He Walked on Water
Being assured by an elementary school friend whom I hadn’t seen for 15 years was a strange assurance. I had no reason to disbelieve his smiling face with blond hair, still uncombed, though strangely in place. He reassured me that he would make them understand, that I didn’t have to worry.
His words seemed to pass over me as smoothly as the motion of the carnival cruise ship that we were aboard; gliding over me, but not moving me. I wasn’t reassured. Had I been, I wouldn’t have been holed up in the janitor closet, my new carnival cruise companions being the tipped over crossing mops and brooms.
As the door closed behind him, I quickly went into a cold sweat. Curled into the fetal position in the back corner of the janitor closet I wondered, would he simply tell them where I was? Why were they after me anyway? I was sure that they thought I was Jesus, but did I need to be persecuted? Is that the role of every Jesus?
I was now sobbing into my hands. The mops and brooms were still my only companions but I felt as if everyone on board were watching me. My black slacks stood in stark contrast to the white of the rest of the closet. I thought that maybe if my pants were white like my tuxedo shirt that I might blend in better, be less notable. I knew that I’d be less visible without the humming fluorescent light, but I couldn’t brave the dark.
What was it that happened to Jesus? Right, he had the living s@#t beat out of him and was nailed to a piece of wood. The mop and brooms made little crosses in my mind; it would be hard to nail into a little broom stick.
I don’t even know how the door opened. My elementary school friend’s face was there again, smiling. Now I noticed that he was wearing his typical red t-shirt and black sweatpants; he always liked Joe Montana and the San Francisco 49ers and wore the colors to show it.
I wanted to trust Steve, but his smile betrayed him. It was like in elementary school. He said he was my best friend. Until one day, I wouldn’t let him have my pizza. He and another one of my good friends, Nathan, chased me around the school yard all lunch recess. I ran in fear of being caught for a full fifteen minutes; that is until I turned around and kicked them both in the “nuts”, as they were called in 5th grade.
Steve was staring at me, still smiling. He reassured me everything was ok, that I could come out. I wished I had a gun. If I stayed in the closet it would look like I didn’t trust him. If I left I would die. Then he gave me his hand to help me up, his Judas’ kiss hand.
Following him out of the closet I left the mop and brooms, my trustworthy companions. Acid built up in my throat, I wanted to cry but I began to understand why people use the word petrified to describe fear. In my nearly stiff state I followed Steve around the white-walled corner where the ship and sky met.
Fifty tuxedos met me. I remember they were all men. It seemed that those who looked the meanest all had beards. They grinned. I still couldn’t cry. Steve was gone. I expected them to be yelling “crucify him, crucify him!” They did little more than laugh, that kind of laughter that you hear from dirty perverted men in movies.
People were holding my wrists and my ankles. Now I felt like I was moving. Not because of the moving carnival cruise ship, the all white ship, the pure ship. No, I was leaving. I felt the heave ho, the back and forth motions of the throw. I counted in my head to three. They just threw me overboard.
2004
(this was a dream I had in 2004)
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