jesus and me talk about you all the time.
Posted: January 13th, 2007, 8:08 pm
I was walking casually down the street passing trash gardens and rail tracks, crack junkies galore when the payphone rang three blocks up from my place. Curiously, I answered.
“Hello” an obscure voice said, “Back door beauty?”
“No.” I replied.
“Yellow tail?”
“Sometimes,” I answered, “Who is this?”
“Jesus the new funkatron hero.”
“Jesus is a punk rocker?” I asked, remembering the lyrics to a local punk band’s song.
“Sometimes.”
We were quiet as the rain pitter-pattered away on the empty liquor bottles beside trash bins nearby.
“Is it wet?” He asked, voice low.
“What?”
“Outside, is it wet?”
“You ought to know.” I smiled, “You’re Jesus.”
He laughed, “I know it’s raining.”
Again, we were quiet until suddenly he said, “You’re smart, who put you here?”
“I dunno.”
“Was it me? I don’t remember you.”
“I don’t believe in Jesus.”
“Do you believe in me?”
“I thought you were Jesus.”
“Only for today.” He replied.
“What about tomorrow?”
“I don’t know; it doesn’t exist yet.”
“Were you Jesus yesterday?”
“Only during even hours and twice at 9-o-clock.”
I laughed and looked around. A little girl was watching me from behind her mother’s arm. She quickly hid out of sight when I met her gaze, peeling her pretty blue eyes from mine. I imagined little fairies and dancing girls in her head, good things and warm faces that could create a whole new classification of smiles. It was ridiculous—how the fuck could I possibly know what this girl was thinking? Just when I had that thought, another vision came to me via her imagination. It was of a tall figure in jeans and a checkered shirt. He walks over menacingly, takes a swig of Southern Comfort and smacks the little girl where she stands. I flinched on the impact and dropped the phone. Before I could look to the girl again, she and her mother had already boarded a bus and were heading up the road. I remembered the discarded receiver, picked it up, and placed it back against my ear, still sighting down the road after the bus. There was a dial tone. Jesus had deserted me—again.
“Hello” an obscure voice said, “Back door beauty?”
“No.” I replied.
“Yellow tail?”
“Sometimes,” I answered, “Who is this?”
“Jesus the new funkatron hero.”
“Jesus is a punk rocker?” I asked, remembering the lyrics to a local punk band’s song.
“Sometimes.”
We were quiet as the rain pitter-pattered away on the empty liquor bottles beside trash bins nearby.
“Is it wet?” He asked, voice low.
“What?”
“Outside, is it wet?”
“You ought to know.” I smiled, “You’re Jesus.”
He laughed, “I know it’s raining.”
Again, we were quiet until suddenly he said, “You’re smart, who put you here?”
“I dunno.”
“Was it me? I don’t remember you.”
“I don’t believe in Jesus.”
“Do you believe in me?”
“I thought you were Jesus.”
“Only for today.” He replied.
“What about tomorrow?”
“I don’t know; it doesn’t exist yet.”
“Were you Jesus yesterday?”
“Only during even hours and twice at 9-o-clock.”
I laughed and looked around. A little girl was watching me from behind her mother’s arm. She quickly hid out of sight when I met her gaze, peeling her pretty blue eyes from mine. I imagined little fairies and dancing girls in her head, good things and warm faces that could create a whole new classification of smiles. It was ridiculous—how the fuck could I possibly know what this girl was thinking? Just when I had that thought, another vision came to me via her imagination. It was of a tall figure in jeans and a checkered shirt. He walks over menacingly, takes a swig of Southern Comfort and smacks the little girl where she stands. I flinched on the impact and dropped the phone. Before I could look to the girl again, she and her mother had already boarded a bus and were heading up the road. I remembered the discarded receiver, picked it up, and placed it back against my ear, still sighting down the road after the bus. There was a dial tone. Jesus had deserted me—again.