It's the beginning of the TALE OF MICKEY DOG.
My tale begins in the dregs of a dark sylvan night, with me clinging to the final minutes of slumber, with Alvin the rescue mutt also asleep on my bed. His whiskers sometimes tickle my uncovered limbs, after I kick them free on tepid nights. Mostly we afford each other space, the wiry little character and me. On this early Sunday, just as the morning is spreading its glory throughout the neighborhood of junked out mobile homes, I awake to a feeling I associate with Alvin licking me. Except, it gradually hits that he is in no position to lick where I experience the warm sensation. In slow motion alarm, I sit up to view my feet.
Dimly visible, kneeling before my rather low bed with the lumpy mattress, I discern a figure with long hair and full beard. His calm aura quells the fear as he continues his task of washing my feet. I can’t make out his facial features, but I can’t help calling out, “Jesus?”
He looks up, glowing as the sunrise is glowing, making me believe.
“What are you doing here, Jesus? You know I am not in your camp.”
His eyes are soulfully beautiful and expressive. His mouth moves, exposing perfect white teeth. His gaze encompasses my total being. “Thomas: do you truly believe I am Jesus?”
“Well,” I begin, feeling suddenly doubtful. “I don’t know. You aren’t wearing the customary halo-”
Jesus assumes a demeanor comically dramatic. “Halo? I don’t need a stinking halo.”
He slaps the white cloth into the porcelain pan and rises. To his feet.
I relax back onto the pillow before rolling to get myself up. I do like this guy. But why was he washing my feet? I sit on the side of the bed, looking for my house slippers. Seems Jesus somehow moved them. I call him Jesus in the interim, waiting for something definitive.
“Here they are,” Jesus says, sliding them to me with his sandalled feet.
As I’m slipping on the slippers, I ponder out loud: “Why would Jesus wash a non Christian’s feet?”
Jesus smiles indulgently. “Not clean enough? Ought I wash them some more?”
I am twisting inside. “How can I know if you really are Jesus?”
With a slight grimace, Jesus steps away to avoid the rotating ceiling fan. Then he levitates himself. He floats above the floor, hovers, locks his gaze into mine, making me paralyzed. His voice roars, shaking the whole room. “Who doubts me doubts the truth.”
Alvin has been quiet, up until this point, at which he leaps into my arms, and I hug him, seeking to calm and comfort the poor thing. Instead, he rises with flailing front feet and wagging tail, wishing to make contact with the hovering form of Jesus, who is staring firmly, waiting for my reaction. Jesus takes note of the dog, waves a hand until Alvin’s body transforms in shape to that of a wiry young human. The stare returns.
Alvin safely slips to the floor and hugs Jesus’ dangling legs.
I don’t know what else to say, but, “Welcome to my humble if trashy home – Jesus.”
His demeanor softens. He sinks to the floor and casually strokes Alvin’s ears and wiry hair. “That’s much better.” He addresses Alvin. “Sit.”
Alvin sinks back on the edge of my disheveled bed, his face beaming adoration at this beautiful visitor.
I give Jesus a friendly nod. “Would you like some breakfast or some coffee? I’ve got to have these things before I can face the day.”
Jesus accompanies me up the narrow hall, and through a sparsely furnished living room, into a gadget laden kitchen – air fryer, blender, juicer, microwave. The usual stuff, largely unused. After fixing the coffee pot I dump a heaping amount of cold cereal into a bowl. Flood it with whole milk. After refusing the bowl, Jesus stands by, watching in curious disgust while I spoon it in. Alvin wants a share, but I wave him back, telling him to stay. After I drain the residual milk into my mouth, I start for Alvin’s food bowl. But I halt.
Instead, I fill a cereal bowl with kibble and set the mandog at the table, with a big spoon. Jesus and I watch with great interest as he learns to manipulate the spoon and shovels most of the kibble inside his mouth, while much of it rattles onto the table, with some spilling on the floor. Alvin happily looks on as I set a glassful of cool water before him. At first he laps but quickly discovers how much easier to gulp the water human style. He quickly finishes the meal, then looks to us for approval.
“You’re a good boy, Alvin,” I say as he rubs the top of his head against my palm.
Jesus can’t resist the coffee smell, so I pour us both a cup and we take it into the living room. With Alvin lying at our feet, we sip quietly.
I set my cup to the side and turn my gaze to Jesus, who is calmly sipping. He pulls the cup away from his lips. “You’re not ‘from my camp?’”
“You’re Jesus. How would you not know that?”
“I have a revelation for you.”
Jesus downs the remaining coffee in a few deep gulps. He slams the cup down on the rickety end table. “You Americans do make good coffee. I rate this one four and a half stars.”
“Why not five? It’s over nine bucks a can. I filter the water.”
“Don’t take it so hard. You can’t know about chicory.”
I frown. “Chicory was what was wrong with Aunt Cora’s coffee. I only forced some down to keep her smiling. She was easily crushed.”
Jesus gives me a pitying smile.
I suddenly have dark thoughts. I accuse him of dereliction. “Why haven’t you stopped any of the wars? The wanton killing?”
Jesus sighs. He sits back in the chair, eyes on the ceiling, the lone light bulb.
After an interminable wait, he returns to the conversation. He rolls his head to the side and faces me. “They aren’t my fights, any of them. My father gave humans self determination. It’s not within my province to handle that.”
I look down at Alvin. “But you can manipulate matter. He’s a prime example of it.”
“Parlor tricks,” he says. Then he shuts his eyes. “Do you think I enjoy seeing bodies blown to bits?”
“Somebody enjoys the hell out of it.”
He leans forward and snaps his fingers, undoing Alvin’s transformed body.
Alvin yaps happily. He leaps into the chair with Jesus and tries to reach his face for licking. Jesus hugs him as he speaks. “Do you know who is most responsible? The good citizens who opt for safety, who hope history will not notice them at all, who think minding their own business makes them exempt. They have the numbers and the power. They lack the spark that makes one human. They happily mow their lawns, unconcerned that entire populations are at risk of dying or are actually dying.”
I am almost moved to tears by this statement. “Can they be blamed if they are clueless?”
“Hey, they are letting others murder the planet in addition to mowing down their neighbors. Who’s going extinct? You’re going extinct.”
“Would you like more coffee? I’ve got to have a cup.”
Jesus smiles but it’s a sad smile. “Know who doesn’t get a coffee?”
“Yes, I know.”
“People who don’t have homes or lives don’t get a coffee.”
“I’m a retired old man,” I say. “A product of dirt-poor violence and autism. Living hand to mouth in a wreck of a mobile home. In a younger time I tried to have a voice. I still post about it online. You can see my circumstances. No money, no influence. Practically disabled by time and relentless physical labor. Yet you’re placing blame on people like me.”
Jesus strolls with me into the kitchen. “You didn’t storm any citadels. You stepped away from physical danger. It was in your conditioning to know the truth and be constrained by a psychic violence that isn’t your fault.”
He steps in front of me and stops. “Yet you tried. That sets you apart from the herd. You marched for civil rights and against a war in the 60s. You’ve been speaking on the devolution of society and the injustice of every war and sanctioned nations ever since. You think you are not ‘in my camp.’ Well, you are a lot closer to me than many believers.”
Tears dribble from my eyes. I go around him to pour fresh coffee. I set two cups-full on the table and take a seat.
Jesus sits opposite from me to silently watch and perhaps commiserate as I work through the pain while soothing myself with coffee. Alvin lies peacefully at his feet. He finally takes up his own cup and drinks from it. He pauses the cup inches from his face. “I came today to touch off a chain reaction,” he says, lowering the cup to the table. “It will reveal itself in your daily routine in the months ahead.”
I take our cups to the sink and wash them. After which I take a package of graham crackers from the pantry and lay the open package before him. Jesus smiles. “Your simplicity is touching.”
His immaculate fingers take up a cracker, and he bites off a chunk. “Thank you.”
