Revelations (5 page)

Sometimes I don’t understand that man. I admit it—he confuses me. I’m not perfect, although I do strive to perfection. I’ve a long, long way to go before I get there, and I realize it. I’ve so very much to learn.

Judas, why cannot you love Mary, love everyone? You seem so very…angry. I wish I knew how to please you, to bring a smile to your face. Your very lovely face. I try my best, and sometimes I do succeed. But not nearly often enough.

Tell me what to do, tell me how you feel, really feel…

Father, I’m so very confused. Why does Judas confuse me like no other? What am I supposed to do here, how can I make things right between us when he isn’t even speaking to me?

I understand that being your son comes with grave responsibilities. But you’ve counseled me that I’m also a man, like other men. Is this where the confusion arises, from these feelings I don’t understand? Please send me some sort of sign, tell me what to do, how to feel. How to deal with my feelings.

Father, please counsel me. I know this is a selfish request, when so many others are in need of you, but perhaps a moment of your time? A father/son thing?

Judas, please, don’t be jealous of her. Of course I love her, I love everyone.

I love you, Judas…

Oh mercy, tonight is going to be rough, I can feel it.

Damn that bitch! Damn her to hell!

She didn’t have to show up like that! She wasn’t needed! She’s never needed!

Things were going fine without her. And now, because of her, he and I have fought. I’m sure she must be very pleased with herself, smug little bitch that she is.

She forgets that by hurting me in this way, she’s also hurting him. All she can see is getting even with me. For what reason, I don’t know. Some imagined slight, perhaps, in our long inglorious common past? Or is it simply because I refuse to fuck her? Women—who can figure them out? Certainly not me.

You know something? If I could, I’d kill the bitch, but what’s the point? She’d just come back again. Like a bad penny. Like a reverse good luck charm.

I’m kidding, of course. Not about wanting to, mind you, but about actually doing it. Even
we
aren’t allowed to commit such venal sins. It’s not like we have carte blanche to do as we wish. We have to obey the laws of the land that we live in. Well, mostly. Never mind, not going there at the moment. And Jesus is perfect, of course, he follows the path of righteousness simply because it
is
the path of righteousness and the proper thing to do.

Wait until I find out who gave her our
exact
location, though, because that was no lucky guess on her part. She
knew
just where we would be.
Exactly
where we would be. Had she come tonight I could’ve written it off as understandable, as our itinerary isn’t exactly secret after all. Otherwise people wouldn’t know how or when to find us. But it’s obvious to me that one of
them
told her, and if I had to take a guess it’s either Philip or Matthew, as I know she fucks them both.

Separately, together, I don’t know or care. Stupid asses, both of them, her little lapdogs—if she told either one to roll over, they’d drop to the ground and do it, barking. Grovel before the bitch, tongues hanging out, drooling in the same idiotic way. I’m surprised she doesn’t have them sporting dog collars. Maybe that comes next.

And why does she have to be here tonight?

All right, enough, enough. I know. Take a deep breath. Inhale, relax. I shouldn’t let her get to me like this. She isn’t worth it; she certainly isn’t worth losing sleep over. Unlike him. Which I’ve done, believe me. Often. Plus I’d never give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s upset me.

Everything’s in readiness for tonight. I’ve seen to that myself, it’s what I do.

The others may refer to me as anal, but no one else could possibly do the things I do, or as well as I do them. We each have our part to play, I believe I’ve mentioned that before, but I think no one wears quite as many hats as I do. I’m responsible for setting up the entire tour, plotting our itinerary, finding places to set up our show (revival, prayer meeting, gathering, what have you—a rose by any other name).

We typically prefer more rural settings as opposed to urban ones for our purposes.

There are so many people, particularly young ones, that aren’t being reached by anyone else—although we’ve been known to appear in major cities as well, at times. I’m the liaison officer with all local officials in terms of permits and licenses and what-have-yous, finding out what there is to be found about the local yokels so we can target our audience accordingly. I make sure we’re in strict accordance with all local statutes, even if I do have to kowtow to every Andy Griffith and Boss Hogg I come across. You can imagine how distasteful that is to me, when I know myself to be far superior to each and every one of them. But what can I do? Once again it comes down to following the script, and I can do nothing else. So I do what I’m supposed to do, what I need to do, to please him. Not Him, but him.

It all comes back to Jesus in the end. It always does. No pun intended. Damn.

Yes, I take it back, there was.

The tent has been completely set up. Once I was able to finally get those yahoos out of the water and back to work, that is. And by tent I don’t mean the flapping canvas affair reminiscent of carnivals and circuses in days of yore, medieval jousts or any of that sort of thing. Not that we haven’t had our fair share of those, but those days are long gone now, thank God. Hail modern technology and prefab! It should’ve been done before this, but we got sidetracked, what with the wine and the skinny-dipping, and yes, I admit it’s partially my fault.

Nonetheless, it’s finished, no harm done.

Simon is my chief muscle, it’s all he’s really good for, in my humble estimation. Or not so humble. Whatever. He and his brother Andrew, and also Bartholomew, are responsible for setting up. The others help, somewhat, but they’re really useless for the most part, fucking prima donnas. I swear, I’ve never seen them behave quite this way before, as if they lift something, they’re gonna break a nail—they’re acting like goddamned divas. Yes, I know, I said it again.

Language. I’ll try to do better, no promises. They’re acting like her, except maybe not quite as slutty. Fucking musicians. I swear. I’m going to make a request to God that maybe next time…never mind, it doesn’t matter what I suggest, it’ll be what it’ll be. You’d think I’d know better by now. And if I were to make an actual suggestion, it wouldn’t have anything to do with them, believe me, it would have to do with…Forget it. Fantasies. Pipe dreams. Some days I feel like I’m living in a Eugene O’Neil world, waiting for the iceman to cometh…damn, why’d I have to think that way?

The first night of our week—what we refer to as our week of salvation—

invariably begins with an open house for one and all. We’ve found that if we do as we wish and invite the young people first, the parents come with them anyway, as if they intend to form a protective phalanx about their tender offspring. Jesus finds it endearing, I simply find it annoying. Whatever. Of course it also draws the local constabulary. And every sleazeball, con man, and pervert within a hundred mile radius. But that’s okay, too. I handle them all, with great aplomb and panache. I am the overseer, so to speak—Jesus’ Simon Legree. Minus the dogs. And the ice floes.

Strange simile, I know. And I utilize my bouncers—aka Simon and Bartholomew

—for handling the physicalities. Arguments are my strong suit, not fighting. I was not made for brute force—they were. Intelligence is my forte, diplomacy. And before you say anything, shut the fuck up, Mary.

Enough explanation—I’m neither the local chamber of commerce nor am I Webster’s Unabridged.

As the tent fills with milling people, I wander among them. I have no fixed location. My job is to be everywhere, see everything, take care of everything.

When I’m working, I dress to fit the role, rather than my usual casual garb—or lack thereof. Tonight my choice is a three piece suit, my long golden hair tied back at the nape of my neck. Strictly off the rack, no designer crap for moi; as often as not I find my clothes in the local thrift shop. Let the slut parade about in her name brand extravagances—that’s money better put to good works, such as feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless. Why can’t she understand that? And why doesn’t he give her grief for it? Such a waste…

The young people flock to see us, and while a great part of the attraction, I know, is Jesus and his words—they simply adore him wherever we go—their interest is also due to the music we offer. Young people are easy to reach in that regard. Bring out a few guitars, some drums, some mumbled lyrics, and they’re willing to listen to your message. No, I’m not being cynical, merely realistic.

I glance at the stage, which is already set up, of course, the instruments sitting idle, the musicians not yet in place. Andrew, lummox Simon’s brother, is fiddling with the soundboard already, and I wince at occasional feedback from his direction. I wish I had some input into what that lot plays, but not one of them gives a fuck what I think or want. Personally, I’d replace all of them with a good stereo system any day. But Jesus prefers that they play, and what Jesus wants, Jesus gets. Amen. To be honest, Thaddeus does oblige me now and then with something more classical than not—he plays the violin, both electric and acoustic

—and James plays flute, and together they sound pretty good, I have to admit. Call me old fashioned, if you will, but there’s a reason the music I listen to has survived the test of time. Where will the headbangers be in fifty years? Hopefully, all dead.

I’m also partial to good choir music. Male voices raised together in perfect harmony in the performance of worshipful hymns. Beautiful. Touching. Very spiritual. When I play my tapes, as I’m wont to do when I’m working, and before anyone else has arrived, I continually receive queries as to who has died. Smart asses. I tell them they’re fucking heathens and that generally shuts them up. For the moment. Although I notice they never pull that shit when Jesus is around. It does no good to complain, though. He talks to them, they pretend to listen—the road to where is paved with what?—and then it simply happens again. I don’t care about them. I really don’t. Only him. Always him.

I have a table set up with informational pamphlets of all sorts—nothing too radical, as I’ve found that simply puts up the locals’ collective backsides too quickly, before we have a chance to get our message across. Not that they’ll all get it anyway, or even care that they don’t. But you reach the ones you can, and pray for the rest, you know? What is our message, you ask? I’m surprised you really don’t know. Peace, love, and understanding—what else? Love is the key to everything, for if you love all people, you have no time for violence or hatred, or any of the other evils with which our world is permeated. Tolerance of others with different beliefs—does it truly matter how you worship your God, as long as everyone acknowledges him in some form? Intolerance is simply intolerable, whether it be because of the color of one’s skin, the way one chooses to worship, or one’s sexual orientation (not surprisingly a pet peeve of mine, for obvious reasons). It saddens me to think that even if I won his love, I couldn’t wed him—

does it shock you to know I think of him that way? That I wish to marry him in the sight of God, his father, and live out our lives as any couple would? Perhaps you pity me for my exercise in futility, knowing he doesn’t feel that way, and that our story is already written and cannot be changed, no matter how I wish it? Well, save your fucking pity—there is nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know.

Don’t you think it hurts? Don’t you think it kills me to know I’m forever barred from something that should be a right of every person on this planet? Or do you believe Judas has no soul, no heart to harm…don’t believe everything you read in the scriptures. None of them knew me, or cared to know me. And dammit…

As I was saying, I have an information table set up in one corner, and I’ve put my little Thomas behind it to oversee things in my stead. Sweet boy. Thomas actually listens to what I say. The only one that even pretends to care how I feel, or what I think. And the only one of them I’m sleeping with this time around. Nothing constant or ongoing, more of an “as needed” basis. I can hear some of you now—a substitute for Jesus basis. I won’t dignify that with a response. And before you ask, yes, Jesus knows. It’s a little hard to keep secrets in our little group. How else would I know the whore offered herself to Jesus—again? She didn’t tell me, he didn’t tell me—but only because he was aware I knew, I’m sure. No, others took great pleasure in telling me, probably at her instigation. The same way my devotion to the Master is too well known to be any secret. What do I care what they think? I don’t. Thomas is dark, like him—and before you begin to infer anything, just don’t. Thomas sings backup vocals with the group—he has a sweet voice, but it’s not strong enough for solos, which is fine, Philip has those covered.

But nobody’s voice matches Jesus—not for purity, or clarity, or sheer beauty. I can’t help the shivers that consume me when that man begins to sing—the seraphim wish they possessed his ability. But that shouldn’t really surprise you, should it? He is His son, after all. And he is perfect.

What’s amazing to me, even after all this time, is that some things never do truly change. (Yes, I’ve changed subjects again—do try to keep up). Nothing is really new under the sun, as the saying goes. And everything comes around again.

Or is that everything old is new again? Fashions—clothes, hair styles, mannerisms, expressions—they come and they go, circle, make the circuit, and return. But beneath it all, people stay the same. There’s a reason why stereotypes are stereotypes, and why clichés often ring true.