Sweet Jesus

I met Jesus last night.

I met him at a rock show at the Fillmore. He was wearing a vegan leather jacket that smelled of lilac and gooseberries. I wasn’t even sure what gooseberries were until I met Jesus. He was tuning a bass guitar for the opening act when I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Whoa dude,” I said, “Jesus, dude, I thought you were dead.”

He gave a little smirk, a Jesus smirk, and said, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

My eyes went wide as it dawned on me that this was the literal second coming of Christ, right here, on stage at the Fillmore. I think Jesus knew my profound realization. He brought a finger to his lips, shhh, and adjusted some knobs on the Rickenbacker 4001S hanging off his tall, lissome body. He had rich almond skin kissed by the Mediterranean sun. I could see the strings through the stigmata of his hands. I tried to reach out and touch the hem of his garment, but a security guard got between us and ushered me off stage.

During the show, I ran into Jesus a second time. He was in line at the bar. The bartender had a confused look on his face and shrugged his shoulders. Jesus brought one hand to his heart, and two fingers in the air, a magnanimous gesture, but when Jesus turned around, I could see that his face was heavy with disappointment.

“Ah Jesus, what’s the matter?” I asked him.

His face instantly brightened at my concern.

“Alas, they do not serve fig wine.”

“But can’t you just make your own?”

“It’s not the same,” he said, crossing his arms. “Imagine listening to a tape recording of your own voice, but in liquid form.”

I made a cartoonish gagging gesture, and Jesus gave one of those exhaling chuckles. Jesus laughed at my joke. I always knew that if Jesus and I ever met we would become friends, best friends. In that moment I felt as though precious oil were being poured on my head, running down my beard, onto my collar, my shirt, and my pants. When I opened my eyes, Jesus was gone, and I realized that I had just wet myself.

In the bathroom at the Fillmore, after I tried my best to sop up the piss from my corduroy dungarees, I noticed a strange sniffling sound issuing from the handicap stall; heavy, deep breaths followed with the words sweet me whispered in a familiar voice. The door was unlatched, so I peered through. Jesus was sitting on the toilet, a small plastic mirror in one hand, and his nostril sucking a fat line of white powder through the hole in his other hand.

“Jesus! What are you doing?!”

Jesus carefully finished his line and calmly wiped his nose before saying,

“I am partaking of our daily bread.”

“That is not what that is.”

Jesus stood and dusted off his hands.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t know if you’ve ever been nailed to a cross before, but that kind of trauma really sticks with you. It's been two thousand years and I’m still trying to work through it. So, you know, sometimes I need a little something to take the edge off.”

“Oh,” I said, “I had no idea, I’m so sorry.”

“Please, do not weep for me.”

“Isn’t there someone you can talk to about this? Can’t you talk to God about it?”

Jesus rolled his eyes.

“God is busy with… other things.”

“What about a therapist?”

“No, dear child, a therapist cannot help me for I am the one who lifts the heavy burden of sin from all those who would seek the Kingdom of Heaven. Even as we speak, millions are calling upon me. Silently, loudly, hands clasped or missing, they are seeking absolution. I cannot deny their requests.”

“Jesus, that’s heavy.”

“It is,” Jesus said as he pocketed his cocaine mirror.

“Well what if maybe I took on some of that burden?”

Jesus looked upon me as if for the first time.

“Could you?” he asked.

“I don’t see why not. I’m young. I work out. I could help you lighten the load.”

Jesus narrowed his eyes as he looked me up and down, and slowly began nodding his head.

“It would certainly be a relief,” he said.

“That’s the spirit. C’mon Jesus, hit me with some of those immortal sins!”

Jesus smiled, and a warmth spread from my chest to my groin. Doubt could not find me in that moment, nor could hate or fear. The last thing I remember is Jesus bringing one hand to his heart and another to my chest.

That’s all I remember from last night, I swear. The nurses tell me that I fell and smacked my head on the lip of the bathroom sink. They say I was still screaming when the paramedics arrived, and I believe it because my throat has been killing me this whole time, I mean, can I get some water?

One of the officers looks up from his notepad, gestures to a nurse in the hall.

“So you’re saying you met a man named Jesus in the bathroom at the Fillmore, and he didn’t give you any illegal substances?”

“Correct.”

“But he was doing cocaine, right? That’s part of your statement?”

“He just needed something to take the edge off. I don’t know if it was cocaine.”

“But you said he had a uh,” the officer checks his notes, “a cocaine mirror, is that correct?”

“That’s not- okay yes, I said that, but it could have just been baby powder. Jesus works in mysterious ways, right?”

The nurse walks in and sets a water cup with a paper straw on my tray table. I lift it to my lips and am stung by the bruises, pinched by the collar around my neck. The nurse explains to the officers that visiting hours are coming to a close. The two of them get up from their seats, thank me for my statement, and exit the room. The nurse closes the curtain around me and follows them out.

I must have fallen asleep because when I open my eyes, I see someone else seated at my bedside. Someone who smells of lilac and gooseberries.

“Jesus, what- what happened?”

Jesus looks forlorn.

“Forgive me, my child. I should have known better.”

I shake my head, or at least try to, but the collar keeps me locked in place. Jesus takes my hand and looks deep into my eyes.

“I want you to know that what you told the officers was true. In the bathroom last night, it was baby powder,” Jesus says this with the utmost seriousness, “I was snorting baby powder.”

For a long, torturous moment, I am speechless.

“Of course,” I finally say.

Relief washes over the face of Jesus Christ. He releases my hand, and the two of us sit in silence for a moment. When Jesus speaks again, his voice is as soft and mellifluous as it was on stage at the Fillmore when we first met.

“I’m going away,” he says.

“To Heaven?”

“No, to Cincinnati. I’m helping the Decemberists kick off their world tour.”

“The Decemberists are on tour?”

“Yes, my child, but listen, if you ever need help with anything…”

Jesus gestures to his hands which are clasped together in prayer. He looks upon me with eyes like worlds. My lips are parched and broken, but the words spill so easily.

“Thank you,” I say with all my heart. “Thank you Jesus.”