The Christian: A Comedy – Part Four
A novella in four parts
This month, I am serializing on Substack my tenth book, a novella called The Christian: A Comedy. The paperback is available on Amazon. Here is the front cover:
FIFTH DAY
That morning I got a text from my uncle.
Howdy. Long time. Haven’t heard from your dad in a bit but I know you live close. Opening a new restaurant tonight in ABQ. Great stuff. Want to come?
I stared at the blue bubble.
Uncle Phil, like the father figure in Fresh Prince, was rich. The few times I visited his house I felt like I had spent time in a spaceship. He was butler-rich, maid-rich, in-house-chef-rich. My dad was cordial with him, but cold; I didn’t know the details of their childhood or the origin of their enmity. Phil had no children. He was single. He liked to entertain. I knew that because each time I was over at his house he pulled me aside at some point and said, “I like to entertain.” I have never understood how to think of such wealth. Phil seemed born lucky, pedigreed on some other plane. He seemed chosen.
We’d fallen out of touch for a few years. At least until the text.
can i bring a friend?
When I got to Mike’s place, he was cleaning the kitchen.
“Big breakfast?”
Mike laughed. “I had friends over.”
He explained: at dawn, already awake, Mike noticed people peeking through his front windows. He opened the door and greeted three strangers in dirty clothes who wanted to know if Mike was home. He introduced himself and invited them in. They told Mike they heard good things about him from people in the park to whom we handed out burritos. Mike was glad to hear it. He offered to cook the three breakfast and they accepted. He made them food and they told him about their lives. They asked why Mike had taken interest in the poor. He explained his Jesus freakout (“the best I could”). They ate breakfast together and talked about spirituality, paranormal experiences, and good teachers. Mike asked if they wanted to read the Sermon on the Mount together, giving them an easy out if the invitation felt weird—but they said yes. Mike opened his laptop and read a simple translation of the speech. Mike stopped a few times and said, “I don’t know what that means,” then the group discussed potential interpretations. The three guests took turns reading while Mike made them sandwiches for later. They concluded together that this Jesus guy was onto something, even though he was sometimes very weird and distant and hard to understand. Mike told them they could return any time, that his door was open to them, and that as long as he had food to give, he would give it. They thanked Mike, two of the three hugged him, then they left.
“Then you got here.”
I watched Mike sip his coffee. We smiled at one another.
The question rose in me: “How did all of this start?”
Mike cupped his hands around the warm white mug. He cocked his head to the side like a dog trying to understand a new sound. “What do you mean?”
“The Jesus stuff. All of this. What actually happened right at the beginning?” My cheeks were warm; I felt like a teenager who just asked someone to go out with them. What was that feeling? Preemptive embarrassment? If so, for whom?
Mike studied me for a moment; I laughed nervously. Mike seemed wiser, as if the narrowness of his external life had created—in just a few days—a profound interior depth. He didn’t seem otherworldly, he was no saint, but he looked wise. I don’t know how else to say it. And suddenly I felt scared. How much could a person actually change? What couldn’t one become?
Mike told me the story. I listened.
We spoke until the sun began to set.
I won’t tell you the story; I can’t. But I will say that it is both arbitrary and ordained. And, in the tale’s telling, he was unmistakably real.
Phil texted a reminder. I looked down at my phone, the spell broken.
I told Mike about my dinner plans. He obliged. As we stood up from the table, we simultaneously said, “I’m starving.” As if our animal natures had finally synchronized.
The location of the restaurant was a mystery in the maps app. There was no restaurant; this was an old lumber yard, one I’d driven by a few times during trips down south, long since out of business. Confused, I drove around the block, the map robot instructing me to return. I called Phil. His voice was boisterous, background bubbly with conversation. He confirmed that we were in the right place. He said the gate is unlocked and told us to close it behind us. He said that everyone is inside. He said to follow the noise of the party.
The large black iron gate swung open easily. We eased my car into the open central courtyard of the seemingly abandoned industrial building and parked beside a few dozen others. There was one door visible, leather-padded and windowless. As we got out of our car, we heard voices inside.
“This is weird,” I said. “Sorry. I didn’t know it was going to be weird.”
Mike shrugged.
We walked to the door and I swung it wide for Mike and we were hit by heat and light and scents of fresh fish and warm rice and minty soap as a patron—tall, handsome, rich—exited the restaurant’s bathroom and walked back to his table. We stepped completely inside. Then I understood.
The room was lit with antique amber bulbs hung from matte black threads dangling from the exposed-beam ceiling. The walls were lime washed, a fresh shale at twilight. The tables and chairs were beautifully constructed from rich wood; Japanese joinery held it all together. The sushi bar ran the length of the place, and the men behind it were dressed starch white while their clean hands and long blades worked slabs of gorgeous fish. The place was packed. Everyone was rich, pretty, or both. There were no windows but the interior somehow felt like it was placed on a perch overlooking the rest of the world. I felt underdressed, underpaid, and ill-prepared. I looked at Mike but his face was a mystery.
“May I help you?”
The hostess was dressed in black, her lipstick a pale lavender, hair tied in a tight bun, dark eyes glowing up. She was beautiful enough to make me feel stupid for simply existing. I stuttered: “I’m here for—we’re here, sorry, for—”
Uncle’s voice boomed across the place, calling my name. I turned and watched him snake through tightly-packed tables, patting a waiter on the back on his way towards us. He was taller than I remembered. Still handsome. Still well-kempt. He wore a subtle yet monstrously expensive watch on his right wrist. As he got close he beckoned for a hug. It was only then that I noticed the ashy pallor of his skin.
“Hey buddy,” he said warmly.
His embrace was solid, grounding. Then he hugged Mike. “Like the place?” His eyes expectant; a genuine question.
“It’s… yeah. Wow.”
Mike said, “It’s gorgeous. And God… it smells great.”
Phil smiled. “Only the best. If you’re going to do something, go all the way—right?” He winked at me. Was this a dig at my father? I felt too hungry to process family arcana. Phil gestured for us to follow.
He took us to the far end of the bar and had us sit a seat apart from one another. He saw my confusion and asked, “May I join you two?”
I was surprised, but deferred to Mike. “Why not?”
Phil smiled again and settled in.
We sat for a moment watching together the spectacular precision of the men behind the bar. Clean bright light that somehow dodged the accusation of being sterile permeated the space behind spotless long cases of flesh from water spread all over the planet. Sushi restaurants were my favorite places on Earth, truly—places where artistry and care met the exquisite and strange practice of eating raw flesh. When I ate great sushi, I joked that I felt closer to God. Tonight, I would see if rubber met road.
“Now,” Phil intoned, “how about omekase shimasu?”
Mike frowned apologetically.
Phil explained. “‘I entrust this to you.’ In other words, chef’s choice.”
I nodded enthusiastically. This meant the most fish, the most money, the freshest stuff. The royal treatment, in other words. Phil’s noblesse oblige in action.
Phil smiled and spoke to the chef nearest us in perfect Japanese (presumably). The chef nodded curtly and got to work.
Phil leaned back so that Mike and I could see one another. “Now. How do you two…?”
I started, then stopped, then Mike stepped in. “Friends from school.”
“From the little college in Santa Fe? Ahh, excellent.”
I felt compelled to clarify for some reason: “We weren’t super close then, but we’ve been spending more time with each other. Mike’s a great guy.” Which means nothing. I’d lapsed into platitudes already?
Mike nodded respectfully. His face was strange—nervous, self-assured, curious, afraid, new with each turn of a hidden wheel. I couldn’t get a read on him.
Phil filled the space, vamping as he usually did in a lull. “It’s so important to nurture old relationships. Particularly nowadays. Everything is so fast, so throwaway. If something doesn’t meet your exact preferences, boom. Gone. ‘Toxic.’ I’m not sure anymore that people know how to know what’s good for them.”
I chuckled, unsure how to answer.
The first dish arrived. Perfect yellowtail nigiri lightly kissed with yuzu hotsauce. We tucked in. I entered an ecstatic state, hunger not just met but obliterated. Yet my body, now in touch with the possibility of the divine, yearned harder for more.
“Mind if I ask Mike a few questions?” Phil asked.
I shrugged, too wrapped up in fresh fish to think straight.
“So. What have you been up to, Mike? What are you working on lately?”
Then curiosity overwhelmed me; I stayed my gluttony for a second. Mike considered the question carefully, as was his new way, then spoke softly in the excited yet tolerable din of the restaurant. “I’ve been trying to live like Jesus.”
Phil’s eyes widened. He leaned back and nodded, looking impressed. “Wow. Quite a task.”
Mike ate the second piece of nigiri, chewing thoughtfully. His eyes fluttered up into their sockets for a moment; yes, the food was that good. He chewed for a moment then responded, “I guess so. I’m just trying my best.”
“And what exactly has this entailed?”
Mike took a sip of icewater. “I’m being literal. Just doing what he did, and however I can. Give stuff away. Feed the poor. It sounds pretentious, I know…”
I was surprised to see that in Mike—skepticism. He had been humble about the Jesus experiment thus far, and often downplayed the impact he likely had on others. Yet in my eyes, until that moment, he had seemed to believe that he was merely doing what he must. Now a seed of doubt took root.
The next dish arrived. Salmon. Fatty, drooping off the edges of the neatly-shaped rice, a delicious orange. My favorite kind of nigiri. I smelled it, and then I ate it, my eyes closed, savoring the fat as it melted in my mouth.
Phil continued. “This is quite the lifestyle. I’m surprised you’re not in the whole monk getup. I’m surprised, actually, that you’re even indulging in this…” He gestured to the restaurant’s central dining area—full, happy, beautiful—then brought his gaze back to Mike. “This luxury.”
Mike laughed nervously. “I… I’m sorry if I seem holier than thou. Really, that’s not my intention.”
“No no, you’re fine.” Phil smiled, then put a big hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Mike: you’re fine. I’m just curious about this brave thing you’re trying.”
Mike nodded and looked down at his plate. He hadn’t touched his salmon.
Phil pressed on. “Tell me more. And then I might have a few questions.”
The dishes kept coming. Tuna, eel, shrimp alive and squirming. Yellow egg and orange eggs. A salted raw beef. Vegetables indistinguishable from meat. We ate and ate and ate and I could have eaten for hours more; I could have lived there. Mike explained the last four days, omitting no details. I was impressed by the fidelity of his memory. I was drunk off saturated fat and a full belly. When it was all over—Mike’s story terminating in the present moment—Phil took a moment, thanked Mike for sharing “his story,” then made his inquiry.
“First of all: I’m so impressed. Really. This is a bold, important thing you’re doing. You’re taking a set of beliefs, really some of the most important beliefs in the world, and you are putting them to the test. You’re refusing to let history tell us what goodness was like; you’re trying to make it right now, right here, in the present. That is remarkable. If only other people had your courage, your willingness to take a risk for what’s right. Truly, I can’t commend you enough. But I’ve got some questions. And I hope they’re not interpreted in bad faith; again, I support your project as much as possible. And that means financially, too—I’m serious. If you need financial support for the folks you’re helping, just say the word. I live here, I love this city, and I’m happy to try to enrich the lives of the people in it—housed, unhoused, it doesn’t matter to me. If you vouch for them, they’re friends of mine. But! I have to ask… What do you think would happen if more people lived like this? If more people, a few dozen at first, then a hundred, two hundred, a thousand—if all these people were as committed as you are to living like the Jesus described in those books? Would that start to change the world for the better? We can imagine there being a lot of loving kindness floating around, and good cheer among people in the know, but what about all the wives? The daughters and sons? The coworkers now shouldering all that extra work? And what about all the wealth that could be used to lift more people out of poverty: descendants, whole lineages even. Is that money just thrown to the wind? Don’t we have a responsibility to the people we love? I think of the marriage vows we always hear: to have and to hold, sickness through health, death do us part. Must the good man abandon his family? That’s what Jesus called for, right? You must hate your father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, and even your own life—I believe it goes something like that. How do you reckon that invitation? What of the love you so correctly feel for the people in your life you know best, who have been with you through pain and turbulence, who have sacrificed parts of themselves—their dreams, ambitions, curiosities—just to spend more time with you? To be around you? They are cast off. Gone. Because of the higher calling of a worldless sacred love whose privacy is absolute. Isn’t that strange? To want to love something that no one else can see but you? And to do so at the cost of all you had until that point in your life worked so hard to build? For a loving religion it is awfully isolated from the living, breathing, animal mess of the world. And I love that mess. Don’t you? I love the animal parts, the flesh of it, the heat and stink and error from which we all construct our lives. Isn’t there dignity in such a small story? We don’t need some grand connection to the unutterably perfect, right? We don’t need to be higher than another in order to be good. We don’t need to be the elect. Isn’t it enough just to struggle down here, to make meaning where you can, to make due with what you’ve got and to not indict billions of people for living their lives in petty ways? I think there’s such a desire for cleanliness in this religion, for purity. And we see what wanting to be pure does to us politically—it rips everything apart. Mess, indecision, mixed desires, conflicting aims, ambitions crashing against each other like great waves: that’s what the world is made of. Not the omission of sin. Not the departure from the needs of the body. We pull up minerals from the earth to make machines to help us commune with one another oceans apart. We battle ice and hurricanes and risk death to drag up from the seas these creatures we’re enjoying so much right now, all the way to this dusty ol’ state. We bring fish to the desert; we bring the light of man to the vacuum of space. If all were to live like you, this would all… fall apart. Wouldn’t it? Because the shared work of civilization, of piecing together this grand complex puzzle, of heightening and expanding our desires so that we can know ourselves better, so that we can come into our own as a species, all that goes away for the sake of a clean heart and pleased father. If your wife left you because she became afraid, what does that say about your experiment? If the person you trusted most is now a footnote in a taller tale about the only right way to be, what does this say about the human heart? Should it be so cold in pursuit of real love? How could it be right to reject the world? Isn’t heaven on earth Christ’s promise? Might we be interpreting him all wrong? What if you are still just lodged in one particular interpretation of one particular religious system from an arbitrary period of time—at the expense of all the others, at the expense of their commonalities, of the beautiful perennial philosophy, that broad recognition of the power of love and the lie of lovelessness? Isn’t that cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face? How can you know you must remake your life in order to live?”
The restaurant was empty. Servers had cleaned up, chefs had sheathed their knives, and the hostess waited patiently for us to finish.
Mike stared at Phil and trembled.
I wish I could have lied to you about this night, but I promised myself I would tell the truth.
Phil patted Mike on the back and laughed. “A conversation for next time.” He turned to me. “Thanks for the company. I’m glad you enjoyed your meal.”
We drove home in silence.
When we turned on Mike’s street, blue-red sirens lit up his block.
Mike gasped. I drove forward. I felt hollow.
Two cop cars were parked in front of Mike’s house. We stopped a house down. Mike leapt out and I followed.
Three cops stood on Mike’s lawn as a young person, maybe twenty, paced, cried, and wailed unintelligibly—words too fast to make sense. Their clothes were dirty.
“Officers—” Mike shouted. I grabbed his arm to pull him back, afraid of everything. He shook free and walked towards them on the sidewalk.
The cop nearest us turned and extended his arm, telling us to stop. Mike said, “This is my house, officer.”
“Stay here for your safety—”
“This is my house. I know that woman.”
She screamed. Tears streamed down her face in the alternating light. The other two cops were shouting at her. I knew then that this was the nearest picture of hell.
The cop put his hand against Mike’s chest and pushed. “Stay back!”
Mike shouted: “I know her! She’s just sick! She needs help.”
I understood—this was one of Mike’s guests. What had she told him about her life? What had she revealed to a stranger whom she knew she could trust?
The cop said, “This woman is dangerous. Stay back or you will be arrested.”
“This is my. Fucking. House.” Mike’s voice cracked; he was crying because he was afraid. “I don’t want her to go anywhere—I know her. Let me bring her inside.” Feeling trapped in a story I had seen over and over again, I did what I thought I had to: I grabbed my phone and started recording.
The woman hit herself in the face, tore at her hair.
I took a step back to better frame the problem—my mind now cold. Rote.
I watched through the phone as Mike tried to move past the cop. I watched through the phone as the cop shoved Mike back and pulled his pistol. I watched through the phone as Mike backed up, hope and dignity taken from him. I watched through the phone as the cop took a step closer and gestured for Mike to get on the ground. I watched through the phone as Mike backed away, refusing to turn away from the pain in front of him. I watched through the phone as he backed into the street.
Then the truck hit him.
I do not have evidence for what follows. You cannot see what I saw. You can only choose whether or not to believe me.
I dropped my phone on the sidewalk and ran forward as the truck—white, huge, stopped aslant in the middle of the road, red taillights lit up, engine idling—spun its tires then sped off as fast as it had come. I was moving too fast to understand the shape in the street. I got close and saw Mike twisted, finally made to face away from us, his legs splayed illogically, blood pouring from his mouth.
I got on my knees, close to my friend, wanting the impossible.
And then I saw something terrible:
Nothing happened.