Jesus was in the Oculus Last Friday

I.

Jesus was in the Oculus last Friday, and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. I nearly tripped over him sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the polished marble floor. It was early in the morning, and freezing. The people coming off the PATH train formed big walls with their big coats. I didn’t see him until it was too late.

Despite my reputation, Jesus and I do have a relationship. We were in love once.

It was back in the second grade. My parents had transferred me into Catholic school, even though we’d never been to church before. They were worried about me, about the drawings I’d been making. Too violent for a little boy, they said. I was just trying to be historically accurate.

It’s easy to fall in love in the second grade. You have so many questions then, and they had so many answers. We even had a special class called “Religion” just for asking questions. It was my favorite class. My parents always hated answering questions.

He became my muse, and I created all new drawings. Magic marker crosses and ichthyses with ornate frames of doves and bread. I’d give them to my family for Christmas. I asked in class, and they said there was no greater gift than Religion.

That’s why I loved Jesus. I’ve never been very good at picking out gifts for people. I was always afraid of getting them the wrong thing.

Years later, my Aunt told me that these drawings freaked everyone in the family out.

Rushing across the Oculus from Fulton Street Station, I was already ten minutes late for work.

I work on the top floor of one of those square towers that jut out of Brookfield Place like a cartoon tooth. I’m a receptionist. It’s a pretty nothing job. A lot of the jobs in New York are like that. You’re either changing the world, or you’re making sure the people changing the world have almond milk.

I hate almond milk.

I didn’t recognize him at first. He wasn’t wearing his robes, and his hands were whole and bloodless. He looked Palestinian, like from the news. At least, I think he did. I’ve been too busy to keep up recently.

“Excuse me,” I said, barely looking down, barely slowing.

“No time for an old friend?” he called after me. I glanced back. His headlights met my eyes and froze me like a deer.

“Slow down a second. Talk to me.”

“I’m sorry, man… I’m running late.” I tapped my pockets absentmindedly.

“I don’t have any cash.” I shook my head apologetically, doing the whole performance. You get a lot of practice riding the C train.

“Don’t need any,” he said, and pulled out a wad of bills.

“Let me buy you a coffee.”

“I can’t, I’ve got to-”

“They’ll be fine without you, Sam. It’s Friday, remember? Everyone’s working from home.”

“How do you know that?” I sputtered.

“Don’t you recognize me? You made me this.”

Then he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his dirty, threadbare peacoat. Laying it flat on the cold marble floor, I saw that it was a magic marker drawing of a little boy and a man with holes in his hands on top of a hill, with ichthyses and bread raining down around them.

II.

He bought me a cappuccino at the Épicerie Boulud.

I tried to drink it as fast as I possibly could. He watched the waves of people pulse through the skeleton building and nibbled his croissant.

I burned my mouth.

“Goddamn it,” I said. He winced.

“If you could not say that word, I’d appreciate it.”

“You’re not him,” I said, my mind made up.

“You can’t be him. I don’t remember drawing that; anyone could’ve drawn that.”

“Why’d you stop drawing anyway?” he asked, leaning across the table.

I wanted to leave. My leg was tapping rapidly in anticipation, or maybe from the caffeine. I could feel every tick of the second hand on my watch, but I didn’t want to be rude.

“You’ve seen my work. I was terrible.”

“I liked your drawings, even your first ones. Very historically accurate.”

“World War Two isn’t something for little boys to think about,” I said, repeating what my mother had told me at the time.

“You’re not a little boy anymore.”

“You know it’s funny you’d come to me now to talk and not when I was a kid.”

“I was there.”

“I must’ve missed you. I was probably distracted by all the plates my parents were throwing at each other.”

I sat back in my chair and tried to breathe. Counting to ten in my head. I hadn’t realized that I’d been leaning forward too, and raising my voice.

“Why are you here anyway, if you are who you say you are. Aren’t there other places you should be?”

“You think I should be with people more in need. You assume I’m not there, too.”

“You’re all-powerful, aren’t you? You know some people deserve your help more.”

“You don’t deserve my help?”

“Why would I?”

I shot back the rest of my cappuccino and slammed the cup onto the table as I stood up to leave.

“Look, this was great, thanks for the coffee or whatever. Let’s do it again sometime. You know where to find me, I guess.”

I threw a few dollars onto the table and moved to leave, running right into two NYPD officers with big guns.

“We heard you speaking in raised tones. We just wanted to check that everything is okay,” they said in unison.

“Everything’s fine. Sorry, officers.”

“Would you like him removed, sir?” He wasn’t looking at them. Just calmly pressing his finger into his napkin and licking up all the croissant crumbs that stuck.

“No. He’s fine. We’re both fine.”

“You really can’t be in here without shoes, sir.” They were leaning down to inspect his feet.

“He’s not doing anything.”

“Don’t raise your tone at me, sir. We’ll remove you with him.”

“No, that’s- I’m sorry.” I felt my mouth stitch shut. They leaned down on either side of him, Dismas and Gestas with guns.

“Sir, you have to leave. We’ve gotten complaints.”

“Sorry, gentleman, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I was just visiting my old friend here.”

“We’re not friends.” I felt myself say.

“It’s true.” He said. “We’re more than friends. We were in love once.”

“In love?” they asked. I felt myself blush.

“That was a long time ago.”

“How long?” they asked. You could hear their eyebrows raising.

“It was- no, we were never in love. I’ve never even met him.”

“Sure, he has. He drew me this picture, see.”

“If you’re friends with him, maybe you could buy him some shoes?”

“We’re not friends!”

“Sam here can’t afford to buy me shoes. He doesn’t make enough to shop at any of these stores.”

“He does seem to know you pretty well.”

“I know him really well! His birthday is April 7th. He’s afraid of snakes, but only because Indiana Jones is. He sometimes thinks about how different his life would be if he had started that band at sixteen like he wanted to.”

I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Hard.

“Would you fucking stop!” I screamed.

Silence.

The entire Oculus was looking at us. I could hear the echoes of my scream bouncing off the walls. A mother looked at me aghast, her hands clamped over her daughter’s ears. A laughing tween filmed me on his phone.

The officers stepped forward.

“Yeah, you’re both going to need to get out of here.”

So Jesus and I went outside.

III.

I put him on one of those benches built into the walls of the Oculus, looking across the street toward St. Paul’s Chapel. He was shivering.

“Sorry about that. It’s just… I can’t get in trouble again.” I said awkwardly.

“God forbid, right?”

“Okay, well. Bye.” I said it quickly and started walking away. I knew if he said something else, he’d suck me back in.

“You could’ve gotten better, you know,” he called after me. I felt my feet stop.

“At drawing.” I turned slowly.

“I was five. I never actually wanted to be an artist.”

“You were eight. You wanted to be good.”

“Everyone wants to be good at the things they’re bad at.”

“Some people try.” He wrapped his coat around himself and drew his feet up and under him. They were red. I looked at my watch. Two hours late.

“I always thought you were good at getting angry.”

“Anger isn’t a good thing.”

“I thought you’d be angrier when you saw me. You used to hate me with such a passion.” He leaned back and let out a long, ragged sigh.

“Guess I grew up.” I could feel the anger welling up inside of me, just begging to be let out. I took out a cigarette and started smoking.

“I thought you quit.”

“Mitigating circumstances,” I said, waving my hand dismissively. I took deep, life-assuring drags.

“Can I get one of those?” he asked. Surprised, I wordlessly gave him a cigarette and lit it. He didn’t smoke; he just watched it burn.

“I’ve always been fascinated. Such a little thing. It just burns until suddenly…” He dropped it onto the wet concrete.

“…It doesn’t.” I watched the cigarette die on the ground, unimpressed.

“Can I see that drawing of mine?” I asked earnestly. He smiled and handed it to me.

Meeting his gaze, I held the ratty thing in front of me and pressed my cigarette into it. Fire slowly leaked across the paper. We watched it spread like flood waters breaking a levee. I dropped it when my fingers started to sting, and it disappeared into a cloud of ash that a cold breeze off the Hudson blew down Church Street.

“So, off to work then?” He said, his eyes looking for the cloud. There was something new in his voice, an edge. When he turned back to face me, I could see that Jesus was mad.

“Maybe I’ll come back and visit you in another 20 years or so. You think I should expect any changes?”

“This was a waste of time,” I said and threw down my cigarette.

“You’re not even real.” I spat.

“How can I not be real? I just bought you a coffee.”

“What do you want from me, man? If you’re not here to help me, then what good are you?” I was up in his face. I could feel it, deep in my belly: I was getting ready to punch Jesus.

“I’m sorry you don’t think I’ve been helpful.” He said in an even voice.

“I wanted to help you. I was happy to help you with your Christmas gifts. It’s a shame you stopped giving them.”

The anger released from my belly like a popping balloon. I felt myself back off, defeated. I didn’t want it to go. I wanted to want to hit him. To be angry enough to storm off. It just wasn’t in me anymore.

He was right. I never give gifts.

I stared at him. His eyes were soft and forgiving.

I knelt, took off my boots, shoved them towards him, and left.

IIII.

When I walked into work, the office was deserted. I opened up my email and saw that I’d missed no messages. I leaned back in my chair and looked at my bare feet. They were cold on the polished marble floor. I had to keep them hidden in case my boss checked the security cameras.