Chapter 24 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 7

I watched as silver-tinted clouds stretched like fingers across the night sky. Partially obscured, the moon fought back, proud and resilient, reflecting its light for a few remaining moments. Soon it relented, as more oppressive clusters formed and banished its efforts to the dark.

It grew cold then and thunder claps began to echo, growling like twins in the east and west, mimicking and overlapping upon themselves.

A mist began to settle on my eyelashes and the wide leaves above me started to wither; for the night, or maybe they were banished too? I rummaged around and found an old jacket in my car and with it I made a pillow. I curled up in a fetal position to ward off the chill in the air, and seven stars, albeit freckles on my inner knee, formed a drinking gourd with a ladle tip pointing right down a dark road off the parking lot—one with no street lights, made even darker as the storm approached.

Still, with the ominous shift in my surroundings, I felt at peace. I think mostly because the space bridging what had begun in this parking lot vigil, and what would soon be my present moment— both begged for a sort of enlightenment, an awakening that would somehow tie this and that together, and everything else in between.

And with those extra Coronas (which I had to drink, due in no small part to my non-consenting, non-Jesus characters), sleep came easy. As I began to drift, I wasn't worried about time, assuming the storm would soon startle and awaken me. Surely, though, sleep itself was a portal back to reality, some double negative to render the opposite, for I had a hunch, and maybe you do too, that this was all a dream and at any moment my best friend and lover and wife (all wrapped up in one person) would finally emerge and she’d wake me and laugh—you know, at me—for somehow finding sleep during the five minutes she ran into the store.

But reality would need to wait a little longer, for the storm I anticipated actually heralded a calm, and right then and there I knew I was in the center of it.

People from all over my town emerged from their homes, baskets in hand, smiling as they prepared for some midnight eye-of-the-storm feast. Men set up huge tables and women fluffed tablecloths in the wind; all culture and color and creed mixed together and discriminating lines dividing this one and that were removed. Loaves of bread were surrounded by a cornucopia of vegetables and fruits, cheeses and meats. Wine flowed and the remaining Coronas multiplied and were placed in tin buckets of ice, with large, luscious limes sliced in wooden bowls all around.

Children gathered instruments from what they could find and they formed a band and started to play. Dancing began soon thereafter, and women with long skirts and flushed cheeks twirled, their suitors strong and proud. A warm summer breeze replaced the misty chill of the night; and the tree with the narrow branches and wide leaves found new life, banished no more.

Right before me, the paralyzed stood up from their wheelchairs and shadowed corners, jumping in with the dancers. The blind dropped their canes and stared in amazement at their hands, their feet, their neighbors. The hungry sidled up to the tables and ate with abandon. The homeless joined together and jingled keys to their mansions; their laughter contagious.

The last were first at this party.

The smart ass from the store ran out and she embraced me, thanking me for my honesty, and reminding me that even the smallest acts of kindness can create quite a stir, pointing to the celebration all around.

After a few hours of this, something most unusual happened. I saw three figures walking toward me, their faces shadowed (though I'm certain they were the ones who looked, sounded and even smelled like Jesus to me). They walked through the crowds, past me and to the west, and they bowed down in worship, yielding in unison to the one true Christ in the distance, encouraging me to do the same.

So, I looked in that direction, down the dark road with no street lights and there was the source of thunder. It was him, and soon it made sense: he was the fourth all along, and a party like this had to be of his doing. He'd been planning it for a long time. A really long time.

I'm not sure if we'll ever share a Corona together, but people often ask me what it was I saw coming toward me on the brink of that dawn. I tell them:

"I saw him riding in on a Harley, the Jesus of my day. His hair was long and wild from the wind and it looked like he'd been on the road for a while. But his eyes were still bright, and he smiled when he saw me. I guess he traveled light, because his saddlebags were mostly empty.

In a cloud of dirt and dust he called me over. I wasn't sure what to do, but I was drawn to him so I went. As I got closer, he put his hand on my shoulder and he promised me a great adventure. I believed him, but I asked him to wait. I needed to take care of a few things because my plate was full.

When he heard that, his strong hand grabbed hold of the clutch and he raced the engine. He told me that now was the time.

And it felt like a dream and maybe it was, but I dropped it all on the ground—everything— because I wanted to die to the details.

Then I got on the back of his Harley and we rode."




The End



(or maybe, The Beginning)

*******

I really do have a series of freckles on the inside of my left knee which are almost identical to the Big Dipper. That part was real.

Chapter 23 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 6

As I waited for a third visitor, a bright moon hovered over me and became my steady companion. And as you know by now, I was also joined by two other companions, those being the extra Coronas which had not been consumed by two individuals: one, who had previously looked like Jesus to me; and the other, who sounded just as I thought he should.

So, in the wake of their dismissal, I guess you could say I drank their beers. It was all part of a closure ritual for me.

I'm sure you understand.

Anyhow, the minutes started overlapping into hours and pretty soon I had lost track of time altogether. I began drifting in and out of what I assumed was a conscious, waking moment.

(I mean, how could it NOT be if it started with these freckles? You know, the very ones on the inside of my left knee? The ones that are almost identical to the Big Dipper?)

I shut my eyes and within seconds there was a subtle scent wafting, and it was noticeable even above the pungent stench of empty beer bottles. It was the most unusual of odors, yet as the wind whipped up once more, it became overwhelming. It emerged as oddly familiar: some combination of damp stone, incense and smoke, mixed in with musty carpeting, oil and red oak; dusty books, crumbling binders.

And stale coffee.

Soon, he was in front of me—the source of it all—and he embodied some solemn memory of that which is quiet and still. His eyes were kind, yet stern; sleepy yet serious.

Intuitively I knew I shouldn’t move or crack or giggle. And you shouldn’t either, because then I’ll never be able to stop.

Four beers into this, I get it: I’m being tested. Jesus reduced to sight, sound and smell.

True to other smells, my senses were overcome and they returned me to the place where Jesus lived, right exactly where I was required to go each week, to know him and be delivered; to let light out from under my bushel and learn what it meant to be good. Adults with starched collars and coffee on their breath surrounded me as they made their olfactory contributions (perhaps unknowingly) to memories; to aromatic bombardments of the iconic sort.

And all that filled my nostrils left some indelible imprint, these sensory trappings of wood and brick, of Jesus contained.

I counted down the minutes and finally it was over and I could move. I could squirm and run and stretch. I could approach him, shake his hand and smile. The cloth of his robe, the very fabric held firmly each scent: a bouquet of church.

But I was hushed and hurried along, for this was a very busy man tending to a desperately needy flock.

As he released my hand, I opened my eyes and I was an adult, and he was next to me, under that tree with narrow branches and wide leaves. He smelled like every bit of Jesus, pieces and parcels from years gone by. Yet I knew, I just knew for all of his good intentions—now and throughout the years—he wasn’t the One.

He withdrew in a hurry, for the warm smells of a pot luck summoned from the basement, and only he could say the blessing.

No time for a beer, I suppose.

Chapter 22 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 5

I waited there for a while, seemingly alone as a cool evening breeze started to toss and sway and bring life to my parking lot vigil.

Halfway through my second beer, I ran my finger along the Corona label, which has always been fascinating to me. Well, the entire bottle is, actually, because most beer makers don't use the clear glass anymore; too many problems with sunlight messing up the quality and taste and such. Apparently, the Corona makers keep their supply in good shade until it's ready to come out, and we all know that the solid cardboard case keeps out light too.

Whatever the case may be (no pun intended), I think the clear bottle makes it taste the way it does and I happen to like it. Maybe you do too.

Now, the Corona name could mean just about anything: from a cigar to a crown to a part of a flower. Some others may have told you they’ve had a spiritual awakening while enjoying a Corona or two.

Or six.

It could be that they’ve taken yet another meaning of Corona a little too seriously, that being the colorful, hazy ring surrounding the sun or the moon. It’s caused by ionized gas and light colliding and it’s quite a beautiful, if not an altogether spiritual experience. You know, St. Elmo’s fire kind of stuff.

But then again, it is just beer.

Regardless, there was no Jesus #2 anywhere in sight, so I rested my head back and shut my eyes, allowing the breeze to dance over me. I listened as the voices of those coming and going overlapped and formed something of a symphony with other night sounds.

And then, there was a whisper.

“Greetings, my child.”

I spun around and looked in every direction, but I was still alone.

“I am here, trust me.”

But he wasn't, really—here, that is. At least I couldn’t see him. How many Coronas had I downed?

“Seek not my face, for I’ve been consecrated.”

Well, he certainly sounded like Jesus, I suppose.

“Is that why I can’t see you?” It came out like a demand, but that was probably the beer talking.

The breeze picked up and swirled in front of me.

“You’ll see me, but not here, for I don’t reside in such places. Yours is not to wonder why, but to follow and know the rituals and rites as set forth by those before you. Only through this may you come to me.”

Huh?

“Well, what if I don’t?”

(I know many who find him that way, and that's great, but if that’s not my bag, was he saying there'd be no chance for us?)

He was silent. It was a deafening silence and I started to feel it on my skin. I was becoming more than a little afraid, and wanted to take back my question. After a painfully long pause, he temporarily broke the tension:

“You’re a fan of Springsteen, aren’t you?”

That was the last thing I expected him to ask.

“Actually, yes, I am.”

The wind whipped up even more and goosebumps appeared on my arms. The tree with the narrow branches and wide leaves started to engulf me, and suddenly I was quite aware of the darkness. I felt the freckles (which are almost identical to the Big Dipper) searing my skin.

“Fear’s a powerful thing, baby.”

He sang it, just like that, and again he sounded pretty good, this whisper and shadow of a Savior.

“Submit yourself to a healthy fear of me, and find your peace only among the brethren, the saints, the priests who will intercede on your behalf. Hold vigil for me, but not here among the commoners.”

That was all it took. Why could anyone at any time come to him then, but not now? Wasn't the most repeated command in the Bible fear not?

So, I resurrected the Jersey chutzpah of my youth, and it seemed serendipitous as I prepared to confront yet another of my childhood misunderstandings about Jesus.

“You forgot the rest. Fear is a powerful thing, but…” (I gave him my best Boss):

“It can turn your heart black you can trust. It’ll take your God-filled soul, and fill it with devils and dust.”

And, just like that, the mini parking-lot-typhoon ended. One thing I do know: however we get to Jesus, whether here or there or anywhere, we shouldn't be afraid.

There was a faint ring of light hovering and mimicking at least one meaning of the beer I was drinking. It was fleeting, though, and not so beautiful. My mini-constellation stopped burning and then, it was just me again, wondering who or what had just spoken to me.

He sounded fine at first, this Jesus impersonator, but then I saw right through him.

Just like the empty bottle I was holding.

Chapter 21 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 4

Before he even opened his mouth, I knew it couldn’t be him. There was a frown of disapproval hovering over his brow as he approached, and just like that, I was ashamed.

Like maybe I was at a certain kind of church.

“You shouldn’t be drinking beer out in the open like this.”

He didn’t even say “hello.”

“You call yourself a Christian, but child, you must be vigilant about appearances.”

Oh, he was definitely not Jesus.

“One sip is all it takes and you’re on the road toward alcoholism and addiction and a full tearing away of your moral fiber. You do not want people knowing about your weakness in this area.”

As I said, he certainly looked the part of Jesus (or at least what we’ve come to expect of those who represent the house where Jesus is said to reside). He was clean shaven, conservative and wore his collar tight. His shoes were shined and everything about him appeared quite respectable.

Something inside me -- or maybe an accumulation of somethings from my childhood -- made me feel as if I should defer all decisions to his wise counsel.

And he wasn’t joking about the beer.

“I think you need to put that bottle down and come to my office,” he chastised me.

“But..”

He cut me off.

“No buts. Put it down.” He looked over his shoulder. “You never know who is walking out of that store.”

I found it strange that he seemed more concerned about what others might see.

Come to think of it, I’ve literally spent years trying to shake off this image of Jesus, and wouldn't you know, here he was, standing right in front of me. Literally.

So, I finally had a chance to do something about it. But the guy on the motorcycle -- the one who started this whole thing -- well, he neglected to tell me how to get rid of the one who wasn’t; you know, who wasn’t the One.

I blinked hard. Twice.

Nothing.

I stood up and clicked my heels three times.

Still nothing. In fact, the bad-Jesus-candidate started to cluck his tongue and shake his finger at me.

I sat back down and started to count the freckles on the inside of my knee, because obviously nothing was working, so I thought that maybe I’d find the secret in the miniature constellation that’s almost identical to the Big Dipper. I started counting them and yes, you should know, there are seven of them, just like the real one.

And another thing you should know, if you don’t already, is that the Big Dipper is pretty easy to find, so it acts as an amazing guide for star-gazers because it points to other stars and major constellations. And so my very own Big Dipper acted as something of a guide as it pointed directly to the twelve-pack of Coronas sitting on the ground, now an eleven-pack, and I quickly concluded that if this guy wasn’t going to have one, then really, I shouldn't waste time as the rest of the bottles proceeded to get warm (you know, if I was going to be hanging around for a while).

So, I drained the beer I was working on and popped open another one.

Being polite, though, I held it out to him. “I suppose you don’t want one of these, then?”

He spun around in disgust and, I'm embarrassed that I noticed this, but he clenched his butt cheeks as walked away in a very brisk stride. He tilted his head upward and threw his shoulders back and his posture was quite proper. Many people smiled at him and started to say hello. It appeared as if they wanted him to stop and chat and who knows, maybe even receive some kind of comfort (as those like him are wont to offer), but he rushed right past them.

Somehow we’ve made this guy out to look like Jesus, but he wasn’t really acting like him, I didn't think.

I leaned up against the tree and held the cool bottle against the Big Dipper. I couldn’t resist, so I yelled after him, “That’s alright. More for me.”

I smiled and thought that maybe this could be a long night.