobby on the way, it seemed, to church.
“Good Morning, Dr. Lovett, Mrs. Lovett,” said Harvey, who immediately curtailed his dancing the moment he saw them. “What a beautiful morning it is, sir and madam; the sun is shining, the birds are singing. It is a delightful day. I do so hope you enjoy it.” Dr. Lovett and Mrs. Lovett thanked Harvey and wished him a good day too. The couple nodded to me politely, probably wondering why I stood with my mouth wide open. What the hell was that? And his voice? He practically sounded like an English poet! So this was how Harvey spoke to the other residents. It was only me who got the gangsta-rapping act. He looked at me, dancing again and smiling.
“What, dog?” he asked, once more sounding like a gangsta rapper as he resumed spitting out his drum machine noises. I shook my head and made my way to Milligan’s.
I have always done my best thinking whilst walking, so I took the opportunity, en-route to Milligan’s to mull a few things over in my head. I felt that God owed me an explanation; it seemed that Bill’s father was far more remorseful than he had been, and that upset me. I was also a little hurt to discover that God had deliberately continued his absence from Earth despite Satan’s protestations that they both had parental responsibilities here. Out of the two, I had to say Satan seemed the better father. I was also a little miffed that it seemed Jesus was by far my Father’s favorite. The constant comparisons he made were getting to me, and whilst I accepted that he and Jesus had been a through a lot together, I felt it was unfair that he constantly compared us.
No sibling liked to play second fiddle and of course, Jesus did a great job when he did his stint on Earth, so I could understand some of his animosity toward me. Despite God telling me I had my brother’s support, I couldn’t help but think that maybe Jesus was secretly enjoying my constant failures. I got the impression he harbored a grudge against me, and even God had admitted that Jesus didn’t like my attitude. I knew Jesus didn’t think I was the right man for the job. Maybe I was paranoid, but I imagined Jesus sitting with his former disciples, ridiculing and belittling my efforts as they shared an afternoon beer.
I also mulled over my feelings for Maggie. I did not believe in love at first sight, but it did feel as though I was falling for her. I had only known her two days, but I could not get her out of my thoughts. I was pining for her, and I was worried that maybe, once this was all over, she would disappear from my life just as quickly as she had appeared. I didn’t want that. I wanted her in my life, and I had to admit, the way I felt, I wanted her there permanently. I decided the best course of action to take would be to throw caution to the wind and tell her exactly how I felt. It was a gamble; maybe she was only looking for a quick fling and nothing serious; if so, then I would ruin even that. For a man who had previously shied away from commitment, I suddenly craved it. I was startled from my thoughts by the ringing of my cell phone. It was God.
“Hi, son,” greeted my father in a somewhat cheerful way.
“Shouldn’t you busy?” I asked, “isn’t today your busiest day?” I was referring to the fact that it was Sunday. God
laughed. I think he thought I was joking around. I didn’t feel like joking around. I was still a little bitter, and his call had come just as I was debating how to handle his attitude toward me.
“In a way, yes” he replied, “but that can wait. Where are you?” he asked. So he wasn’t watching me, which was good.
“On my way to Milligan’s for lunch,” I replied truthfully.
It was a strange feeling. How many times have you seen people talking on their cell phones as they walk along the street? Sometimes you overhear snippets of conversation, and you sometimes wonder who is on the other end of the phone. I know I do. Anyone eavesdropping or listening to my conversation with God that Sunday would have probably assumed it was a normal conversation between a son and father, catching up with each other’s week. I fleetingly imagined the reactions of passersby and my fellow pedestrians if they knew I had God on the line. I wondered what questions they would ask him and how they would handle the situation. I felt like handing the phone over to a random fellow New Yorker and saying “It’s for you, it’s God; he wants a word,” and watching their reaction. I supposed God’s reaction would be equally as interesting.
“How are you feeling?” asked God. I was impressed that he had called to chat, and I was especially impressed that he was asking after my welfare. “How are you getting on with Maggie? She’s a cutie, isn’t she?”
I agreed that she was, and I very nearly told him that I was hopelessly in love with her, but I refrained from doing so. “Fine, I think we gel,” I said, understating what I really thought.
“Well, don’t rush things, son,” said God. It was the first time I had ever detected a hint of concern from him. Maybe I had underestimated his perception. Could he see what was happening? Could he gauge my feelings? Instead of thanking him and confiding in him, I replied as if I didn’t need his advice or guidance.
“I’m thirty-two; I know how to handle women.” I regretted my hostility but did not apologize. God’s toned changed. I had upset him. His show of concern and interest in me had been rebuked.
“All I am saying is, don’t rush things, and don’t let it interfere with business.” I said I wouldn’t.
“The word on the street is that Lucifer and his son are building a cozy little relationship. Seems he’s not too bad at doing the Devil’s work,” said God. I didn’t mention my initial meeting with Bill or my imminent lunch date with him.
“Oh, really?” I said. I hoped I hadn’t sounded too unconcerned.
“Yes, really,” said God, he seemed annoyed by my nonchalance. What God didn’t know was that I wasn’t concerned about Bill. Even in the worst case scenario where we would have to come to blows, I really did fancy my chances. God changed the subject slightly.
“I have been thinking about miracles. Have you any idea of how you would like to proceed? Up here the consensus is raising someone from the dead, but I know you had your reservations about that.” At least he had listened and was consulting me. I cut him some slack, and I softened my tone toward him.
“I hadn’t thought about it, to be honest,” I said. “I am open to suggestions, and if you feel raising from the dead is the way forward, then I will consider it.” Of course, anyone eavesdropping then our conversation would be thinking that this father/son relationship was a little, well, odd.
“Let me think about that one. One thing is for sure; you need to get you powers together. You need to be able to counter anything the anti-Christ throws at you. Heaven only knows—which I know it doesn’t—what they could throw at us. Knowing Lucifer the way I do, he will have something nasty up his sleeve.”
I felt like telling God that he shouldn’t be overly concerned with what Satan had up his sleeve, but I had promised Bill I wouldn’t mention our meetings. It seemed God expected, as I had, a big guy, a bruiser, a “beast” of a man. I could imagine his relief when he discovered that my foe weighed in at one hundred and ten pounds and had never thrown a punch in his life! As the conversation was going well, I asked God about my allowance and if he had ever considered, as Satan had, on making good my pocket money.
“By the way, while you are on the line, I have a question,” I said casually.
“Go ahead. Shoot,” said God, “but make it snappy.”
“My allowance.”
“Your allowance?” God sounded confused.
“Yes, my allowance. Did you ever consider that maybe you should have given me an allowance, or at least made up for the allowances you never paid when I was growing up?”
“Well,” said God, “it did cross my mind, and I took it to the committee.” So he had considered it, which made me feel a little better. “There was a vote. It was tied, actually, but your brother, Jesus that is, who had the casting vote, brought up a splendid point.” I was listening; somehow I knew Jesus would have been involved.
“Which was?” I asked, eager to learn what pearls of wisdom my half-brother had come up with to void my allowance.
“Jesus suggested we gamble the money I had earmarked for your allowance on lottery tickets. We thought it was worth the risk, and with two million lottery tickets, you’d have thought we would have at least broke even. We played every lottery on the planet and bought multiple tickets, via angels, of course, but you’d never believed it….” That’s where God was wrong because I would believe it. Jesus had gambled away my allowance. Fantastic. I made a mental note to thank him, should we ever meet. I had stopped listening to God, as I knew the outcome. He waffled on about the numbers Gandhi had selected coming close but falling short of a jackpot.
I reached Milligan’s with God still talking in my ear about how bad they all felt about losing my money.
“Well, I need to go,” said God “I will be in touch,” and my phone went dead. I had arrived at Milligan’s with two minutes to spare, and I half-expected Bill to be waiting for me in a booth. I was about to enter the bar when I heard the roaring sound of a sports car. I turned to see a red, convertible Ferrari pull up to the sidewalk. The car itself was impressive, but the driver was even more so. She had legs that seemed never-ending and her skirt might as well have been a belt. She was, without a doubt, the sexiest woman I had ever seen in my life. I would have guessed she had to have been a model, but more was to come. Next to her, in the passenger seat, was an equally as attractive woman. I say equally because they looked identical. I guessed they must have been…twins…and that was when I noticed their rear seated passenger. At first, I didn’t recognize him as he skipped out of the car, kissed both girls on the lips, and waved them off. He wore sunglasses and an expensive suit and walked with the confident swagger of a man who had it all. Bill, it seemed, had received a makeover.
CHAPTER
23
NOT FOR THE FIRST TIME that day, I stood open mouthed, as Bill approached.
“I’m not late am I?” he said, checking his watch. “I told them I needed to go, but you know how chicks are, if they want it, they want it!” Bill nudged me, then lifted up his shades and winked. I couldn’t believe this was the same guy who had sat in my apartment the previous day.
“Bill,” I stammered, “what’s happened to you?”
Bill smiled and took my arm. “Let me get you a drink, and I will explain everything,” he said as he led me into Milligan’s.
It turned out Bill had met his father as arranged at the costuming convention. Bill had arrived at the convention dressed as his fantasy alter ego, Bilbo Baggins the hobbit. Satan, whom he had recognized immediately due to his red skin, horns, and hooves had been punctual and was waiting for Bill when he arrived. On any other day, Satan, if he had appeared in public, no doubt would have attracted a lot of attention, and maybe even widespread panic and pandemonium would have ensued. However, he barely received a second glance as he mingled freely with the costume-clad attendees of the convention. The only attention he did receive was the odd compliment for his excellent costume. Apparently a few costumers were unsure who he was meant to be, but they thought his makeup was e
xcellent regardless. After mingling for a while with the crowd, Bill and his Father had found the bar. Bill tried to explain that alcohol did not agree with him, but Satan told him not to worry, and that his physical ailments were all in the mind. Bill, not entirely convinced, but not wanting to offend his Father, threw caution to the wind and tried a beer.
One beer led to another, and before long, Bill had lost count of how many empty beer bottles sat on their table. More importantly, he had no adverse reaction. It seemed Satan might have had a point, and maybe Bill’s allergies and ailments were all in his mind. Father and son discussed many wide-ranging topics. Bill, interested mainly in the existence of UFOs, quizzed his father on the Universe and his role in it. Satan, it seemed, was more interested in talking about the women, who outnumbered the men at the convention two to one. Each time a scantily-clad warrior woman or kung Fu girl walked by, Satan nudged Bill, who acknowledged that it was a rather fortunate ratio. It would appear that Satan and son had bonded quickly. Bill, who unlike me had never had a father figure in his life to guide him, listened as Satan told him the facts of life according to him.
After an hour, Bill was a changed man. Satan was very convincing, and for the first time in his life, Bill decided to have fun. Satan and Bill proceeded to party, and party big. After several beers and several shots of vodka, Bill and Satan joined the crowds of costume-clad beauties. Bill was amazed how easy it was to pick up girls. They seemed to flock around him and his father, admiring their costumes. His confidence growing, Bill found himself flirting for the first time in his life. The convention ended at seven in the evening, and just before they left, the convention awarded Satan second prize in the “supernatural” category for his “imaginative and traditional” costume. He was just one vote short of the first prize, won by a costumer dressed as Death. Satan pointed out in a whispered comment to Bill that Death would be mortified; he looked nothing like the costumer’s portrayal of him.
The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy Page 19
