Because You Never Asked

 

(1/10)

     Unfortunately, it is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the lunacy of America ’s most prominent neo-fascist, Rush Limbaugh. The scope of his influence in the American “body politique” can no longer be defeated with the haughty disdain of more rational intelligence. Its threat to the sanity of the country (which also means the world in the case of this country) must now be confronted. As a result, he is back in the pages of this ever growing mass of chicken soup philosophy.

     I recently saw a blurb from an interview with Limbaugh that centered around health care. Limbaugh would rather be kicked in the balls than live in a country that provided a decent level of medical care for all. His reasoning went something like this: if you have a lot of money, you can have a big, beautiful house. If you don’t have a lot of money, you live in an apartment or some lesser structure. Why should it be any different for health care?

     Admittedly, I am just paraphrasing here, but I ask the reader to trust me --- that was pretty darn close. Now go back and read it again. That is what he said.

     This is the man who has become the driving force behind one of our 2 political parties.

     The light bulb for this essay went on when I began to think how ironic it was that the most solid base of support for Limbaugh and the right wing of American politics he represents, comes from the fanaticism of the country’s most fervent Christians. Universal health care as part of the Social Contract would not only lose amongst this constituency, it would be squashed and obliterated beyond debate. Can anyone out there imagine Jesus Christ voting against universal health care, against healing the sick, whoever they are, whatever they have? Just what Jesus are these people worshipping?

     In answering that question, I’ve decided to write a short story called “Rush’s Jesus”.

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Rush’s Jesus

     There is a wonderful public park that runs, like Chile along the west coast of South America, for a few miles along the upper west side of Manhattan. Its most prominent feature is a wide walkway or promenade that is the spine of the park throughout its length. On a nice day, this promenade is bustling with joggers, bikers, skaters, moms and dads with their kids, and just about the whole human burlesque enjoying some unencumbered moments in harmonious fraternity with the world. As one might expect, this promenade is flanked by hundreds of comfortable benches, benches that are generously sprinkled with relaxed patrons enjoying the glorious view west across the wide sweep of the Hudson River to the cliffs of the Jersey side. About 2 miles to the north, or to the right for one sitting on a bench, is the unique superstructure of the George Washington Bridge, spanning the majestic river like a recently completed project from an erector set. The leisurely flow of traffic on the river completes this easel of Norman Rockwell-like beauty.

     It is the first week of May, one of those glorious portents of the oncoming summer, perhaps the first day of the year suited for shirt sleeves. Sitting on one of the benches is an unassuming man of about 45 years of age. There is nothing that would call one’s attention to this man, who seems to be little more than one of many people enjoying the elements and taking in the beautiful view cross the river to the Jersey horizon. He is looking, but he is not seeing. He is wrapped in his own thoughts due to a recent problem that has befallen him. Eventually, he closes his eyes, 10 seconds, 20, maybe more, so wrapped in his own thoughts is he.

     Upon opening his eyes, he finds a handsome young man sitting a few feet away at the other edge of the bench. His leisure wear boasts the prestigious labels of our day and his forehead is crowned with the latest in elegant sunglasses at rest from its ocular duties. He is clean shaven, well groomed, tanned and healthy under an impressive shock of chestnut hair.

     A minute goes by, maybe 2. “Nice day, eh?” says the young man.

     “Beautiful”, says the bench’s original inhabitant.

     “Makes it great to be alive, doesn’t it?”

     “Yeah, I guess.”

     This initial salvo leads to more polite conversation, until the 2 men of our story have each other’s confidence. They are getting along, passing the time pleasantly. Finally, the young man asks, “What’s your name?”

     “Alfred. And yours?”

     “Jesus.”

     Alfred smiles. “I have a brother named Jesus. My grandfather came from Puerto Rico. His name was Alfredo and I was named for him, but Jesus is a common name amongst Latinos. Are you Latino?”

     The young man lightly shakes his head and leans closer to Alfred, looking at him more intensely. “No, you don’t get it. I am Jesus.”

     Alfred squints slightly, perplexed by such a declaration. “Yeah, and I’m Derek Jeter.”

     An awkward silence now intervenes on what had been an enjoyable bit of human interaction. Alfred’s confidence in the other has been challenged. What is this guy up to?

     “Jesus” notices an ugly scar on the forearm of Alfred closest to him. It is at least 6 inches long and disfigures the arm in a nasty way. “How’d you get that scar?”

     Alfred is not sure whether to respond. Is this guy a kook --- or what? Eventually, he answers. “An industrial accident.”

     “Jesus” moves a bit closer. “Give me your hand.” Alfred recoils slightly, not sure what to do. “C’mon, don’t be afraid.” “Jesus” takes his hand and stretches the scarred arm out straight. “Leave your arm out.” He then begins to run his index finger slowly across the scar. As the finger passes, the scar disappears, until it is completely gone. Alfred’s jaw drops open like a hippo mouth, his eyes open wide. He takes back his arm and begins to examine the area where the scar used to be, running his own finger across it. His sense of touch finds nothing but healthy skin, including a manly amount of black hair. He looks up and stares at Jesus, trying to speak but unable to do so. His mouth moves like a fish out of water.

     The young man is smiling as he says, “Jesus Christ, of Nazareth, glad to meet you Alfred.” Alfred is dumbfounded, unable to react. His mouth continues to flap, still groping for speech. He looks away from Jesus, towards the silver structure of the George Washington Bridge. A slow barge is passing under it, but Alfred sees neither the bridge nor the barge.

     Jesus has moved back to his edge of the bench. He is looking towards the west, staring at an apartment complex crowning the Jersey Palisades on the other side of the river. “You know Alfred; I sat down here because you seemed to be troubled. What’s the problem?”

     Alfred slowly returns his gaze to Jesus. He scrutinizes the handsome face for a moment and is about to speak when he has an epiphany. His face lights up with joy.     

     “Wow, I just thought of something!”

     “Tell me.”

     “Well, you were right. Yesterday I found out I have an advanced case of pancreatic cancer. I’ve been feeling these sharp pains for about a year, but more frequently lately, so I finally went to the doctor. It’s bad. I had no insurance, kept putting it off, and now it is too late. They give me no more than 6 months.”

     Jesus seems disappointed. “Oh --- I see.”

     “But now”, continues Alfred, exalted, “well, here you are. You’re Jesus! You can do it!”

     Jesus continues to stare out across the Hudson. “Tell me Alfred, how did you pay for the industrial accident?”

     “Oh Christ --- sorry --- I’m still trying to pay that off.”

     Jesus crosses his legs and stretches his right arm along the back rest of the bench. He lowers his expensive sunglasses --- Oakleys --- onto his eyes. He is elegant and relaxed, like a movie star at a Malibu beach house. “Alfred, I’m going to ask you a question. How many people do you know, in the whole world, who can do what I just did? I mean, we’re talking miracles here.”

     “Uhh ---“, he is still unsettled by all this, “well, I’d say --- nobody.”

     “Very good. I’m sure you know, Alfred, that they are paying some dudes millions of dollars to field ground balls up in the Bronx, and you expect me to perform miracles for nothing?”

     Alfred is confused, bewildered. A slight headache begins to insinuate itself. He rubs his eyes, trying to find some sense in all this. “But you just erased my scar.”

     Jesus smiles. “That was an introductory offer.”

     “But Jesus, I’m barely making it, child support, rent --- “

     “You should have thought of that when you dropped out of high school.”

     “What?” Alfred is beginning to get angry. “Who the fuck are you? What are you up to?” He begins to get up, menacingly, a scowl on his face.

     Jesus is still relaxed, in control. “Now get it together. Sit down and behave. I am Jesus Christ, you cannot harm me.” Alfred continues to stare at Jesus. He eventually sits down and calms himself, realizing this is his last chance and does not want to blow it. Jesus continues, “Look Alfred, you see that guy jogging towards us over there?” Alfred looks to his right and sees a man of about 60, thinning grey hair, slightly overweight, with sweat pants and a purple NYU tee shirt.

     “Yeah, in fact, he looks familiar. I think I worked painting his apartment about a year ago. What a place he has, view of the river, a palace.”

     “Right. He made a fortune in coffee futures.”

     “Coffee futures? You mean he grows coffee, or sells coffee, or has plantations?”

     “No. Really, he has nothing to do with coffee. He pushes paper, messes with computers, I don’t think he has to leave his apartment anymore.”

     “And you can make millions like that?”

     “Tens of millions. Anyhow, about 5 years ago he had big problems with his prostate. He paid me plenty to get it done.”

     Alfred sighs deeply, sits back on the bench and begins shaking his head slowly. In an almost subconscious way, he begins to realize Jesus is not on his side, that he will not help him. But he still clings to a sliver of hope. “But Jesus --- you’re Jesus! You’re supposed to --- “

     Jesus cuts him off brusquely. “Alfred, do you know why Christians are now the most potent force in the world, why they have the best technology, the most wealth, the most goods and services, the strongest military power and the dominant role in the world?” Alfred is now defeated. He shrugs. “I’ll tell you why Alfred. Because Christians compete! Because Christians have ambition, they push themselves, force each other, and make it get better. They are constantly struggling with each other and everyone else and driving the culture forward. That’s why!”

     Alfred says nothing. He stares blankly towards the Jersey side, not even noticing the long, slow barge that recently passed under the George Washington Bridge going by his position on the upper west side of Manhattan. He then has one last thought, one last card to play. He turns to Jesus.

     “But Jesus, I understand all that. I understand I’m not the smartest guy around, that I’ve made my mistakes, that I could have done things different. I understand. I don’t deserve a big house or fancy apartment. I can’t take vacations at luxury resorts or eat in gourmet restaurants. No Lexus, no designer clothes. I get it. But Jesus, I’m sick! Surely you can’t believe I have to compete for a cure the same way you pay for a luxury box at Yankee Stadium. Jesus --- I work, I’m not a deadbeat, never have been. C’mon Jesus” --- his voice trails off, not knowing what more to say.

     Jesus uncrosses his legs and sits up straight, removing his forearm from the back rest. He stretches, settles back and begins straightening his clothes. With a sigh, he looks out at the passing barge. He seems bored.

     Alfred turns away, leans forward and puts his head in his hands, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers. He stops rubbing after about 10 seconds but continues to slump forward, looking down at the ground. “You know Jesus, you’re not anything like I thought you’d be. In fact, you seem more like the devil to me.” When there is no response, Alfred looks up. The bench beside him is empty.

     The sun is beginning to set behind the Jersey heights. The sky is lavishly smudged with deep shades of red and orange, which reflect stunningly off the Hudson River. Further up in the sky, the first stars are beginning to appear. It is very beautiful.

     Eight months later, Alfred died.

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     This is the Jesus Rush Limbaugh’s attitude conjures up. I’d call that the Anti-Christ and millions of fervent Christians are worshipping it.

     Relevant Material: “Everything is in the soul of a worker. They have moved the world. (---) The musical poetry of Beethoven, the delicate sonnets of Shakespeare --- it has all been created with the skin of the people, because without these columns of effort, without that substratum of blood, nothing would be in place.” From the quasi-novel “Mortal y Rosa” (Young and Mortal) by the Spanish genius, Francisco Umbral.