Doing Time With Jesus
The cell is thirteen and a half by eleven feet. The floor is dirt, and on the really cold mornings last March, i remember being able to see frost on the tiny blades of grass that tried to grow till they realized there was no life in this place. And so they died, leaving us alone.
i can’t speak for Jesus, but often i know that i’ve thought about joining them. Of leaving this small space and coming back up to grow wild in some wondrous open field.
i’ve named this cell Godforsaken, and it bothers Jesus, but he always forgives me when i curse his father. He laughs when i tease him, and sometimes he says just the right thing to ease my troubled mind.
i’d been here for six months when they threw him into my cell. They hollered their Spanish slurs which i’ve come to understand, and the door was loud as it closed. Jesus landed hard on his right shoulder, but he didn’t swear back to the guards, nor did he wince. He merely collected himself on the floor, and stood as if with pride.
This was a word i had nearly forgotten. My own memories of it had been taken from me in the night, when my sheets were soaking with my urine.
i can’t say i was impressed with him yet, though. i’d had to deal with my own share of abuse and in an odd way, it was good to see someone else receiving the same. i know that’s wrong, but in a place that we don’t like to talk about, it makes us feel good to know that there are others as us.
Of course, at that time, i didn’t know that my new cellmate was Christ himself. i didn’t find that out until much later.
For a long time, we didn’t talk at all. i wanted to prove that this was my space and that his presence was inconsequential. He could just as well die on my floor during the night, and i’d shit on his body in the morning. This i wanted him to know. And he must have, because he stayed away from me, instead choosing to stare out of my window. i thought that he was staring at the bars, as i had my first night, but upon closer inspection, i found that his eyes were actually closed.
“It’ll take you a while to tan in this hellhole.” i remarked from my bed, trying hard to sound sarcastic.
He smiled, but neither opened his eyes nor spoke.
i waited a while, but when nothing was forthcoming, i looked away.
Fuck him, i thought. i’d tried to make friends and now he was going to act like this was his cell. Fuck that! i’d sweated for this. For that extra roll of toilet paper under a foot of dirt, and the girly magazine that I kept rolled up in a plastic bag inside the toilet tank.
i owe so much to that magazine.
There are pictures of dark-haired women on those pages, touching themselves and urging me to do the same. There are also stories, but i still have not learned enough of the language to understand them. Of course, i know what they were about, but sometimes the details matter more than the actual plot.
Early in the mornings, before they had brought my breakfast, i would take this magazine out, and while flipping through the pages, imagine Griffin upon me, doing such wonderful things. It was my only link to sanity. The sun would shine within my cell only for a few moments, and i had moved my cot to that space. While the brightness was upon my face, i would come on my hand, and think of when Griffin made love to me. She was tender, yet aggressive, and she loved to have sex first thing in the morning.
i’ve tried very hard not to wonder about her anymore. This is not to say that i don’t think of her, because on still nights, when i can hear Jesus’ rhythmic breathing, i stroke the head of my cock lightly, so as not to ruffle my sheets too much. And when at last i come, i do not gasp as i used to when i was alone.
It is sad really, but not so much that i don’t do it anymore. i must.
i never hear Jesus’ sheets ruffle.
-----
“Why are you here?” i ask him on the fourth day, tired of the silence. i try not to think that he has won, though i know he has.
“They think that I’m a spy.” he answers with a straight face.
They must not be taking him too seriously, because this much i know… if they suspected him of espionage, they wouldn’t have stuck him here in this cell with me. They have special places for spies that i’ve heard about. This is not one of them.
“Why would I lie?” he asks, as if challenging my thoughts.
i shrug, trying to act cool.
“To impress me.”
“Are you impressed?”
“No.”
He smiles.
i don’t.
“Who are you?”
His stare never waivers.
“No one really.”
If i’d have been the son of God, i’d have bragged a little here. Some of that, “well-my-dad-can-beat-up-your-dad!” kind of stuff.
But he’s cool. Straight faced and humble. Almost as if he were ashamed of his old man.
He calls me Matthew before i even tell him my name, and i figure the guards must have told him.
“Actually, everyone calls me Mat.” i say.
-----
“Matthew?” he says. “You never told me about how you met Griffin.”
“i just figured you must know.” i respond.
He smiles, and i love it when i can make him do that. i mean, i can’t imagine that there are many jokes Jesus Christ hasn’t already heard.
i take a deep breath.
“It was late, and i’d locked my keys in my car, and there wasn’t a pay phone for miles.” i start, and Jesus seems to settle into his cot, preparing himself for a long story.
“Anyway, it was getting on towards three in the morning, and I was thanking God” he smiles “that the gangsters were sleeping.”
i’m getting right into the story now. i’ve told it a thousand times, and Griffin just rolls her eyes whenever i start it, but now Jesus seems interested, and he hangs on every word.
“So i flagged down a bus on Fourth avenue, and the driver really didn’t want to stop, but he must have figured that i was harmless, because he did. i climbed on, paid my fare, and when i turned to find a seat, she was there.”
i take in a breath, remembering now.
“i can even remember what seat she was sitting in. i tried not to stare at her, because i didn’t want her to think i was insane, but it was hard not to.”
Jesus smiles, and strokes his fingers through his beard in that way that he has.
“What was she wearing?” he asks, and i don’t think for one minute that he already knows the answer.
“Pale blue jeans and a black cashmere top. It was short sleeved, and for the entire ride i kept thinking if it would be rude to walk up to her and ask to feel her breasts. Not for the flesh underneath, but for the sweater. To feel that softness. Though i guessed her breasts would be just as soft.”
“Are they?” he asks.
i shrug and suddenly feel very sad.
“It’s getting hard to remember.”
We are quiet for a while, and after a few minutes, Jesus seems to understand that i need some time and space, so he moves to the farthest corner of the cell, and pretends to be interested in the structure of the wall.
i close my eyes, and think of her. i try hard not to picture her in another man’s arms, but in the end I fail and cry for a long time.
He never looks at me, and i am grateful.
-----
They bring us our meals, and for the first time in a long while, i begin to wonder what day it is. When i was first taken here, i counted the days religiously, as if for each passing moon, my revenge would be sweeter. i was angry and full of energy.
Soon though, i was counting merely to avoid boredom. Then i counted to keep from losing my sanity. It was the only thing i had left from the outside world, and though I could not know the time at any given moment, i knew that when all was dark, another day was passing, and i’d have to sleep in the empty cot again.
Jesus arrived just as i was about to lose my mind. From then on, i had someone to talk to, other than Griffin. i realized just how close i had come, and in some small way, thanked God for sending this man to me.
“What day is it today, J?” Sometimes i call him Big J, and he laughs.
He is pensive for a moment, then shrugs.
“I don’t know.”
i furrow my brow, studying him.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re Jesus.”
He smiles.
“They took my watch.”
“But you’re the son of God.”
“So?”
“What do you mean, so?”
He kicks at the dirt floor.
i continue. “You’re supposed to know everything.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
i snicker.
“i read it in your biography.”
Jesus shakes his head slowly.
“If I could part a sea, do you think I’d stay in a dump like this?”
“You didn’t part the sea. Moses did.”
Jesus narrows his eyes for a moment, as if trying to remember something that happened long ago. Finally he shrugs and says, “Whatever.”
i shake my head slowly, scratching my eyebrows.
“You’re testing my faith, J.”
He is quiet for a few minutes.
“Am I really?”
-----
“Tell me about yourself.” i say.
It’s been nearly twelve months now that we have been together.
Jesus sits up on his cot, eyes soft.
“What would you like to know?”
i’m stumped. People spend their entire lives wondering what they’d ask Christ if they had the chance to meet him, but when he’s standing before you, and you’ve seen him shit every day for a year, it’s difficult to arrange your beliefs in such a way as to include this daily routine.
“i don’t know.” i stammer, suddenly feeling as if i should be different before him. “What’s it like being the son of God?”
He smiles and it is as if he knows all the answers to questions i’ve yet to even ask.
“You tell me.”
“i can’t turn water into wine.” i respond.
“Neither can I.”
“Bread into a five-course meal?”
“Nope.”
“Can you make it rain?”
“No.”
i raise my arms, as if defeated.
“Then what’s the point in being Jesus?”
He stands and stretches slowly.
“Whoever said there had to be a point?”
-----
Jesus has become ill.
-----
It’s been getting colder. At night, i can hear Jesus shivering in his cot. i’ve been begging the guards for another blanket, but they seem to enjoy watching a man die.
i’ve tried giving Jesus my share of the food we get, but he refuses every time. i get the strange sensation that he is not fighting this. It’s almost as if he’s already accepted his fate, even though it shouldn’t have to be this way. i mean, we’re both stuck in this cell for crimes we didn’t commit. i’m sure that you’d hear the same from every convict you spoke to, but in their minds, they wouldn’t lie to themselves… there just wouldn’t be any point.
i’m telling you the truth. i never raped that woman. i’ve done a lot of things that i’m not proud of, but i could never rape anyone.
Jesus believes me. He knows.
i walk to him now, and wrap my blanket around his body. i touch his shoulder in so doing, and it is the first time i have felt his skin.
It feels just as mine.
For a moment, i am sure that he will not accept the warmth that i am offering him, but he concedes and for the first time, refuses to be a martyr.
“You never really told me why you’re here.” i ask him.
“Yes, I have.”
i snort loudly.
“They would never place a suspected spy in with me.”
He stares me dead in the eyes.
“They would if they thought you had slept with an ambassador’s wife.”
i am quiet so long if is as if i have forgotten how to speak. i think about that phrase so many times, that i am sure he must see the beads of sweat forming on the top of my brow. i linger over every word, and read novels between every line.
What could he possibly be saying?
“Who knows what she could have told me in the heat of passion.” i whisper to myself, but he hears.
“Exactly.”
i refuse to believe he could be anyone but who he is.
-----
It’s gotten to the point where Jesus is coughing up blood during the night. He is always sweating now, though he shivers as if he were laying upon a bed of fallen snow. i touch his face and he looks up at me and often smiles.
He knows he will die.
The guards have stopped bringing us three meals a day. There is only one knock on the door now, and only enough food for one man.
He is thin. i can see his bones through his clothes and i wonder if this is how he looked on the cross. i also begin to wonder if there ever was a crucifixion.
Some of his hair has fallen out, and we have used it in his pillow so that he may be a little more comfortable.
It’s a miserable way to die, and it is difficult to watch, but there is nowhere i can hide my face. For some strange reason, i have taken to feeling guilty. As if all of this were my fault. As if the dying of this good man will always be heavy on my shoulders, like a sin that will keep me from my heaven.
The interesting thing to note here, is that i never used to wonder about getting into Heaven. It was simply a given. i had been taught by my father that everyone rose to this wonderful place after they died, regardless of what they had done on this earth.
But now that i have become best friends with Jesus, i have doubts. i see the pain that this man is going through, and still he listens to my troubles as if they were more important than his own.
i can never be as he is.
Perhaps i don’t need to.
-----
He will die tonight. We both know, yet neither speaks of it. The evening light is quickly fading, and I am tried of looking out the window, so i turn and face him.
i am amazed every day that he has lasted this long. If anyone were to see him, and a picture of who he used to be, they would never see the resemblance that only i know is there.
He stopped shivering about an hour ago, and asked that i tell him a nice long story. He said that he wanted to hear my voice as he returned to his father’s arms. But for a long time, i could not think of anything to say. i thought that perhaps the answer might lie beyond these bars, outside of this cell, but i think now that it lies right within it.
i sit on the edge of his cot. He moves so that there is enough room for me.
“When i was young,” i begin, and i notice immediately that his eyes have closed, “there was an old church on Lincoln Avenue, where my mama used to take me on Sundays. We’d sit in the middle of the front row every time, because she always said that Jesus was watching us.”
i smile, and stare down at him.
“She wouldn’t let anyone take our seats, and if anyone asked us to slide over to make room, she would kindly ask them to sit on the other side of us.
“Anyway, i remember one summer morning. The sun had already caused a sweat to form on the reverend’s face, and he preached his sermon as if his very life depended on it.”
i go on to describe the various other people around us. From Stedman, our mailman, to Martha, the only nun left in the local convent. i even ask Jesus if he knows her, and i’ll give him this… he tried to laugh.
“Anyway, halfway through the sermon, the door opened and in walked the most haggard family i had ever seen in my life. i had never met them before, and my mother quickly informed me that they were in fact the Weltmans who hadn’t been to church in seventeen years.
“Seems their son, Joseph, had just died of pneumonia, and they wanted to pray for his soul. My mother said that she really didn’t think it would do them any good at this point, but the reverend seemed to think otherwise, because he invited them right on in, and motioned to the front seat.”
i look down, and Jesus’ eyes are very still. i stare at his chest for a long time, for any hint of movement, and when finally i rationalize that it must simply be too dark to see properly, i continue.
“They were five in all, and they moved slowly up the aisle. It was almost as if they knew they didn’t belong, but had no choice. They came up to the front, and since it was a slow Sunday, most of the seats around us were empty. They began to file in to my left, but there wasn’t enough room.
“i remember looking up to my mama, and knowing in my heart that she wouldn’t move for anyone. And surely not for these people.
“i saw Mr. Weltman cast a quick glance toward Mama, not in a disrespectful way, but rather like he was pleading. i could tell immediately that he was a proud man, and did not want to appear shameful.
“When Mama didn’t return his stare, he began to walk around to the other side of the pew, where he would have to sit away from his family.
“Just as he was passing in front of me, i said, “Hold on, Mr. Weltman.” and i felt my mama’s fingernails dig into my arm.
“i didn’t care though.”
It seems i have forgotten that i am in this cell. In my mind, Jesus is crucified before me, painted blood on his wooden limbs. And i remember that for the longest time, i thought that blood was real.
“i stood up quickly, yanking my arm free, and felt Mr. Weltman’s strong hands on my elbows, helping me as i climbed over the pew. He let me down slowly, and i could not feel him shake at all from my weight.
“Then he stared down at me, and from where i stood facing him, nearly on top of his shoes, i had to rest the back of my head onto my neck to see his face. It was funny to see the shadows playing there, and i really wasn’t afraid.
“i never noticed how mad Mama was. i was too busy accepting Mr. Weltman’s thanks. He never said a word, but i wasn’t so young that i didn’t recognize that look.”
i am quiet for a long time.
“How old were you?”
His voice startles me. i was sure he was dead.
“Six.”
He smiles, again as if he already knew the answer.
We are silent.
“Is that why you’re here?” i ask him.
He does not answer.
After a minute has passed, i lay down beside him, under the blanket, and keep his body very close to me. i cannot feel his heartbeat nor his breathing anymore, but i can still feel his warmth.
