Flowers in a Dumpster (18 page)

***

Hagan watched the Cadillac disappear down the ramp before going back inside the restroom. Raymond’s body lay inside the door. Hagan dragged the corpse halfway out, propped it up against the open door so that the dingy light from the parking lot would filter into the restroom. Hagan set about collecting his tools and stuffing them into his pack. Before leaving, he went over to the urinals and looked into them one at a time. In the third one he found the switchblade, floating in the yellowish water. Hagan reached in and put the blade in his pack with the rest of his things.

Back outside, he inhaled the clean air deeply. The rain seemed to have purified everything, a freshness descending on the world. He closed his eyes and imagined he was the only person on the planet. That he had the whole Earth to himself, that he had ridded the world of every other living soul.

Except for the driver. He would let him live. Together they would reign.

Hagan’s pleasant reverie was interrupted by the sound of an approaching motor. He opened his eyes and took off across the lot, rushing into the surrounding woodland. When he felt he’d put enough distance between himself and the rest stop, he made his way back to the highway. It was a five mile trek back to his home, but he didn’t mind.

Walking along the highway like this, backpack hanging heavy on his back, Hagan felt a little like that character from the old
Incredible Hulk
television show. This amused him and he said aloud to the night, “Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

A few cars passed him, but he didn’t bother to raise his thumb. He’d had enough for one night. He wanted to get home and get some rest.

He’d probably sleep though the day then wake refreshed and ready for another night of pursuing his art.

WALKING TALKING JESUS

I was kneeling at the altar of the old church when a voice said, “Excuse me.”

This startled me, because I’d been sure I was alone in the sanctuary. I quickly scanned the pews for a new arrival, perhaps someone else waiting to say a prayer, but the place was still empty.

“I’m up here.”

The voice was no less startling the second time around, although I did pinpoint its location. I raised my head and blinked rapidly, sure I was seeing things. The large wooden Jesus hanging on the cross at the back of the pulpit stared down at me with his head cocked. His lips creaked up into a slight smile. “Could I trouble you for some help?”

At first I couldn’t speak. Ironic, I thought. Here was a thing that shouldn’t be able to speak, speaking, whereas I am supposed to speak and couldn’t. The Jesus waited with a patient expression on his splintery face.

When I finally regained my voice, I said, “Are you talking to me?” Perhaps not the most intelligent question in the world, but my wits seemed to have fled.

The Jesus turned his head one way and then the other, making a show of looking around the sanctuary. “I don’t see anyone else here.”

I stammered a bit, cleared my throat, swallowed as if I had a large wad of bread stuck in my throat, and said, “What kind of help do you need?”

“I was hoping you could help me down from here.”

“Off . . . you mean off the cross?”

“Well, yes. You see, I’ve been up here for centuries and it is more than a bit uncomfortable.”

“But, um, you can’t get down.”

“I could if you would offer me a little assistance.”

“But . . . you’re Jesus.”

“Yes, I know.”

“We need you on the cross. It’s what saves us from ourselves.”

“I know, and I don’t want to be down forever. I just need to stretch my legs a bit, work out some of the stiffness.”

“I guess that would be okay.”

“Sure it will. You can trust me, after all. Help me down, let me get a taste of the world, and I’ll hop right back up here in a week’s time. Two, tops.”

I pondered this for a moment. It didn’t seem an entirely unreasonable request. I knew how bad my neck hurt if I slept funny, so I could only imagine the discomfort of being in his position for as long as he’d been. Besides, it would only be for a little while. He’d promised, and surely Jesus wouldn’t lie to me.

So I stood up, went over to the corner where I knew there was a supply closet. I located the ladder and returned to carefully help Jesus down from the cross, getting a few splinters in my fingers for my trouble. He was unsteady on his feet and I let him lean against me.

“Thank you, child,” he said. “What is your name?”

“Paul.”

“Oh, I used to know a Paul. I hate to do this, you’ve been so kind already, but I have yet one more favor to ask.”

“What?”

“Do you have a place I can crash?”

***

I took the sofa and let Jesus have my bed—it seemed the Christian thing to do.

He was a polite and thoughtful guest.

I awoke the next morning to the smell of sizzling bacon. Entering my tiny cubbyhole of a kitchen, I found that he had prepared breakfast fit for a king, with pancakes and eggs, bacon and sausage, homemade biscuits with rich gravy, even some fried ham.

I stared at the feast with wide eyes. “Did you go to the store?” I asked.

Jesus shook his head. “I used what you had around.”

“I didn’t think I had this much food in the fridge.”

“I make due.” Jesus shrugged.

The food was delicious, and I only had to pick out a few stray slivers of wood, which I then used as toothpicks. Jesus seemed to delight in his meal as well, scarfing down three full helpings.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, “I haven’t eaten in so very long.”

I frowned. “But how can you eat anything? Aren’t you, you know,
solid
?”

Jesus considered this then shrugged again. “I guess it’s a miracle.”

“That makes sense, I suppose.”

When we finished breakfast, we both did the dishes. I washed, Jesus dried. Once that was done, I said, “I have to go to work. Will you be alright here on your own for a while?”

“Sure, maybe I’ll watch some TV.”

***

Two days later Jesus asked if he could borrow some clothes. He’d worn nothing but a loincloth for so long, he thought it might be nice to dress like everyone else for a change. I lent him an old Pearl Jam T-shirt, some cargo shorts, and a pair of sandals. He found a slightly beat up fedora on the top shelf of my bedroom closet and asked to wear that as well. It looked rather silly with the outfit, but you don’t exactly say no to Jesus.

I took him out to the park near my apartment. He sat on a bench for a long time, watching the children climb all over the playground equipment, smiling and laughing. Jesus, after all, loves the little children. We then strolled along the bike path for a bit, feeling the sunshine on our faces. It was a nice afternoon.

That evening Jesus insisted we go up to the roof of the apartment building and watch the sun set. I’d never actually taken the time to watch a sunset before. It was indeed magnificent. A celestial light show like none I’d ever seen. We stayed out there long after night fell, not saying much. Jesus seemed entranced by the stars. For someone whose Father created the universe, everything seemed new to him.

When we went back down to the apartment, Jesus surprised me by grabbing me and planting a kiss on my lips. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve never kissed anyone before, and I wanted to experience it.”

“And how was it?” I asked, feeling a bit flabbergasted.

Jesus shrugged. “Nice, but I think I’d need to do it some more to really know what I think of it.”

This time I put my arms around him, leaning in for the kiss. This one was longer, deeper. His lips were hard and his tongue tasted vaguely of sawdust, but the experience still sent a tingle up my spine like an electrical current.

When the kiss broke, I was panting as if I’d just sprinted a hundred yard dash. Jesus took my hand and told me I didn’t have to sleep on the sofa that night.

***

We spent all day Saturday in our pajamas watching television. He seemed enamored with cable, all the many different options. He watched a little of everything for five to ten minutes then flipped to something else. The only thing he seemed to have a real distaste for was the news.

“Everything is war and murder and scandal and famine,” he said, grimacing. “Is it always like this?”

I considered the question then shrugged. “There has always been bad stuff in the world, but it seems to have gotten worse, more hopeless, in the past week. Ever since . . . Well, you know.”

Jesus changed the channel and the subject along with it.

***

The next day I asked if he wanted to go to church with me.

“I don’t think so,” he said, rummaging through my closet, looking for an outfit. “I’ve spent so much time there, you understand. I was thinking we could go somewhere different today, somewhere fun.”

“What did you have in mind?”

He smiled at me.

***

We went to Wacky World, a local amusement park. We rode all the rides—some twice. We ate tons of junk food, petted the animals at the petting zoo, and zip-lined over the lake, something I’d never had the nerve to do before. The day was unforgettable. I had an absolute blast. Although I don’t think I was enjoying myself nearly as much as Jesus. He whooped and hollered and laughed like a kid.

I couldn’t help but notice, however, that those around us did not seem to be having as good a time as us. The people seemed morose and unenthusiastic, even the children. I noticed it, but decided not to dwell.

After all, it had been such a glorious day.

***

It was the middle of the next week when I came home from work to find Jesus making love to the mail lady in my bed, what I had come to think of as
our
bed.

She had the decency to seem embarrassed, quickly dressed, gathered up her mailbag, and rushed out the door. Jesus, on the other hand, seemed not the least bit ashamed.

“I’m trying to experience everything I can,” he said. “The world has so much to offer.”

“But what about me?”

“What about you?”

“I . . . I thought you loved me.”

“I do. I love everyone in the world.”

***

Over the course of the next week, I started seeing less and less of Jesus. He stayed out late, apparently making new friends who took him to nightclubs. He got a tattoo, a Chinese water symbol carved right into his wooden forearm. He also had people over to the house at all hours, playing loud music, smoking and drinking.

A few times when I actually managed to catch him alone I tried to broach the subject of him going back on the cross where he belonged, but he was always too busy to discuss it.

***

I tried going to church the following Sunday, but no one was there. Not even the preacher. I guess with the cross empty, no one saw the point.

The news became more disheartening every day. The world wasn’t becoming more violent or more dangerous, simply more apathetic. People had stopped caring—about each other, about their jobs, about their homes.

It was as though the collective lives of mankind had lost all meaning.

***

Jesus had been in my home for nearly two months when he came to me excitedly one day and said, “I got a job.”

“What? Where?”

“I’m bagging groceries down at the Food Emporium.”

“You’re going to work at a grocery store?”

Jesus looked offended. “Hey, it’s decent money and within walking distance. I can save up to get a car and eventually my own place.”

The whole conversation was causing me to feel a little dizzy so I sat down heavily on the sofa. I couldn’t say I was entirely surprised; part of me had known this was coming. “Your own place?”

“Yeah, I can’t keep living with you forever.”

“But you’ve got to get back up on that cross.”

He folded his arms and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“But you have to. It’s your . . . I don’t know, your duty.”

“I think I performed that duty long enough,” he said, walking around behind me. “It’s time I got to have a life.”

“But don’t you see what’s going on in the world? Mankind needs a Savior.”

“I know,” Jesus said, and I heard real mourning in his voice. “I’m sorry.”

I turned to look at him in time to see the bat swinging toward me.

***

When I came to, I didn’t know where I was. After my initial disorientation passed, I looked at the church’s sanctuary. Looking
down
at the sanctuary. The pews were full again, some people with their heads bowed in prayer, others with faces and hands upraised. There was singing and laughing and shouts of “Amen.”

The preacher stood directly beneath me, his face beaming with joy. “We knew you would not forsake us, Lord. We praise you and thank you for returning to us.”

I did not speak, didn’t know what I would say even if I could. I could feel the nails through my wrists and feet, the thorns digging into my forehead, the spear gouging my side, oddly, there was little pain. Discomfort, yes, but no real pain.