I gave myself a jolt (picture: hair dryer, sink of water, pre-coffee brain fog) and when I came to, the Lord Jesus Christ Himself had roosted on my sofa. Lined up on my coffee table was a regiment of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans I hadn’t thrown out—plus a considerable number of freshly-emptied cans to which Jesus Christ Himself presently contributed one more. It clunked down as he muffled a holy belch. 

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     Some clarification is appropriate: the “I” to whom I refer is the real-world author of these words, James Sullivan, myself, the obscure writer. Jesus Christ Himself is, indeed, per his guarantee, pinky-swear, Jesus Christ Himself. But for a change of pace, and out of an apparent nostalgic streak, he had manifested in the form of Joe DiMaggio: Old Joltin’ Joe. Instead of the cross Jesus had carried in the stations, he had lugged in a wooden bat pocked with marks that suggested years of abuse. His Yankees uniform was white as communion.

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     “Tell me something juicy about Marilyn,” I said. 

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     “One who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart,” the Lord answered.

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“What is this, the sermon on the mound ?” 

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     The Lord scowled. Commandment 11: Thou shalt not pun. He opened another beer.

 

     I remarked at the absence of stigmata and asked why he had raided my fridge instead of just using the tap to get his fill of free wine. I didn’t appreciate a guest, no matter how distinguished, helping himself to quite so much quite so early in the morning. After all, I was living on a stipend. 

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     “If you wish to be perfect,” he said, “give all your beverages to the thirsty. Only then you might follow me into the Kingdom of Heaven.” The bat thunked against his cleats. Flecks of dirt crumbled to the floor.

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     “How about a couple bucks instead,” I told him. 

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     But the Lord carried no cash, so as penance, He performed a minor miracle. Dime-sized pores opened all over the Joe DiMaggio skin the Lord wore, each oozing dark liquid that soaked his Yankee whites. The Lord, reeking of wine, dripped all over my carpet before reforming his flesh. 

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     It was at this point that I decided I would not teach my morning composition class. Oh Jesus, take the wheel, that APA parenthetical citation PowerPoint would go un-pointed. I sat down on the other end of the sofa and opened a lukewarm beer. 

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     “Now that you’re up and at ‘em, I won’t be hanging around,” Jesus said. 

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     “Let me ask you something,” I said. 

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      “Nah, bad idea,” He said. 

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     “Come on, man. You tie one on in my living room on a Tuesday morning and just bounce? The beer, the floor, the DiMaggio. Give me one question.”

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     “I know what this is about,” He said. And He did. 

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     It was about my first dog, Somebody, named so because my parents had never planned to keep her. Somebody had been there when I was born, and Somebody had watched over me. There are pictures of Somebody curled around infant me, black hound of hell to any would-be intruders. True, she’d bitten my face on Thanksgiving when I’d warred with her under the table over my turkey drumstick. But that wrath had been simple, instructive, and temporary. No eternal punishment. Later she’d gone blind and bloated with cancer, a tumorous growth sprouting bloody on her chest. The Sacred Heart of Somebody, my mother had joked, some way of making light of the illness to which she refused to surrender this animal she’d come to love so much. Not until Somebody could no longer rise to her feet. 

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     “What was all that about?” I asked the Lord. “The biting and the blindness and the cancerous Sacred Heart.” 

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     Christ frowned. An ugly frown, Joe DiMaggio’s. The frown of a grouchy old man about to retreat inside his rickety house. 

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     After a while, he said, “As you know, the purpose of suffering is to bring people together. To bring you, as well, closer to God.” He burped. “And look, here I am.” 

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     “When Somebody died, I couldn’t even watch them bury her in the yard. I watched cartoons to pretend it wasn’t happening. What exactly did it bring me closer to?” 

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     “Don’t push your luck here, bub. You’re already one of our borderline cases. An atheist at that.”

 

     “Hey, I’m trying to quit. You’re not making it easy.” 

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     “All right, ask a different one,” Christ said. 

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     “Fine. Explain the Tohoku earthquake. The tsunami. The plaster that fell off a Shibuya building and hit that saleswoman who was helping me on her poor head.” 

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     “Tectonics. Water displacement. And, hey, I thought it was funny. The plaster, that is.” 

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     “What about the Kennedy assassination?”

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     “Ted Cruz’s father. Who else?” 

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     “Your father forsaking you on the cross.” 

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     Jesus stood then, lifting his bat up onto his shoulder.

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“Now you’re just being a smartass,” he said. “Look, I know something about suffering, too. You obviously know the stories. Didn’t you see The Passion of the Christ ?”

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I told him I hadn’t. Neither had he. 

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     “Speaking of Mel Gibson, I’ve got to see a fellow about an auto-erotic asphyxiation,” He said. “Sayonara, Sullivan. Try switching to light beer. You’re getting a little soft in the middle.” 

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     I really didn’t like the guy. 

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     After he left, I finished several beers and stretched out on the couch. I remembered how my mother used to wash that big, bloody heart on Somebody’s chest. I could hear the dog’s head thumping against bookshelves and banisters as she walked sightless through our home. But even as she wandered in a private darkness, bruising her face against the world, she never once whined.

 

     I nearly fell asleep but was awoken by the crack of ball against bat. Judging by the sound, it had to be a fly ball. 

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