She didn’t say anything for a long time after that. “I’m sorry,” I said.
She shrugged. “The world sucks. What makes me mad are those johns out there, treating women like meat. It’s like they don’t even realize that every one of those girls grew up somewhere and had hopes and dreams. I grew up in Nashua, Missouri, and I wanted to be a violinist. My dad died when I was seven. I had a dog named Buster. I never had any brothers and sisters, but all the time I was with my boyfriend I kept thinking, Maybe if I had a brother he would come and take me away from all this. But no one even thought of me as a person. Even my boyfriend thought of me as cattle.”
I didn’t say anything, but I felt my face burning. Not because I had ever been a john, but because I knew I had treated that girl from Seattle like meat, like an inconvenience, like an enemy. And there she was, probably just like Sandy, a woman with a story and hopes and dreams but living a nightmare. I didn’t try to wake her up. I didn’t think of anyone but myself.
“Sandy,” I said, “if you ever need anything . . . you’re welcome with me and my family.”
She smiled and lifted her soda toward me. “Thanks, big brother.”
Just then the door exploded inward with a shower of splinters as three huge Jesuses came in through the doorframe. One of them had biceps the size of pumpkins, and his entire body was rippled with veins and muscle. The second had the traditional movie Jesus look but an expression of fierce anger on his face and a whip in one hand. The last had a black leather hat on his head, his long hair pulled into a ponytail. He was wearing a leather vest, leather pants, and a Harley-Davidson shirt pulled tightly over his round belly.
The one with the whip ran into the apartment, grabbed the table, flipped it over, and started swinging his whip all over the place. The bodybuilder flexed his muscles, growled like crazy, yanked some red meat out of the fridge, and started eating it raw. The Harley Jesus crossed his arms and glared at me.
Sandy screamed and ran behind my easy chair, but I jumped up from my seat. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I went to a Christian school. I recognize these guys.”
The one with the whip snarled menacingly at me. Perpetually Angry Jesus. Some people believe that God is always mad at all of humanity because the world is so full of evil. Every once in a while when we do something right we can move into this narrow corner of his not-mad feelings.
“Where’s 8 Ball?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“Under the table,” I said. “I think you flipped him over when you were breaking the furniture.”
“That makes me . . . mad!” Perpetually Angry Jesus growled.
The bodybuilder lifted the table and threw it aside. Then he lifted 8 Ball over his head and broke the chair to kindling. The ropes fell off and 8 Ball rubbed his arms. I knew this guy too. Testosterone Jesus, a popular men’s retreat speaker. He can tear phone books in half, lie on a bed of nails, or pound an average weakling Christian man into butter.
“You can’t kidnap the Lord Almighty,” Harley Jesus said. “I’m going to kick you all over creation if you try to keep 8 Ball locked up in here. They don’t call me King of the Road for nothing.”
I took a gamble, knowing that 8 Ball’s responses were completely random. “Magic 8 Ball asked us to tie him up, didn’t you, buddy?”
He set his jaw and tried not to say anything. But then Testosterone Jesus shook him and he blurted, “As I see it, yes.”
Harley Jesus completely deflated. He’s scary looking but means well. “8 Ball, you idiot!” he said. “This is like the time that guy prayed to you and wanted to know if he should write that stupid Conversations with God book and you said, ‘Yes, definitely.’ I swear you cause more trouble. I’m out of here.” He tipped his hat to Sandy. “Sorry for the confusion, miss.”
“Signs point to yes!” 8 Ball said frantically. But the tide was already shifting in our direction.
I gestured to Testosterone Jesus. “Can I point something out to you, sir? This woman—” I jerked a thumb at Sandy—“didn’t even offer you a meal when you walked in the door.”
“Meat. Good,” said Testosterone Jesus, holding up the raw meat.
“Yes, but woman no cook! Bad!”
“Grrrrr!” He smashed the table in half.
“What are you doing?” Sandy asked, ducking lower behind the chair.
“She must be punished!” I shouted.
“Raaargh!” He grabbed a plate from the floor, broke it with his teeth, and started moving toward us. As he growled, his massive hands flexed and his teeth gnashed. When he got close enough I put my hand up, palm toward him.
“Are you about to hurt this woman?” I asked in disbelief.
Testosterone Jesus stopped, drool and broken pottery falling from his lips. He struggled to formulate the correct answer. “No?”
“Unbelievable. A man should protect a woman. You are a bad person. You need to go home from this retreat and apologize to your wife.”
“Ahuh,” Testosterone Jesus said. “Ahuh, ahuh.”
“Are you crying?” I shook my head. “Jesus wept, but his friend had just died. You’re crying like a little baby? A little girl baby?”
Testosterone Jesus turned away, his shoulders shaking. I picked up the remote control from the television and put it in his hand. “Go see if football is on,” I said gently. “And there’s more raw meat in the refrigerator.
“As for you . . .” I turned my attention to Perpetually Angry Jesus. “Here you are, busting up a perfectly fine apartment, and the whole time the Girl Scouts are selling cookies at the Presbyterian church.”
“WHAT? HOW DARE THEY TURN MY FATHER’S HOUSE INTO A MARKET?” He stormed out of the room.
8 Ball hung his head in shame. His rescue had been foiled.
Pete came back just after that and looked in wonder at the mess we had made. “I guess the word got out,” he said. “Let’s put this door back in place.”
Moments after we had the door sturdy and locked, someone knocked on it. A strong voice came from outside. “If any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him.”
CHAPTER TEN
Behold! I Stand at the Door and Knock!
Testosterone Jesus bellowed from his place on the couch, “WOMAN! GET DOOR!”
Sandy grinned at Pete. “Shall I?”
“Behold!” came the voice from the hallway. “I stand at the door and knock! If any man open the door, I will come in to him.”
“I’ll get it,” I said. “You guys watch 8 Ball.” I opened the door, and standing before me was the classical Jesus: honey-colored hair, skin like snow, an almost equine face, blue eyes, white robe, one hand raised as if to knock again.
He swept imperiously past me and his eyes swiftly took in the room. They narrowed when they came across Testosterone Jesus, his feet on the coffee table, raw meat strewn about his mouth and chest.
“Oh, foolish and unwise son,” he said. “He is a grief to me, and bitterness to she who bore him.”
“What about this guy?” I nodded at 8 Ball. “He can’t even say what he wants to.”
“Most likely!” 8 Ball said emphatically.
“Every man shall kiss his lips that giveth a right answer,” said our new guest.
“That’s not much better than 8 Ball,” Sandy whispered to me.
“What do you want?” Pete asked.
The new Jesus surveyed the room and finally decided to stand. The damage done by the last group of visitors hadn’t left anywhere to sit. “Mine brother is taken captive. Now I beseech thee: let my people go.”
“We’re not ready to give up our prisoners,” I said.
“Then release unto me one prisoner, whomsoever I may desire.”
“I don’t think so.”
Pete whispered in my ear, “Let’s talk about this for a minute.” He pulled Sandy and me away from King James Jesus and held counsel in the corner of the apartment. “We could let them go and then follow them.”
“Won’t they jus
t go somewhere else in the complex?”
“I don’t think so. I think they’re pulling out the stops, sending a lot of heavy hitters to try to get 8 Ball back but still protect Matt’s imaginary Jesus.”
“Who is ‘they’?” I asked.
“Who are they?” Sandy corrected.
“The Secret Society of Imaginary Jesuses,” Pete said. “An obscure collection of imaginary people who gather to discuss their own importance. Like the Jesus Seminar. Only imaginary.”
“Let’s trade 8 Ball for Imaginary Jesus,” I suggested.
“I don’t think he’ll go for it. King James Jesus drives a hard bargain. It was centuries before he even allowed New King James Jesus to exist.” Pete pulled his big fingers restlessly through his beard.
“We should at least try,” I said. Pete nodded his agreement. I stood and approached King James Jesus. “We’ll make an exchange. 8 Ball for my imaginary Jesus.”
King James Jesus’ face twisted into a superior, knowing smile. “I am wont to release unto thee a prisoner,” he said. “But methinks thy choice shall be a hard judgment, transgressors.” He pulled a manila envelope from his robe and tossed it to me. “Behold!”
I grabbed it and pulled out a glossy black-and-white photograph. It was a picture of a donkey with a white star on her nose. Around her neck was fastened today’s paper, the date clearly visible.
King James Jesus laughed heartily and cried out, “Thine ass is mine!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
!!!!!
Before we go on, I have a couple of comments. One, good grief, they kidnapped Daisy! That is upsetting. Two, I know some of you men who love men’s retreats are angry about some comments in recent chapters, and I want to say that men’s retreats are fine and dandy. So please stop sitting in front of your wife’s computer trying to peck out the letters to send an angry e-mail. Three, you may have noticed that King James Jesus said ass, and I would like to apologize on his behalf. His translation is four hundred years old now. When he says ass, he really means donkey. He had no idea that his comment “Thine ass is mine” would sound either offensive or funny. In fact, he looked at me in complete consternation when I broke into a fit of hysterical laughter.
Please don’t send me letters saying, “Jesus (even an imaginary Jesus) would never use offensive words of any kind.” Maybe you have forgotten the story where Jesus was walking with his brother James to the synagogue and they were about to cross the street and Jesus grabbed James and said, “Look out for that dog poop.”
Yes, he said poop. I mean, you can’t get through life without saying it sometimes. So you can look up that story—it’s somewhere or other, maybe in the Apocrypha. Or maybe Imaginary Jesus told me that story. I would like to point out, though, that neither James nor Jesus ever saw the dog that left that little surprise package right in the middle of the road. I shake my fist at you, Houdini Dog! Is nowhere safe from you?
Now I can’t remember what we were talking about.
Oh yeah. Good grief, they kidnapped Daisy!
We looked closely at the picture, and we recognized her immediately. Sandy couldn’t figure out why we were so upset about a donkey being held captive, except that she lived in Portland and thus believed that all animals should be free. So when she looked at King James Jesus and said, “You monsters!” she mostly just meant, Boy is it ever mean to keep an animal all tied up. I pointed out that we had 8 Ball tied up, and she pointed out that 8 Ball was, after all, imaginary and this appeared to be a real, flesh-and-bone donkey, and then I pointed out that “flesh-and-bone” was a weird way to refer to a donkey, what with all the fur, and maybe we should say “fur-and-bone” and then Sandy got mad and I suddenly realized that I was really getting along with Sandy and treating her like a sister.
We had a short conference and made a plan. I would go with King James Jesus and 8 Ball to make the switch. We would allow Testosterone Jesus to go along, because KJJ probably didn’t realize that I had him completely under my control. That would give me an advantage. Also, wherever we went I would be able to keep an eye out for Imaginary Jesus, because I knew what he looked like. Pete had seen him only once, and Sandy hadn’t seen him at all.
I told KJJ that I would be coming with him, and that we would give them Testosterone Jesus and 8 Ball in exchange for Daisy. Then Testosterone Jesus started blubbering like a baby and saying, “I stay with pretty lady!” and I had to start quoting lines from Braveheart to calm him down.
“This shall propitiate me and cause me to become consistent in my actions toward thee.”
I ignored KJJ and said good-bye to Pete. “I think we’re really going to pull this off.”
He smiled, but not with his eyes, and put his hand on my shoulder. “Once we get ahold of Imaginary Jesus, this whole thing will be almost behind us.” He cocked his head and gave me a quizzical look, but he didn’t say anything more.
I asked, “That’s what we’re doing, right?” But he didn’t answer.
I gave Sandy a hug and told her that she was my favorite ex-prostitute with a heart of gold, and she punched me in the stomach and said that she didn’t like me at all. That reminded me of the Frog of Hate, and I reached into my pocket and was pleased to find him still there, eight chapters later.
I walked out onto the street, close behind KJJ and 8 Ball. Their heads were close together in what appeared to be an intense conversation, though I couldn’t conceive of any coherent conversation they could possibly have.
I patted Testosterone Jesus on the shoulder and told him that soon he would be free to do as he pleased. He joyfully lifted his arms in the air and shouted, “Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeedooooooooooom!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Secret Society of Imaginary Jesuses
Thirteen blocks from the squalid apartment where we captured 8 Ball, the headquarters of the Secret Society of Imaginary Jesuses occupied an entire high-rise in the downtown area, just on the edge of the Pearl. A simple logo with the letters SSIJ adorned the front door, and we walked into a large foyer with dark, angular surfaces that shone in the reflected light. A stern-looking Jesus in a judge’s robe sat behind the counter just in front of the bank of elevators.
He stood as we entered. KJJ growled when he saw the Jesus behind the counter. “Behold!” quoth he. “I have brought forth the captive 8 Ball, and lo, the most virile of the imaginary Jesuses is with me, and the man called Matt Mikalatos. Now make way for our ascent.”
“And what will you give me in exchange?” asked the Jesus in the robes. I studied him carefully and realized that I knew him. In fact, I had done business with him before. He was Bargain Jesus, the Jesus who would always answer your prayers . . . for a price.
“Fie on thee!” KJJ cried. “Not one more bargain shall be struck between me and thee.”
A deep frown creased Bargain Jesus’ face. “Then you cannot use my elevator.”
“Let’s take the stairs,” I said.
“The stairs are mine as well,” he said. “To ascend will require a sacrifice. Promise that you will read your Bible every day for the rest of your life, and that you will never again miss church, and that you will tell every stranger you meet on an airplane about me, and in exchange I will allow you to use the elevator.”
“Thou rascal,” KJJ said, with dark foreboding in his voice. “I shall summon Perpetually Wroth Jesus to tan thy hinder parts.”
“I go church!” Testosterone Jesus shouted, and he clapped his hands gleefully.
I leaned against the counter and looked at 8 Ball. “Will you tell every stranger you meet on an airplane about Bargain Jesus?”
“It is certain,” he answered, a look of panic on his face.
I rolled my eyes and turned to KJJ. “You already read the Bible every day. You practically worship it.”
“Verily, thou speakest truth,” he admitted grudgingly.
Bargain Jesus bowed and gestured toward the elevators. We went over and pressed the button. Nearby I could see a Jesus with a gray
uniform and no mouth sweeping the floor.
“That’s Liberal Social Services Jesus,” Bargain Jesus said. “He thinks the best way to tell people about God is through service, but he never talks about God. He’s great to have around because he keeps the place spotless.”
“That does sound nice,” I said. “I should invite him over to my house sometime when Krista isn’t home. She’d love to come home to a spotless house.”
“Sometimes his brother, Conservative Truth-Telling Jesus comes around. He has no arms. He thinks the only way to tell people about God is through hard truth, and he never raises a hand to help people with their physical needs. He’s difficult to handle, honestly.”
Ding! The elevator had arrived. We stepped on and the doors shut. KJJ hit the button for the seventh floor, and as the elevator rose, Testosterone Jesus slapped himself in the forehead. “Today Sunday?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“I miss church?” He started crying.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t miss church.” When you make as many rash, fragile vows as Testosterone Jesus, it can make for a tortured and guilt-ridden experience.
The door opened to an expansive office that filled the entire floor. We stepped out, and over by one of the windows I saw a man wearing a suit, his back turned toward us. Beside him stood a donkey, also looking down over the city of Portland, with its bridges and network of streets, and in the distance Mount Hood rising up, clouds surrounding her like anxious servants.
Imaginary Jesus Page 6
