Monthly Archives: October 2024

#5 – What If All Christians Acted Truly Christian?

What If?, ,

The other day, I was hanging out with Jesus at a coffee shop. Yes, the Jesus. I can’t disclose all the details that made the encounter possible, but hallucinogens may or may not have had some role. It’s hard to say.

Whatever the case, I was sipping on a decaf oat milk pumpkin spice latte because I believe in being seasonally appropriate. I’d nestled myself into my favorite corner of the café where I love to sit. On occasion, I will wear a pointed hat and pretend that I’ve been bad and am being punished. This was not one of those days though. I’d positioned myself there mostly because I wanted to be left alone. Then wouldn’t you know it, in walks Jesus (known to some as ‘The Savior’). 

“You seem troubled, my child,” he said as he sat down next to me. 

For a second, I thought it was my actual Earth dad talking to me. But he’s never referred to me as ‘my child,’ despite the high forehead we share. Nor has he noticed when I am troubled or asked about this possibility since the Reagan administration. So it’s been a while. 

I glanced over at the guy. He didn’t appear in the manner I’d always seen Jesus depicted so I didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t wearing sandals or a toga or a golden laurel that made his dreamy blue eyes sparkle. In fact, he didn’t even have blue eyes. He was a well-tanned man with deep brown eyes and an obsidian black beard accented by long flowing locks. Plus, he was wearing a plaid flannel shirt over a Hello Kitty t-shirt. The ensemble was very metrosexual. 

“I guess I’m troubled, yeah,” I said. “The world’s a little scary right now.”

He nodded and sat down next to me. 

Now, I normally don’t care for skeevy weirdo guys I don’t know sitting down next to me like that. But there was something about him that I trusted. (Plus, the effects of some funny fungus may or may not have been kicking in for me.) And the thing is, the guy looked pretty troubled himself. 

“I am Jesus,” he said.

I squinted my eyes and just stared at him a moment. “You mean of bible fame?”

He nodded. “The one.”

I drew a long sip of my seasonally appropriate drink, then sighed. “You don’t look like Jesus,” I said, waving my hand up and down in front of him to indicate his appearance.

“This again,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I spent my life wandering around the desert. If I looked like the golden child that those pretty boy16th century Italians painted, I’d have been blind and probably died from,” he paused then lowered his voice, “skin cancer.”

I just stared at him. “Are you doing a Jewish thing right now?”

“I’ve been trying it out. What do you think?”

“I’d lose it.”

He nodded again. 

I took a deep breath. “I’d just like to state for the record that I’m not one of your followers.”

“It’s quite alright,” he said, hanging his head. “I understand.” His long black locks brushed onto the table. “I don’t believe that a lot of my followers are really my followers right now.” 

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah. Well, that’s gotta be tough.” Because what was I supposed to say? I never wanted followers. Most of the time, I just wanted people to go away. By contrast, Jesus was a born leader and clearly liked a certain amount of attention from people. But to each his/her own. 

He picked his head back up and there was something even darker about his eyes. Frankly, it scared me a little. Especially because I was still adjusting to this new brown hue. 

“At one time, Reverend Hershell Bainbridge would passionately preach my gospel of ‘love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you.’ It was awe-inspiring,” he paused. “Do you know Hershell?”

“I don’t.”

“No, of course not. Why would you? He’s in Iowa.”

I shrugged. 

“I don’t know him either. Not anymore. Now he bows to a man who says, and I quote, ‘When people wrong you, go after those people, because it is a good feeling and because other people will see you doing it. I always get even.’ And this man means every word of this.” Jesus shook his head slowly and began to mumble. “Boy. When my father made that one, he really fucked up.”

He must have sensed some surprise in my face. “Excuse my French,” he said.

I shook it off. “I’m fluent. In that French, at least.”

“And pastor Carolina Rutherford over in Montana once taught her Sunday school children that those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted. Those were my words! You can find them in the bible.”

“I believe you,” I said, batting away a tiny purple giraffe fly that may or may not have been real. 

“But now she subscribes to the viewpoints of this disillusioned soul who has the audacity to utter, ‘Sorry losers and haters, but my I.Q. is one of the highest — and you all know it! Please don’t feel so stupid or insecure, it’s not your fault.’ I mean, come on! It’s absolutely galling!”

“It does suck,” I agreed.

“And let’s not even get into the whole ‘love thy neighbor as yourself’ rhetoric they preach in the praystation, but see no complicity in advocating building a wall or breaking up families or calling human beings ‘illegals.’” 

His eyes were on fire then and I was hoping he was going to start throwing around chairs and tables as he was rumored to have done in the Bible. That seemed like a part of the book I might have enjoyed. Unfortunately, I was required to read the Book of Genesis for high school English and all the begetting did not ‘be getting’ me interested in reading any further beyond that. 

He then calmed down and looked at me with serious eyes. “The hypocrisy is a big pill to swallow.” 

I nodded knowingly, thinking of the folks I’d lost to the current madness. “Would you like some water?” I asked, pushing over a glass in hopes that it would help him feel better and that if he felt better enough, maybe he would turn it into wine. He didn’t.

He took a big gulp and let out a long sigh. “You know what the worst part is?” 

I concentrated really hard and the word ‘hemorrhoids’ popped into my head. That couldn’t be right though. Then I started thinking how cool it would be to give Jesus the right answer. That there would be some sort of reward in a heaven that I didn’t even believe in. Then I recognized that this made no sense.

“They’re all so miserable,” he said. And I wanted to believe him, which, OKAY I SEE IT, isn’t truly Christian of me. “Hate has blinded them. They can’t see that they’ve ultimately lost.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm-hm. Because they’ve forgotten one of my most important teachings.”

I waited for him to tell me, but I could see I was going to have to ask. Jesus is a nice enough guy, but he clearly has to have the room.

“Which was?” I finally asked.

”Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,” he said with a smile. And dammit if I didn’t feel better. With that, he got up, bid me farewell with a nod, and may or may not have floated out of the coffee house on a magic carpet named Derek. 

#4 – What If I Worked in PR for Niche Superheroes?

What If?,

For the third time this month, I was awakened this morning by the sound of a large object crashing into my window. Perhaps it should have startled me. By now though, I’ve come to view it as an occupational hazard. If I’m being completely honest – not a revered quality for a PR person, I know – I suppose on some level I’m touched.

Yes, the first time it happened, I bolted upright in my bed with a jolt. I feared it was an unfortunate bird. I’d cautiously stepped over to the window to glance down the four stories; slightly averting my gaze out of concern for what carnage I might find. My concern was quickly allayed when I realized it was CarPig. One of my clients. My favorite, actually. 

They warned me when I took this gig that this brand of foolishness was not uncommon. I didn’t entirely believe them. I’d declined a position (a well-paying one with major perks, mind you) at the Lane-Kent Agency because I’d grown weary from working with the monstrous egos and gross entitlement issues of the better-known superheroes. And Lane-Kent’s roster is the who’s who of them. So drained was I by the antics of Wonder Woman with her bougie lasso and Aqua Man who reeked of fish and dripped water into my office with every visit, I’d started to consider leaving Gotham altogether.

Then the offer came from the Combs Agency (‘There Are No Small Superheroes, Just Small Minds (and Sometimes Penises)’) and I saw it as an opportunity to reinvent myself. It felt promising and exciting! I’d be doing something to forward these nobodies – a term we’re discouraged from using – rather than continue to stoke the fires of the already wildly successful. Even Robin was getting too big for his now sequined britches. 

What I didn’t realize though was that the lesser-known superheroes, known as the ‘niche-ers’, possess the same capacity for overgrown egos run amok. In hindsight, I see that that’s part of what makes them qualified for superheroism. I get it. It’s a tough industry. Especially if you lack some of the necessary skills. 

As is the case with CarPig. 

I’d like to see CarPig succeed. First because he’s my client and if he fails, then I look bad. Again, I’m just being honest. But as I said, he’s my favorite client. I actually like the guy. He’s like one of Wendy’s lost boys who somehow made it to the age of 104 and thinks he’s got what it takes to rise to the highest echelon of superherodom. He doesn’t though. I don’t say this from a place of judgment. After all, I’m just a mere mortal. And I have absolutely NONE of what it takes to be a superhero – even if my cats deem me one. But they also choose to eat bugs. My point is, I don’t know of CarPig’s personal struggles. To be in possession of superpowers is both a great responsibility and a huge burden. 

CarPig is actually a nickname. His full superhero birth name is Carrier Pigeon Man. He does actually have the ability to fly- even if it’s hindered (as my window can testify) by a tricky inner ear issue. And his carrier pigeon heritage makes him a remarkable communicator.

Yet, he’s a quirky guy with spindly orange legs who dons a full-on cape festooned in iridescent oily grey feathers. His head juts back and forth when he walks and his voice has a gentle cooing quality. None of these exactly conjure images of great heroism. So his optics aren’t great. Which is part of why he came to me.

Challenge accepted.

First, I suggested we do something with his name. Something showier and more powerful like The Carrier or even Pidge Man. He vigorously jutted his head back and forth, which was his way of saying no because he’s incapable of shaking it from side to side. I understood his reticence to a name change though. It’s a headache. And a lot of paperwork. So I figured we’d circle back to that. Then I had to address the elephant in the room. It was our newest client Ella Phantasm whose primary superpower appeared to be getting lost. She’d accidentally wandered into my office, so I pointed her in the right direction and then turned back to CarPig.  

He looked deflated. Being the master communicator he is, he willingly shared with me (gushed) his complicated family dynamic and the challenges he faced as a squab and squeaker. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice to say that it was a heartbreaking story. As it turns out, his brother is the higher-level superhero Pigeon who fought Moletron as an esteemed member of the Sca-vengers. Yeah. It’s kind of a big deal. Meanwhile, CarPig has only ever fought a parking ticket he received from a heartless and notorious Gotham enforcement officer. And he lost that battle. 

All of this presents as problematic in trying to improve CarPig’s image. The biggest problem with changing CarPig’s optics though has to do with his strongest superpower. Yes, he can fly. Essentially. And he can cover a large surface area with a sheet of smooth and shiny excrement. I mean, just consider the applications. Yet, these powers are dwarfed by his sheer ability to RESIST. For it is resistance that is both his greatest superpower and worst enemy. On the one hand, he can use it to push up against a speeding train barreling toward a large group of ridiculously adorable, freakishly well-behaved, but entirely oblivious young children. On the other, he is completely incapable of taking direction of any sort. As such, while he sought me out for help, he resists every suggestion I give him. Yes. CarPig is going to be my greatest challenge. 

So when I woke up this morning to his third thud, I resolved to make him the superhero that he is. I’m not sure how I’m going to do that yet, but I’m determined to find a way where he can use his powers for good rather than evil. Cliché as that may be. Once I achieve this, I suppose I’ll be something of a superhero. Yes! My cats will finally be vindicated! 

And I’ll just conveniently disregard the half-eaten bug in my living room. 

#3 – What If FOX News Never Existed?

What If?,

Perched on the rocker on her front porch, she closes her eyes and soaks up the whimsical sound of the children playing across the street. A strong breeze stirs the wind chimes above her head and she smiles thinking of her wedding day fourteen years ago. 

The breeze catches one of the smaller children’s giggles and ushers it onto the porch, swirling it around her head. She immediately hears her childhood in it; those delicious years of conjuring up magical worlds with her sisters, hamming it up for her mother, and building majestic snow forts with her dad. Those forts seemed so huge and her father towering over them gave him a larger-than-life countenance. Then there were the summers in the woods and on the lake, and the road trips to the east and the south to dip their feet in the ocean. She loved almost nothing more than talking trees with her father. 

Firmly rooted in her mid-50s now, those honey-dipped years recede further and further in the rearview mirror – presenting the possibility of disappearing altogether. She doesn’t lament this though. And she doesn’t regard those years passing as a loss but rather as the brilliant foundational first chapter of her life. She’s grateful for the peace, security, and happiness of the first chapter. The first several chapters, really. It was a time when she knew with certainty that she would always feel part of something. She would ALWAYS be part of her family.

She rests her head back and stares up at the grey autumnal sky. She closes her eyes and breathes in the wet and earthy scent of the season. Something in her throat catches. The holidays will be here soon. And she ponders gathering with her parents. Her father will most certainly comment on the state of the lawn, challenge her to a round of Jeopardy!, and drink one too many mai tais and start singing “Tiny Bubbles.” And her mother will offer to help in the kitchen, as she always does, while eager to hear about the happenings in her daughters’ and grandchildren’s lives. Perhaps they’ll watch a holiday movie, talk about their wishes and dreams, exchange meaningful gifts, or engage in any other number of new holiday traditions they’ve instituted over the years that so beautifully complement the traditions from her youth that ‘made the season bright.’ 

She snuggles deeper into her rocker and notices the earthy scent has taken on the slightly sweet smell of rot now. All but one of the children have been called inside. And it’s the oldest child, who’s quietly playing by herself. Another breeze stirs the chimes. And she thinks of her parents again. Their joy when they presented her and her husband with those chimes on her wedding day. How they’d just always been there. And how she assumed they always would be. 

“To assume is to make an ass of u and me,” her father used to joke. He was right though. 

She won’t see her parents this year for the holidays. Neither will her sisters. Just as they didn’t last year or the year before that. Because the truth is, there were never any new holiday traditions that included exchanging thoughtful gifts, watching movies, or having meaningful conversations. Over the past three decades, there’s been a gradual and steady unraveling. She’s witnessed her father slowly descend into irrational and sometimes hateful rhetoric – echoing the talking heads that spew fear and lies from every television in his house from dawn until dusk each and every day. He’s even directed it at her and her sisters. And as her mother rallied to stay connected over the years, she began to drift as her once razor-sharp brain grew weary and eventually surrendered to Alzheimer’s.  

Now they are thousands of miles away. And there are no conversations at all. Her father is lost in lies, and her mother is lost in herself.

She feels as though her parents have died. Except that they haven’t. With every ignored text message or unanswered call, she senses their presence on the planet. And it leaves her in an oppressive state of limbo. So she comes to sit on the porch every afternoon to rejuvenate. She loves the fuzzy quality of the October light and it brings her joy to hear the children laughing. And when the voices of her parents come through those wind chimes, it reminds her of their love. 

Wherever it may be.