Revelations (6 page)

I watch the young people that fill the tent. Most of them gravitate toward the stage, a few stop by the table to converse with Thomas, because he can relate to them on their own level. Another reason why I chose him. The parents tend to be more wary, at least some of them, perhaps concerned with what they’re afraid is going to happen to their offspring—as if anything that concerns the word of God could be bad? Or anything that proceeds from the lips of Jesus? Yes, I know, they don’t realize he is Jesus—that’s the whole point. You needn’t remind me, I know the facts of the case better than anyone. What do they think we are then? A Christian pseudo-rock band with a message? Perhaps. What’s more important is what the kids come away thinking about. That’s what counts, after all. They’re the ones we’re here for. It’s the young ones I hold out the most hope for. The only hope, actually. Their parents are beyond redemption. Don’t believe what they tell you—you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Place your money on the puppies.

As I watch, my attention is caught by a middle-aged man, probably a father of one of these young people, or at least that’s my assumption. He leans across the table, caught up in earnest conversation with Thomas. There’s something almost disturbing in the man’s expression, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, or why I think so. But there’s something about him I just don’t trust. Thomas lays a commiserating hand upon his arm, and the man recoils. In disgust, perhaps? I like him even less now.

As I make a move in their direction, intending to play peacemaker—or judge and jury, whichever is required—the man straightens up, stuffs a pamphlet Thomas has given him into his pocket, and shambles off. Hopefully to leave, but no, I see he’s joined up with a young man; glancing from one to the other, it’s not hard to deduce they’re father and son. The boy seems less than pleased to see his parent; I can see his animosity in his expression, even from where I stand. He pulls away from his father, and walks off, which is when I stop paying attention. Note to self: ask Thomas about that later. No time to worry about it now. My mind is taken up with far more urgent concerns.

It’s almost time for everything to begin now. I’m making a final circuit of the tent, watchful for last minute snafus. Matthew is whispering conspiratorially with Andrew at the soundboard, and as I draw near I’d swear he looks guiltily in my direction. I’m not sure what it is he can feel guilty about, but there must be something. Probably something I’m not privy to, some plans they’re making that don’t include me. I give him a bleak look. Keep your secrets, little man, the truth has a nasty habit of coming out when you least expect it to. And then…then…

Never mind what then, that is privileged information.

“Is there a problem?” I ask, standing before them now, hands on hips, looking at them bleakly. They shake their collective heads—I can hear the rattle. Even so, they still look guilty. Whatever. I say something on the noncommittal side and turn away. I’m not completely convinced of their truthfulness, so I’m sure I’ll have to make the circuit again. I find myself rudely jostled by this unmannerly crowd as it begins to jockey for position nearer to the stage, surging up from the back of the tent, gawking and rubbernecking already. Damn. I receive an elbow to the kidney for my trouble, but of course there is no way of knowing who the culprit was, nor do I hear any sort of apology. These rubes have no manners whatsoever. I know if I chose to, I could step more directly into this century by wearing wireless headphones to keep in contact with everyone, thus eliminating the need for this personal intervention. And eliminate this unwanted body contact. But I’m old-fashioned in this regard, and I think my presence is more effective than my mere voice would be. Plus, it keeps me busy.

Right. Like I wouldn’t be anyway…

What was that? My head jerks up suddenly as I spy what appears to be a familiar dark head among the strangers. Can it possibly be Jesus? But how? Why?

He never mingles with the audience beforehand, preferring to meditate in silence until it’s time for him to speak, and to sing. Is something wrong? Has something happened, something changed? Or…or can he be looking for me, wishing us to make amends for our former harsh words? My heart finding a home in my throat, I leave the two children to their electronics as I seek to follow his gliding form, but there are people swimming in between us, annoying bodies that I’d love to simply plow through and toss aside, but there they are, and he’s blocked to my view now.

Dammit.

No, wait, I catch sight of him again, as if I’m attuned to him somehow, homing in on his presence, and just as I change direction, setting a new course in which to intercept him, to ascertain that all is well—or not, as the case may be—my arm is caught up, arrested, taken hold of, and even as I glance in annoyance at the perpetrator, I recognize him. Dennis Kaplan. Local constabulary. The one I’ve had to deal with ever since our arrival. The fuzz. The law. The All-American boy, down to the sandy hair, freckles, and slightly gapped smile. How incredibly…

wholesome. The one who has been incessantly attempting to speak to Jesus, gain access to him—which I have yet to allow—and which I will
not
allow, unless it’s on my own terms. And having said that, has he bypassed me somehow, achieved his goal despite my best efforts to keep that from happening, and is that why Jesus was/is out here? I refrain from frowning at him, waiting to see what sort of game he wishes to play with me now. Or what sort of demands he wishes to make.

“Nice turnout, Mr. Jarvis,” he comments laconically, as he pulls me to the side, to a place where we’ll be relatively undisturbed and away from the maelstrom that eddies about us. What did you expect, we’d use our own names? Be serious.

Surprisingly enough, Kaplan isn’t your typical small-town hick, even if he does resemble Howdy Doody. I suspect he’s a big city import, rather, cutting his teeth in the provinces before making his debut on Broadway, so to speak. And simply itching to do so. So what does that mean to us? We need to be careful. He may be looking for a quick path to fame, a fast way of seeing his name written in the bright lights, maybe at our expense. I see a lot of Pilate in him—young and eager, ambitious for more than a mere governorship in one of the distant outposts of the Roman empire, he possessed a strong desire to bask more closely in the glory that belonged to the Caesars, corrupt though it may have been. For that reason alone, I’m watchful of Kaplan. And for other reasons I don’t care to enumerate here.

“Pretty good, yes,” I reply noncommittally, my eyes continuing to scan the weaving mass of humanity around me for any sign of Jesus. But my search is a lost cause and I can feel it. He manages to catch my attention with his next comment, though. My completely riveted attention.

“You know, don’t you, that sodomy is still on the books in these parts, right?” As if he’s continuing a conversation we’ve begun previously, although that’s definitely not the case. And this is a subject that’s definitely never been discussed between us.

What the fuck? A bit random, don’t you think? And definitely out of order. I narrow my eyes at him, saying nothing. For the moment. Being my usual diplomatic self.

“Just a friendly warning. Wouldn’t want y’all to get caught with your pants down. Or your dicks hanging out in front of the children.” What a tool.

“You’re equating homosexuals with pedophiles, I’m afraid. Come into the twenty-first century, and at least get your terms straight, Dick Tracy.” I don’t lose my cool, no matter how tempted I am to let loose some sort of verbal barrage at him. I have to remember I’m acting in the capacity of Jesus’ representative, and not for myself, or I surely would.

That brings out a smile, a friendly smile, albeit a hungry one, as if he senses my underlying resentment. He should. He caused it. “Are you saying it isn’t possible to be both?” The false smile fails to reach his eyes, but they do seem to glint with their own private amusement.

“We aren’t pedophiles, I assure you, officer, and anything else we are is none of your business.” I never raise my voice a single decibel. Calm, cool and collected. Even if seething inside. Still wondering if he’s spoken to Jesus, and if he’s dared to make these same insinuations to him. My need to protect Jesus is clearly showing.

“I’ve already heard stories of your…goings on,” he continues, “I’d hate for your boss to get into trouble, you know? He doesn’t seem the sort to consort with those of your…persuasion, shall we say?”

I narrow my eyes at him and his insinuations—both about me and about Jesus.

Who has he been talking to, I wonder. “How about we
don’t
say?” This is simply beneath my dignity to address in any sort of fashion whatsoever. And just no one’s business.

“How does he reconcile your behavior with what he talks about, with the Bible and God and everything?” he asks curiously, as if he’s not heard me, or he’s chosen not to listen, his eyes fastened securely upon my face. He pulls a rumpled handkerchief from one pocket, and loudly blows his nose upon it. Just what the hell is he fishing for, what does he want? “Sorry, damn allergies,” he apologizes, before replacing the cloth into his pocket once more.

“We’re all the children of God, and He loves us equally.” My pat response. Not as if I haven’t heard this particular charge before, more than once. But I’ve heard enough for now. And I
do
have things to do. “You’re free to stay, of course, Officer, but I’m afraid that I’m busy.” Smoothly I turn as if to dive back into the fray once more. And once again his hand arrests my movement.

“Don’t mistake me for the enemy,” he says simply, “I’m only trying to help.” Yes, but who is he trying to help? “You could turn out to be your own worst enemy, you know. Or his.” Before I can think of a decent response, one with just the right amount of venom, he’s merged himself with the crowd around us, and in a moment all that can be seen of him is the tip of his ten gallon hat bobbing away. As I stand looking after him, I become all too aware my mouth is hanging open, and I shut it quickly, forestalling any comments.

Bastard.

Fucking bastard.

Fuck him. Fuck every last goddamned motherfucking holier-than-thou motherfucker who dares to push their pious crap down my throat. And everyone that dares to use the word Sodomite in my presence. Or who tries to tell me what God thinks or feels about me. I
know
better. I know Him personally, after all. He has no problem with who or what I am. After all, he made me this way. Made us all this way. And he does
not
think of us as mistakes, I assure you.

I need to calm down. Seriously. Before I do or say something stupid. No comments from the peanut gallery, if you please.

I sense a change in the crowd around me, a heightening tension, an eager expectation. As I glance up, I see the show’s about to begin. The musicians are taking to the stage now, picking up their instruments, fucking around on them in the guise of “tuning up”—it’s more for show than anything else. Thomas has left the table behind, left the pamphlets and such to take care of themselves. That’s fine. This is what matters now. He’s been a great help today. I’ll have to remember to thank him.

At this point, I’ve noticed, the audience generally separates itself into layers, usually on the basis of age. The younger ones maneuvering, in order to be closer to the stage, the older ones moving farther away from the speakers. Can’t blame them there—fucking loud they get at times when Andrew thinks he’s running the soundboard for Metallica. This type of behavior only earns him a cuff against his thick head from me.

At this point in the proceedings, I prefer to remain to myself, simply observing, making sure everything runs smoothly. And let’s face it, when Jesus isn’t on the stage, my attention is not going to be held. An honest observation, nothing more.

Let the music begin.

For once, surprisingly, they’ve chosen to open with something that doesn’t blast, snatch, induce nausea, or demand attention. In fact, it’s really rather sweet, and compelling, and I notice more than a few people are swaying on their feet, a simple back and forth repetitive motion, in time to the melody. I admit I’m swaying a bit myself, for the moment relaxing my attention from those around me.

Until I hear a throaty voice whispering directly into my ear, a warm arm wrapping itself securely about my waist.

“Judas, you pretty thing, when will you allow me to fuck your delectable body and show you what true ecstasy is?”

Ladies and gentlemen—the devil does not wear Prada. He prefers Armani, if the truth be told. And here he is behind me now, pressed up against me with a raging erection—not that I haven’t felt that before, many times—and he’s whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

And it’s taking all my self-control not to elbow him in his gut.

I love my electric guitar, I really do. I love the way it feels in my hands, the way it vibrates. Almost like it’s alive. It’s just the most incredible feeling ever. I can’t imagine not having electricity, I’m so used to it. It’s just so…so…awesome!

I’m glad we’re in a band this time around, it’s like the best thing we’ve ever gotten to do.

Even if Judas is still here.

Scratch that. He’ll always be here, and I know it. He wouldn’t be so bad, I think, if he pulled the stick out of his ass. You’d think he’d be nicer, since he and Thomas are sleeping together. But I guess not. And it doesn’t keep him from staring at Jesus all the time. When will he just give up? It’s not going to happen.

Not ever. It’s Mary Jesus is in love with. I know it is. But I understand. It’s cool.

Mary’s the best, and Jesus is the best, so it’s natural they should end up together, you know?

One of my regrets is we don’t get to use a light show for the band. Judas says it’s gaudy and trashy, but I sure wish we would. I got to see a real concert once—