Your Personal Savior

I figured out where Jesus lived. I was walking home from SuperFresh and made him out through the shaded wilderness of the yard that turned out to be his. He was wearing basketball shorts, his light brown hair falling down his bare back. It was the middle of a muggy Long Island heat wave, and I could feel humid sweat dripping down my own back. It sounded like Jesus was cracking nuts — acorns or something? — into a big plastic garbage bag. The bag was already more than half full. I kept walking, wishing there was someone I could tell about my discovery.

I had nothing but time these days. I was 66 and lived alone in the house where I grew up. No job, no family, no one to make plans with. I didn’t even watch TV any more. Cable was too expensive, and I couldn’t figure out the new ways people were watching their shows — Netflix and such. So, I walked the neighborhood — for errands or exercise or whatever. Had to do something.

It was during my walks that I became fixated on that corner house, about six blocks from my own. I peered through the dense foliage every time I passed. The stucco of the house was probably beige or even white at some point, but the parts I could make out now were covered in dark green stains wrought by neglect and too much shade. Like it never got a chance to dry out. Tangled vegetation grew out over the sidewalk so you’d have crouch down or walk out into the street to pass by. Our neighborhood was old by Long Island standards, small tidy houses built in the 1920s. Capes, red-tiled Spanish, fairy-tale Tudors. But this house was out of place, spooky.

I’d been seeing Jesus walk the streets for years. He didn’t seem to age. For a while he’d had a dog, a black and white shaggy thing you imagined would be called Oreo. When it was warm, Jesus wore no shirt. Just the basketball shorts. When it was cold, it was always the same greasy black parka. 

Like the actual Bible Jesus, this one was all slim hips and skinny shoulders, his posture and gait bordering on the feminine. Wavy hair framed his face like the guy on the Jesus-saves brochures the nice ladies handed out in front of Dollar Tree. My Jesus wore glasses, so that was different. Aviators, but not cool. Like they were from the 1980s, with thick lenses. 

In my neighborhood, you had three categories of walkers: normal people getting exercise, dog-walkers, and nut jobs. In the first category, you had people like the three retired guys who walked together every morning, all hearty and cheerful. You had the ladies in leggings and sneakers, with their headphones or kibitzing with a friend. Dog-walkers I don’t have to explain. 

And then you had the nut jobs, who as a rule walked alone. Like the old anorexic speed walker with the pixie haircut, always wearing white mesh gloves. You had the woman who looked like a former meth addict — ragged and pockmarked — forever lugging her shopping in a blue tote bag. 

Then you had Jack Larson stalking by, head jutted forward, yammering into the flip phone glued to his ear. I knew his name because he used to call the local paper, back when I answered the phones there. Always in a lather about blowing the lid off the corruption at OTB. Once, when I went to vote at the neighborhood polling place, there was Jack Larson in the parking lot, haranguing everyone about forensic audits. I could never figure out what the hell he was talking about. 

And then you had Jesus.

I tried greeting Jesus once, a couple years before I figured out where where he lived. I was about to pass him on my way drop off some bills at the mailbox on Stanton. It felt weird not to acknowledge another human being when no one else was around. So like any sensible person, I said hi. He looked up at me, startled, and then annoyed, like I’d interrupted his meditations. He passed right by me, saying nothing. 

“That’s not very Christian of you,” I muttered to myself. I thought that was funny.

Soon after that brutal heat wave ended, I had to walk to Walgreens to buy socks and tweezers. It was still August, but the light and the air carried a hint of autumn. These kinds of days made me feel empty and sad. Like anything can happen, but won’t for me. That back-to-school feeling when my mother would buy me notebooks and corduroys, and I’d promise her, and myself, that this year I would work hard and do well. A new leaf! It never happened. 

Of course I chose the route that took my by Jesus’ house. A couple blocks away, I heard yelling. As I got closer I saw it was Jesus and Jack Larson, right there in the middle of the street. They were arguing. Well, it was really just Jack yelling and jabbing his finger in Jesus’ face. With every word, he was getting more into a lather, his voice growing in volume and pitch.

“According to town code, you are responsible for your sidewalk. This house is a fucking disaster!” By the time he got to that last word, the man was shrieking. 

Jesus just stood there taking it, like a kid getting yelled at in front of the whole class. 

“Guys,” I said. “Get out of the street. A car is coming.” There wasn’t, but I had to do something to stop the yelling.

They both turned to me, surprised. I noticed Jack had a rip in his jeans and his knee was bleeding. A fresh angry scrape dirtied his chin.

“Mind your business, lady,” Jack said, but he lurched to the side of the street to pick up the flip-phone he must have dropped. 

“You better pray this isn’t broken,” Jack said punching buttons on the device. “I have the right to sue you for everything you are worth.”

“This idiot.” Jack was looking at me now, jerking his thumb toward Jesus. (For his part, Jesus was in the safety of his own property, framed by a gloomy arbor of woven branches and vines.)

“This idiot has let this property become a house of horrors since his parents died. And trust me, it was no prize before that.” He was making his case to me now. “There are hornets’ nests — literal hornets’ nests — in that, that hellhole. That is a direct threat to public safety. I mean, kids walk to school down this street. And he has tree roots pushing up the sidewalk. Which, I can inform you, is in direct violation of section 7, subsection 12, paragraph 4 of town code.”

I did not want to be on his side, so I made sure I didn’t nod or say “wow” or “huh.”

“Oh, so you tripped on a root,” I said, working to keeping my face neutral. 

“Yeah, Einstein, I tripped on a root,” he said. 

“You seem unhappy. Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior?” I just blurted it out.

I looked at Jesus. And he burst out laughing.