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Chapter 1
1 So, I heard that after Jesus rose from the dead on Sunday, he was tired and a bit stiff. He went to see his mother and some of his apostles and friends, and got a [redacted] massage from Mary Magdalene. A splash of water on his face and he was revived, Luke told me. Then he came here to my place. I have a nice condo with a spare room and a second bathroom, and so had no problem when he asked if he could stay a few days while he got his thoughts together and figured out his next move. His father was still mad at him for that whole “why have you forsaken me?” thing on the cross, but Jesus and I talked it through.
2 “Jesus, man, you had nails in all your limbs and a vinegared stab wound in your side. Couldn’t he cut you some slack?”
3 “It’s fine, really, Wayne. I mean, he’s old school, you know. Do whatever your parents say, that kind of thing.”
4 I shook my head, thinking that he was being way to generous and forgiving. But that’s kind of his thing, I thought. I had some imported European beer in the fridge, and so I asked Jesus if he wanted one, or did he want to make some wine, you know, like in the old days.
5 “Is the beer cold?”
6 “Fuck yeah.”
7 We both laughed and it felt good after the hell that everyone had been through the previous week. I settled into my comfy brown leather armchair and Jesus sat on the grey couch perpendicular to it, on the right-hand side so that we were close and could talk easily. Sometimes Jesus was very garrulous, and sometimes he went silent, and I just went with the flow, experiencing the moment and letting him be.
Chapter 2
We had one of those close conversations that only bonded friends can have, covering everything from the teeny to the funny to the very profound. I asked him about the time he was actually in the tomb, and he said it wasn’t that bad, except for the stone bed. As soon as they pushed the boulder across to supposedly seal off his influence, he was awakened by his father and told what the plan would be. A few days in the tomb, and then someone would come and remove the boulder, and voilà, no Jesus. God would make sure that the boulder-mover fell off a cliff later, just so that there was nobody to give away the true story.
It was musty in there, but there was a Coleman cooler filled with some of his favourite things, and packed with ice.
"Well, it doesn’t quite compensate for being nailed to a fucking cross," he said, "but it was very much appreciated." He overdid it a bit on the Nutella and sourdough bread, but the almond milk settled his stomach. He slept like a baby that first night, he said.
Jesus was still asleep when I got up the next morning, snoring softly when I peeked in on him in the second room.
All good, I thought. I made some bacon and scrambled eggs, my famous blueberry oatmeal muffins, and some good strong dark roast, and as soon as it was all ready, there he appeared in the kitchen—and I mean appeared, like, he was just there, seemingly without actually walking out of the bedroom—at the perfect time, just like in the movies.
He looked good, well rested, and I was the same, so we settled in for a full nutritious meal to start the day. And talked about plans …
Chapter 3
We started to focus the topics of our conversation more than we had the previous night. He said he had two priorities: giving himself some time for the wounds to heal was first. The stigmata interfered with basic keyboarding, and as for texting, forget it.
“I’ll talk to my doctor today,” I said. “She may be able to fast-track you to a specialist.”
The other priority was finding work. He joked—you know, the kind of joke that’s not really a joke—that he couldn’t live on self-produced wine and loaves and fishes for the rest of his life.
“Well,” I said, “you’re kind of catching the world at the best and the worst of times. All the macro things seem totally fucked. Geopolitics, war, economies, supply chain, violence, and on it goes. But they say there’s like thousands of unfilled vacancies out there right now. And to top it off: they are looking for people in the trades, because all the Boomer guys who did that work are now retiring. You’ve got a ton of experience in carpentry. You just need to get a qualification or something from a college.”
He sipped his coffee and grimaced, partly at the contents, partly at the prospect of having a lot to attend to if he was going to be a successful worker.
“College?” he asked.
“Yeah, usually you can’t just wander around like in the old days and stop at an experienced carpenter’s place, and then, presto, you’re his journeyman and set for life. You need to get papers at a college. Probably like a year’s program, I’d guess?”
“Is it expensive? And, you know, I was thinking of getting into some other business maybe. I’m thirty-five now and I’m not sure I want to be bending over all the time, and risking the loss of a finger every time I try to saw a plank in half.”
I sipped and grimaced myself this time, but managed: “So what do you want to do? What are you good at—that could pay well?”
“I’ve been thinking of freelance writing.”
“Oh, fuck, no.” The words were out of me before I had a chance to constrain myself.
“It’s perfect,” he said. “I’ve got a hell of a story to tell, and frankly a lot of the historical record to correct from what those hacks Matthew, Luke, John, and especially Mark cranked out. My father was a writer, you know.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with his work,” I said, sadly. I adjusted myself, mentally and physically in the chair, and tried to be more positive. “Listen, you can stay here as long as you need to. Why don’t we concentrate on the hand holes and that slit in your side first?”
“You make a good point,” he conceded.
Chapter 4
Jesus was up before me the next morning. It was Wednesday, three days since he had, as the mainstream media styled it, “risen from the dead.” I didn’t smell coffee (sigh) and as I passed the kitchen on my way into the living room, I was cartoonishly startled by the windows behind my couch.
“What the fuck?”
Jesus was sitting at the dining room table, a little too blasé for my taste, scrolling around on my laptop which he had evidently found in the guestroom closet.
He looked up from the screen, still eerily calm.
“The windows,” I said.
“Yeah, good morning. That’s Dad, I mean, God. God at work. His passive-aggressive way of showing me that he heard me when I mentioned forsakening on the cross. And that he’s pissed that I haven’t ascended back to heaven this time. Middle of April and there’s ice on your windows. I fucking hate when he does this shit, but I guess we should be happy he hasn’t done anything Old Testament–worthy.” He paused. “Yet, anyway.”
I stood there wanting juice and a sliced banana on peanut-buttered toast more than I had ever wanted it. And coffee. I wanted coffee. Had he never been a guest often enough in other people’s homes to know that that’s the first thing you do?
I calmed myself. I could grind the beans and be drinking dark roast in less than five minutes.
“Why are you up so early?”
“It’s my hands and feet mostly. The pain comes and goes but it’s excruciating when it comes.”
“How’s the side?”
“Oh, that. That’s fine. It was a clean stab and frankly I think the vinegar did it good.”
“Still, we need to get you to a hospital today.”
He was back at the screen again and so I made coffee. The sound of the grinder cancelled everything else out, and I had a respite of this-is-not-really-happening. I put the grounds in, taking a whiff of them first, and then waited for the water to produce enough for two cups. I stood there, everything silent except for his typing and the coffee maker gurgling. I stood there and looked through the living room at ice on the windows that was finally starting to melt because of the sunshine.
And I saw that it was good.
“We need a plan for the day,” I said, setting down the cups. “You can’t go out in a tunic and sandals and with that—well, with that hair. At worst we’ll have born-again Christians chasing us, and at best it’ll be people from the theatre shouting that you’d make a good Jesus.”
Silence.
“Are you listening. Listen, Jesus, for fuck sake, close that thing and talk to me.” He did as he was told.
The discussion for the next hour (God help me) was frustrating and infuriating. I was livid half the time, and depressed the other half. It finally ended with me shaving his head hair completely off and reducing his beard (“trademark beard,” he insisted) to a goatee. All of my clothes were too big for him, but with paper towels stuffed into the toes of the shoes, and a ‘70s belt that had holes all the way around and so could hold up big pants, and a joint concession to a baggy shirt, we got him ready to go outside and to the hospital.
We sat in my Audi and after I pushed the start button it occurred to me.
“We’re going to have to come up with a new name for you, too.”
Chapter 5
We sat in the car and I pondered how I was going to get him treatment in the hospital, while he fiddled with the glove compartment, opening and closing it, opening and closing it, just totally enthralled and fascinated.
“Stop that.”
He looked over at me. I have to admit that I’d done a magnificent job of making him not look at all like he looked last Friday, or how he’s been depicted in many precious photos since the Renaissance. I had a brief image flash of that classic photo of him, looking on high, wearing a white tunic, but his heart is outside his body being offered to the rest of the world in order to save us. Doesn’t anyone do any vetting of this stuff? Does the message make up for the visual image? It reminded me of an Elvis portrait, but it’s the one of the last day of his life when he has fallen off the toilet to his death. Jesus.
“It’s just fascinating what you humans have created in two thousand years,” Jesus said.
“We’ve done a lot of damage, too. Let’s talk later about that. We need a name for you. Your not near Hispanic-looking enough for your own name to cut it. We need something innocuous for a swarthy young man such as yourself. How about Bob?”
“I wasn’t born yesterday. Bob? No. Absolutely not.”
It went on like that for a full fifteen minutes. Ultimately, I conceded and allowed him the name he wanted: Brad.
“I’ve seen some of his movies. Handsome young man. And a good actor but underrated.”
“OK. Brad it is. Now let’s go in and let me see if I can talk them into getting you in here.”
Alas, it was another long discussion. No, he didn’t have any ID. No, he wasn’t born in Canada. No, he wasn’t employed right now. They let him in anyway after I showed my health card, and a prompt nurse showed up to wheelchair him off to surgery.
I sat in the waiting area. It had obviously been updated from what I’d seen in too many movies. The chairs were comfortable. It wasn’t crowded. There were plug-in stations for devices. Very nice. I checked my email and found that there were too many unread for me to even start to look at that right now. I checked some news sites, MSM and alt. The world was as fucked as it had been since COVID.
About three hours later Jesus walked up to me, no accompaniment, and said he was ready to go. I thought it was a joke or an illusion or a self-benefitting miracle, but, no: the surgery was done and he was just left with some prescriptions to fill. They wanted him to report back in a month.
“Well, that was easy,” he said. “Is everything this fantastic on earth?”
It was not the time to make any comment.
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