Short Fiction
Finding Jesus: an unexpected encounter
the recounting of a conversation
by David Ortmann
written August 2001
I found Jesus today, not that I was really looking. He was sitting in a San Francisco Tenderloin bar, drinking a beer, and he did not look pleased.
In my work with social services, I am sometimes required to do outreach. This afternoon found me at the Tenderloin 700 Club, in search of an elusive psychiatric client with a penchant for cheap hooch.
The 700 Club is seedy, dim, and probably had a roadhouse charm about seven hundred years ago. The bartender looked to be about that old himself. The hand-lettered cardboard sign taped to the wall read: DRAFTS - 75 sents.
"Excuse me, but I am looking for Sam." I said, approaching the bar, always conscious of confidentiality and sure not too disclose my client's surname. "I am his case manager. My name is."
"He left twenty minutes ago." I heard a voice next to me.
I jumped, turning to face the wizened man on the barstool beside me. He looked like a cross between Yoda and an old bowling shoe. "But he told me to tell you he was only drinking juice today."
"Oh, thanks."
"My name's Jesus." He said extending a claw that would have been more at home in a horror movie about giant geckos.
"You must get a lot of flack for your name." I said to the guy who called himself Jesus.
"I get a lot of flack period." He laughed. "Bet you never though you'd find me here, huh?"
I laughed too. "You know, man," I said to Jesus. "There are a lot of folks out there looking for you."
"Well here I am." He smiled. He had two teeth, and those looked as though they might not hang in there til nightfall. "Do you want a beer?"
I declined, realizing I might be missing the opportunity of a lifetime, having Jesus buy me a Bud.
I sat down on the barstool next to him and fixed him with a stare that challenged: Go ahead, impress me Jesus.
"So, Jesus, tell me what it's all about."
"What what's all about?" He asked.
"Life. The universe. Meaning. You know. What's it all about, Alfie?"
The guy laughed, as though I were the latest in a long line of idiots to ask him that particularly vague question.
He was quiet for a while and then said. "Same thing it's always been: share the table and share the food. Eat only what you can eat, don't monopolize the conversation, say thank-you, and clean up after yourself."
"You sound like the mother on The Waltons." I said.
"People'd do well to pay more attention to how that family ate. They were poor but there was always food on the table and chairs for everyone. Everyone's got a place at the table."
"So everyone's got a place at the table, huh?"
"Yeah." He said.
"What about me? I'm gay. Do I have a place at the table?"
"Shit yeah." Jesus said. "Love is the most important thing, the only real thing, plain and simple. Sex is good, too. Healthy. I don't care how it's done, or with whom, as long as it's consenting and realized."
Consenting and realized, I thought. This guy must have a decent education, if not decent teeth.
"What about fundamentalist Christians?" I asked.
"They're welcome too. They just need to talk less and listen more."
"What about the homeless, the hungry?"
"Absolutely no excuse for either." He said, with a wave of his hand. "There's more than enough food and space on this planet to go around. Y'all could have been a bit wiser about spreading it around, and not wasting so much."
"What about the Bible?" I asked.
"Don't know. Didn't write it."
"But it says you.."
"I know what it says about me, I've read the damn thing, but I didn't write it." He took a long draw from his beer. "Go ask Britney Spears if everything that's written about her is true."
"I see your point." I laughed.
"It's really simple." Jesus said and lit a cigarette from the small candle on the bar. So, Jesus smoked. Wait til Phillip Morris got wind of that item.
"It's not about books, and pointing figures, or seeing who's the better of the best, or the worst of the worst, for that matter. There's a lot of that going on these days, you know. The 'I'm worse off than you are because of blah, blah, blah.'"
"I see that everyday. You don't have to tell me what's it's not about."
"Well, I beg your pardon David." He laughed and took a long drag off his smoke. "It's about being kind. And about being conscious."
"How did you know my name?"
"I thought I overheard you tell it to the bartender."
I tried to remember if I'd told the bartender my name. I scoured my mind, but couldn't remember. I must have, I thought, letting it go.
"Okay, okay." I said. "Conscious of what?"
"Conscious of each other, of one another. Of the fact that there's a whole bunch of other people, animals, creatures sharing this same trip on earth with you. Any fourth grade kid with a love of science can tell you that, molecularly, we're all connected somehow, but people still don't want to believe it."
"Man, you're a trip. Why are you hanging out in this dump? Shouldn't you be lecturing at a college or writing a book or something?"
"Been that, done there." He smiled. "I speak through people, not at people."
His direct gaze sent a chill right through me. He had very blue eyes. "Jesus, you know, I dig your rap and all, it's way cool, but. I mean. for Jesus, man, you look like shit." I tried to laugh, but it fell rather flat. I had trouble telling anyone they looked like shit, let alone Jesus. I was nervous and itching to get the hell out of that bar. I felt the desperation of the place closing in on me.
"David, look at that street outside."
"I can't." I said. "The window's all scratched up and dirty."
"Exactly. The window's filthy. The street outside is a mess. Look at your city, your world. I look like shit, you say? Of course I look like shit. I don't live in the clouds, kid. I live right here."
Great, I thought, now he's getting angry on top of being delusional.
"Listen, man, I gotta run. It's been great talking to you." I said, realizing the sun was setting and I'd never find Sam in the Tenderloin once it got dark. Actually, I thought, I didn't even want to be in the neighborhood once it got dark.
"One more thing, David." Jesus ground out his smoke and grasped the arm of my jacket. "You talk to people, don't you?" His emphasis was on the world talk.
"Yeah." I rolled my eyes, thinking of my work at the clinic and my writing. "I talk to people all the time."
"Well when you talk to them, remind them of the simple shit. You know, what I said about the food and the table. Wipe your feet before you walk on the carpet, and look out for the glass houses. We all live in them too one extent or another. Rocks should be banned. No, not banned, just admired. Not picked up and thrown, you know?"
"Yeah, man, sure. Look, I have to go."
He let go of the arm of my jacket and gave me a little salute with his index and middle fingers. I turned to leave, wiping the arm of my jacket. I kind of liked the guy and all, but I didn't like him touching it. It's a vintage leather car coat from the 1960s. It's my favorite. More importantly, it belonged to my grandfather, who died a few years ago.
"David!" The guy yelled.
I tuned to look back at him.
"Your grandfather says he's happy that you're wearing the coat."
Jesus winked and I felt a hot chill crawl up my back to the base of my neck. I didn't say anything. I just turned and walked out.
I walked speechlessly out into the dark Tenderloin streets. It was freezing and I drew my coat tightly around me. My brain was reeling. I'd let the little old man get into my head and that bothered me. Who was he? Some homeless schizophrenic off his medication or some old neighborhood drunk playing Socrates or. Jesus?
Walking to my car, I thought about everything he said. I even considered turning back toward the bar and finding out who he really was. But I didn't. The more I thought about him, and what he said, the more I realized that his identity didn't matter to me anymore.