Because of the title and the theme, some people never seem to get past the surface and assume that I’m using this as an allegory to talk about a homosexual’s “coming out” experience. Being straight and happily married, I’ve never had to deal with such an experience, so I would have a hard time writing about it. No, what this story is really about is what happens when we find ourselves searching for a way to express whom we really, truly are and find that unique outlet that gives us a chance to finally speak up for ourselves. For me, mime was a passing fancy to pass the time, but for Tara in this story, it’s more of a spiritual awakening.

Confessions of a Closet Mime

By Sean Jordan
July 18th, 2001 (Revised February 11th, 2002)

Day 1

They say you should keep a journal whenever you take up a hobby. Not that I usually care what “they,” whoever they are, have to say. But in this case, it’s good advice. And I’m stalling.

I’m really nervous about even writing this, but I need to get it down on paper, if for nothing else than to affirm the truth to myself. So here goes… I’m just going to write it and sit here and read it.

I’m a mime.

Wow. I actually had the guts to get it on paper. And it feels good, I guess. It’s just too bad I can’t tell anyone else.
I should explain – it might help me sort things out a little bit. My name’s Tara Lindberg. I’m a senior in high school, an aspiring artist, and a hopeless failure so far as my parents are concerned. And you are… a piece of paper in a cheap spiral-bound notebook that has “Physics” written on the cover. Nice to meet you, and sorry about all this secrecy. And yes, I’m stalling again.

The problem is that my family has zero appreciation or interest in anything I enjoy. They want me to go to some big college and be an engineer, or a doctor or a lawyer or someone important-sounding who makes a lot of money. But I want to be an artist. I don’t know what kind; I’ve never had a chance to discover what I’m good at doing. Every time I’ve tried, my parents have told me I’ve got my head in the clouds and have kept me from exploring.

I’ve tried painting. I’ve tried music. I’ve tried drama and dance and poetry. I even flirted with puppeteering and sculpting at different points. But I’ve never been able to stick with any of them. After all, every attempt I’ve made to enrich my life artistically has been shot down by my family so that I won’t get “sidetracked” in my journey to become what they want me to be.

And that’s why I’m so nervous about this mime thing.

I don’t know how or where I got the idea to give pantomime a try. I remember when I was in the sixth grade I went trick-or-treating as a mime as a subtle joke (after all, how can a mime ask people for candy? No one got it.). Since then, I’ve practiced pantomime on my own, making faces at myself in the mirror, acting out strange scenes with invisible objects in my room, and even mimicking peoples’ motions to learn how they move. After years of doing this without thinking about it, it’s only recently occurred to me that maybe this is my form of expression that will unleash the artist within.

Someone’s coming, so I’ve got to stop for now. I’ll write more later.

Day 2

Only one day into the realization that I’m a mime, and I’ve already hit a major snag. This time, thankfully, it’s not my family. But it could turn out to be a much more practical concern; after all, how is one supposed to learn pantomime when there aren’t any mimes in the area to teach it?

The head of my high school’s drama department wasn’t exactly helpful. “I know there are some people who give clowning lessons,” she said. “That’s kind of the same thing, isn’t it?”

One’s an art and the other’s a comedy routine, I thought about saying. That’s like comparing the fall play to the Three Stooges. But I bit my lip, thanked her, and left, not wanting to give away my secret. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to think of how I could explain the difference between clowns and mimes to a layman.

On the surface, I suppose, mimes and clowns are fairly similar; they both wear makeup, they both try to entertain through physical humor, and they both have a tendency to perform at carnivals, fairs, parades, and other “children’s” events. But that’s where the similarities end. Mimes wear makeup and costumes so that their facial expressions and body movements can be read clearly; clowns wear them because they attracts peoples’ attention and make them laugh. Mimes rarely use props; clowns carry around arsenals of them. And, of course, the major point: mimes are silent, completely focused on nonverbal communication, while clowns tell bad jokes and ask people if they’d like balloon animals.

I think the truth is that somewhere down the line, mimes and clowns became arch-enemies. The clowns obviously won; that’s why mimes are so scarce these days. I have this picture in my head of an epic battle where clowns wielding giant novelty double-bladed axes are cutting down legions of surprised-looking mimes who are feebly waving invisible rapiers in a vain effort to defend themselves. Maybe that explains my rather irrational fear of clowns, too; as a mime, they would, after all, be my natural enemy.

But then again, maybe I’m reading too much into things. And on that note, reading is exactly what I intend to do – I was, at least, able to find a couple of books on pantomime at the library, and I’m hoping they’ll be helpful.

Day 3

I really think people should be required to cut down their own trees if they want to waste paper. Especially the author of “Mime for Morons,” an insultingly worthless book that points out all of the obvious things about pantomime with none of the necessary instruction on how to seriously approach the art… or the theory behind it.

Most of the book explains simple mime “tricks” like “how to get trapped in a box,” “how to walk an invisible dog,” and “how to blow up an invisible balloon.” There is no technique to the movements; the author is more concerned that they’re “exaggerated and amusing” than artistically expressive. What a joke.

The other book, however, was almost too much – it was written by a serious French mime who was heavily into the theory and who assumed quite a bit of knowledge on the part of the reader. Much of the practical information I was looking for – instructions for exercises, basic movements, and the like – was alluded to but never given. I enjoyed learning more about the ideas a professional mime had about the art, but it really didn’t help me to move farther in my own practice. So I guess I’ll have to keep working on things blindly until I can find some better resources.

My mother almost caught me yesterday during one of my little practice sessions. I was trying to climb through an invisible window, and as I envisioned it in front of me and began trying to figure out how to open it and put my leg over the sill, she opened my door and walked into my room with a pile of laundry. Quickly, I went into a different pose and acted as if I’d been exercising, and she looked at me oddly.

“What were you doing?” she asked suspiciously.

“Stretching,” I said, standing up straight and looking at her as if it was a stupid question. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” she said with a look of disbelief on her face, and left. I decided to play it safe and work on facial expressions for awhile after that, just in case she tried to barge back in and catch me in the act.

I really don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep this from my family, I really don’t. But I can’t give them the opportunity to ruin this for me before I get a chance to see just where it can take me.

Day 4

I gave my first performance today, and I think it went pretty well.

I told my parents I had a project to work on and that I’d be home late after school, which bought me a couple of hours in the afternoon to give this mime thing a try. As soon as my last class was over, I darted out of the building and across the street to the city park. I made a beeline for the restroom and, once inside, quickly changed into black pants, a white shirt, black suspenders and white gloves. Next, I pulled out a can of white shoe polish and painted my face white and highlighted my eyebrows and lips with a black makeup pencil. Looking in the mirror once I was finished, I felt rather ridiculous, but after a moment, I smiled. I’m a mime now, and no one can stop me, I realized. I hid my bookbag under one of the sinks and went outside to begin exploring.

At first, all I did was walk around nonchalantly, pretending to whistle and looking around as if I was simply out for a stroll. No one seemed to notice me at first, but as I got closer to the park’s playground, I noticed several children dart away from me towards their parents in terror. “She’s just a mime,” they’d explain, and beckon me over to try to show their little ones that I wasn’t as scary as I looked. Most of them warmed up to me after a moment, and a few even boldly asked me why I couldn’t talk. I just shrugged, not really knowing how to explain without speaking.

One parent really rubbed me the wrong way, though; she kept asking me to “do that trapped in a box trick.” I refused, flailing my arms around to show her that there was no box, and she got frustrated after awhile and, hissing some expletives at me, walked away. I wanted to convey to her that I’m an artist, not a dog, and that I don’t do tricks, but I couldn’t think of a good way to show her that. So I threw an invisible tomato at her instead.

After about an hour of this routine, I was beginning to realize how little I could really do. The few actions I had been practicing, which involved making invisible balloon animals, pretending to juggle, and walking into an invisible door and trying to get it open, began wearing thin very quickly, and the small audience I eventually attracted got tired of my performance pretty quickly. It wasn’t long before I got tired of it too and, sighing silently, went back to the restroom, changed my clothes, and started cleaning the makeup off my face. And then I realized the big mistake I’d made.

Had I thought things through a little better, I might have realized that white shoe polish is really hard to get off your skin, particularly the face. I spent about 30 minutes scrubbing myself raw with a washcloth before finally settling for a slightly pale complexion. Thankfully, my parents weren’t home when I got back; all I found was a note saying that they’d gone out to dinner and a movie and not to wait up for them or throw any parties.

My brother, however, was a different story.

“I saw you out there today,” he said as I was looking over the note. “What were you doing?”

“Pantomime,” I said nonchalantly, hoping my disinterested tone wouldn’t clue him in to my secret. “I just thought it’d be fun to do something crazy for a change.”

“Weirdo” was all he said in reply. I just hope he won’t mention it to mom and dad before this weekend. I think I’m going to spend Saturday morning at the mall, giving myself another shot at this mime thing. Because, truth be told, I really enjoyed my little performance today.

And for the first time in a long time, I really felt like I was expressing myself.

Day 5

So, a valuable lesson has been learned: shoe polish is really hard to get off your face. Maybe there’s a trick to it I haven’t figured out. But it doesn’t matter; after a quick trip to a theatrical makeup shop today, I picked up some tips and supplies that should help me out at the mall tomorrow. Hopefully, this stuff will come off a little easier.

The experience of buying it was an interesting story, actually. I walked into the store a bit nervously, not sure of how to ask for what I really wanted. I glanced up towards the woman at the counter, who was eyeing me with a bored look on her face. She looked like a colorblind gypsy, wearing a strange-looking outfit full of clashing purples, greens, and blues, her face so caked with makeup that I almost thought she was wearing a mask. I’m not really sure I want her advice, I thought, but after looking around for a moment in frustration, I approached the counter gingerly.

“I’m, uh, looking for some makeup,” I said nervously, turning to face her. She said nothing and simply stared at me blankly, as if she wouldn’t come to life unless I gave her some specific command. “Uh… white face makeup, actually. And a black makeup pencil.”

She stared at me for a moment. “What, are you a mime or something?” she asked finally, her voice devoid of any emotion.

“Uh, no! No way! Of course not!” I protested quickly, and then, with a sinking, selling-out feeling, “I’m, uh, dressing up like a clown for a kid’s party.”

“Clowns, mimes, they’re all the same when it comes to makeup,” she said, and pointed towards a shelf with her eyes. “Clown white’s over there, and makeup pencils are right next to it. What size do you need?”

Embarrassed, I walked over to the shelf and picked up a pencil. “Uh, this one should be about right,” I said with a forced smile. “Thanks.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Um, sure!” I replied with a shrug. “I just need something to draw some stuff on my face and highlight my eyebrows.”

She rolled her eyes. I was beginning to wonder if any other parts of her body could move. “I don’t think that’s what you want. Maybe you should let me help you out here. What kind of face do you need?”

I looked down, a bit ashamed. “You said it already. A mime.”

“OK, so what you need is some clown white, a lip and eye pencil, and a thicker one for outlines,” she said, and suddenly came to life, getting up and picking several items up from around the store. Her actions were careful and almost practiced, and I had a sense, for just a moment, that despite her appearance, she did know what she was talking about. “You got some baby powder at home?”

“Um, yeah,” I said, a bit surprised. “Why?”

“Wash your face with cold water, dry it, and start putting on some of the white with your fingers,” she said, gesturing lightly with her fingers. “Smear it on, then smooth it out, and then powder it and let it set. Give it a few minutes, and then you can start outlining. What color do you want your lips?”

“Uh, black,” I said, surprised. She reached past me and picked up another little container.

“Mimes usually do red, but you can do black. Lip gloss would probably be the best thing for that. Put it on, then outline with your liner. I’d try mascara for the lashes and a medium sized outline pencil for the eyebrows. You got gloves?”

“Gloves?” I asked, surprised.

“Mimes wear white gloves, don’t they?” she asked, but didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Seven dollars. You need anything else?”

“Uh, nope, I think that’ll do me,” I said in a bit of a daze as she rung up my order. “Uh, thanks. I’m kind of relieved you’re OK with this whole mime thing.”

The woman looked at me blankly. “I grew up in San Francisco,” she said dully. “Believe me when I say I’ve seen everything, mimes included.”

“Uh, gotcha,” I said, and quickly paid her. As she took my money, she smiled lightly.

“It’s nice to see we’ve got some culture around here, at least,” she said, her voice still devoid of much emotion. A dull twinkle lit up in her eyes for just a moment. “People around here are too conservative – suck the life right out of you. Been a long time since I’ve dealt with any mimes. Great people, you know. Quiet. But a lot of fun.”

I thanked her and started to leave, a little unsure what to make of this. “You’re always welcome to perform here,” she said as I opened the door. I turned around and looked back at her for just a moment. She had a slightly excited look on her face.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Thanks again.” And I left, wondering if I’d awakened something in this clearly artistically-starved woman.
Unfortunately, walking into my house with a bag from a theatrical makeup store didn’t exactly thrill my parents.

“Not the drama thing again,” my dad groaned as he spotted the store’s masked comedy and tragedy logo. “C’mon, Tara, I thought you were done with that stuff.”

“Her brother said she was out in the park dressed up as a mime yesterday,” my mother said curtly. My dad’s face furrowed a bit as he looked up at me in anger.

“A mime? Is that true?” he demanded.

“I was just having some fun,” I said darkly, glaring back at him.

“Fun?” he exploded. “Didn’t it occur to you that people might recognize you out there? That they might talk about what bad parents we are to let our daughter go out parading like some kind of…”

“…deviant?” my mother finished for him, returning my glare. “Don’t you ever think about anyone but yourself, Tara?”

And so here I am now, sitting in my room, the result of an explosive argument about expression and free thought. They took my makeup away, but I’ll get it back. After all, I’ve still got a performance planned for tomorrow morning.

Day 6

Today was an interesting day.

I got up early and retrieved my mime makeup, and then spent a few hours in my room practicing some movements and warming up. When 10:00 rolled around, I put on some black pants and a white shirt, threw my hat, suspenders and makeup into a plastic grocery bag, made some excuses to my family about needing to run errands, and headed off towards the mall, seriously psyched about performing.

I changed in the ladies’ room, drawing a little more attention to myself than I would have liked. Several women, on their way in and out, gave me odd looks as I applied the makeup, and eventually one little girl boldly walked up and asked me what I was doing while she waited for her mother.

“I’m turning into a mime,” I said with a grin. She stepped back, but I stooped down and gently placed her face on my face so that she could feel the makeup.

“Is it contagious?” she asked, terrified. I laughed.

“No, but it’s fun,” I said. “You should try it sometime.”

She seemed a little more at ease now, and looked up at me curiously.

“Don’t you hafta be quiet?” she asked.

“In a little bit, when I draw a line around my face,” I said. “Then I’ll be a mime.”

She watched silently as I put on my lip gloss and began outlining my eyes and lips. “Do you have a name?” she asked after a moment.

“Mimic,” I said without hesitation, thinking to myself Where did that come from? The girl smiled.

“That’s pretty,” she said. Suddenly, her mother walked onto the scene and, with a disapproving sigh, dragged her daughter away. “But I was just talkin’ to the mime, mom!” Her mother lectured in return about talking to strangers. As I began outlining my face with a black oval, I thought but I’m not a stranger. I’m a mime.

Moments later, I was walking around the mall nonchalantly as if I was window shopping. Everywhere I went, people were staring at me, waving, pointing, or making remarks. I tried to pretend as if I was oblivious to them, and even pretended to be whistling as I strolled along.

I passed a security guard, who gave me an odd look and went for his radio. I heard him say something about a mime into it, but he didn’t approach me, so I continued walking.

Eventually, I wandered into the food court and decided to give a small performance. I joined a line for a pizza place and, after tapping my foot and looking at my invisible watch every few seconds with a silent sigh, I strode up to the counter confidently when it was my turn to order. I pretended to muse as I looked up at the menu, ignoring the stunned look on the face of the teenage boy who was running the register. Finally, after a moment’s deliberation, I pointed at one of the pizzas in the display case and made a triangle with my hands before patting my stomach and licking my chops.

“You want the pepperoni, right?” the boy asked with a puzzled look on his face. I nodded with a hungry smile on my face. “All right, you want a drink with that?”

I nodded, and pointed to the Coke logo on the soda fountain. “All right, Coke then. $4.50.”

I pulled out my invisible wallet and, opening it up and looking in it, looked up rather sheepishly as I turned it upside down. The boy rolled his eyes.

“No money, I see. Well, sorry, but we can’t sell you anything if you don’t have any money. Next!”

The customer behind me looked a bit perplexed as well, so I shook his hand, pretended to tip my hat, and walked away. And, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the security guard from earlier walking into the food court.

Before long, I was back in the mall, so I resumed my strolling routine. As I reached another courtyard area, I stopped for a moment and pretended to lean against an invisible wall as I looked back and forth, trying to decide where to go. A few children approached, and I stood up straight, pretended to pull some balloons from my pocket and began blowing up invisible balloon animals. One of the kids caught on right away and asked me for a cat, so I labored away and extended my hands after a moment. He smiled as he took the invisible animal from me, and a few of the other children made requests. I began blowing up another invisible balloon, but suddenly jumped backwards, startled, and began waving my fingers in the air. Another one of the kids realized what was going on and shouted “the balloon popped!”

More children were gathering now, and I made a few more balloon animals before leaning back on my invisible wall and breathing heavily as if I needed to take a break. “Is that wall real?” a girl from the crowd asked. I nodded and, gently taking her hand, placed it flat in the air next to mine as if it were connecting to an invisible surface. She seemed very surprised as I did so, and several of the other children followed her lead, placing their hands near mine in the same fashion.

“It’s real!” one of them cried.

“No it’s not!” another one said. “It’s fake!”

“I can feel it!” the little girl shouted. Other children began chiming in, and an argument over whether or not the wall was actually there broke out. I walked away, smiling; none of the children seemed to notice. But after I got a few feet away from them, I felt a very real finger tapping on my shoulder. I jumped as if surprised and whirled around suddenly, pretending to have a big stick in my hand to ward off the finger’s owner. And I found myself face-to-face with the security guard from before.

“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?” he asked.

My eyes got wide and I pretended to hide the stick behind my back with one hand as I explained with the other. “I’m window shopping,” I gestured, moving my lips as if I was speaking.

The guard looked at me strangely. “All right, well, whatever you’re doing, you can’t do it here. The makeup’s a security problem.”

“Really?” I gestured, raising my eyebrows in disbelief.

“Yep. Burglary,” he said, matter-of-factly. “No one knows who you are.”

I smiled nicely. “But I’m very nice,” I gestured, fluttering my eyes a bit.

“Performance artists have to be cleared by the main office,” he continued. I looked at him blankly. “Monday through Friday. Nine to Five.”
I held my free hand up to my face like a telephone receiver.

“555-5251,” he said without missing a beat. “OK?”

I nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, and pointed towards a door. “The exit’s right over there.”

He turned around and started to walk away, so I bonked him with my stick. He didn’t seem to notice, but some of the passerbys who had been watching the confrontation started laughing. He turned around and, looking at me sternly, pointed once more towards the exit. I stomped towards the door, throwing my stick to the side and scowling. Several people began clapping as I left, and I looked back at them sadly.

Once I was outside, I sat down on the pavement for a moment and pretended to be writing something on an invisible board I picked up from the ground. After a moment, I stood up and began marching around, carrying an invisible sign, shaking my fist, and silently shouting in protest. Most of the people who passed by were genuinely confused, and a few shouted out things to me, mostly inane comments about being trapped in boxes and so forth. Eventually, the mall’s public safety patrol car rolled up next to me, and two security officers got out and approached me. A small crowd of curious people began to form.

“Listen, this is very cute, but if you don’t stop, we’re gonna have to call the cops,” one of them said.

“What’re you guys gonna do?” someone called out. “Tell her she’s got the right to remain silent?” This got a few chuckles from the crowd, but the security officers didn’t look amused.

I held up my index finger and mouthed “First amendment rights.”

“That’s free speech!” someone in the crowd shouted. “You haven’t said anything!”

“Private property,” one of the officers said. “We’re trying to be nice about this, but if you’re going to be a nuisance, we can have you arrested.”

I saw a someone in the crowd start taking pictures, so I decided to stand firm. With a resolved glare, I held out my hands as if to say “cuff me.”

The officers looked exasperated. “Listen, ma’am,” one of them said, then thought about his words for a moment. “Yeah. You can hear, you just can’t talk.”

I stuck my fingers in my ears. Several people in the crowd laughed.

“Call the cops,” the other one said, shaking his head in disgust. “We’re not getting paid enough to deal with this.”

At this point, I realized I’d probably pushed things a bit too far. “No wait,” I gestured, holding up my hand. And slowly, sadly and heavily, as if bearing a great burden, I walked away, past the crowd, out into the parking lot. A few people booed, but most of them just shook their heads and walked away.

One, however, chased after me. “Hey, mime, hold on a second!” he said. I turned around, and waited for him to catch up. “I’m Merv Robertson, from the Herald. I got a few pictures back there, and was just wondering if I could get some caption information.”

I smiled and began mouthing my name and address. He grinned and shook his head.

“Maybe I’d better have you write it down,” he said, handing me a notebook. “You can do that, right?”

So I wrote down my name, Mimic the Mime, and a brief explanation of what’d been going on. He looked it over carefully as I handed it back to him and said “Um, I need your real name too.”

“That is my real name,” I gestured and nodded. He looked a little confused, but said “Um, OK, thanks!” and walked away. I turned around and, trying to keep myself from laughing, made my way towards my car. Once I climbed inside, I grabbed a towel and a bottle of water and, as I placed the towel over my face and broke the outline with a corner, I started laughing so hard I was having trouble breathing. And I didn’t stop for a long time.

Day 7

As of today, I’m out of the closet.

And boy, am I in trouble.

There was a picture of me in the paper this morning standing in front of the security officers. The caption named me as “Mimic the Mime,” but my parents recognized me right away. And, unfortunately, so did several family friends who called later in the day, rather concerned to see that I’d pulled such a crazy stunt.

They threatened to take away my makeup, but when I wouldn’t give it to them, they took my car keys instead. I was lectured up and down about how this artist stuff is a pipe dream and how I need to face the reality that I’ve got to get a real job if I ever want to make money. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was not allowed to be a mime anymore. And, as I sat there, silently pretending to listen, I was trying very hard not to laugh at the irony of a situation where I was expressing what I felt – a dull, quiet boredom – through my actions.

It’s not like they can stop me anyhow. I don’t have to dress up or wear makeup to be a mime. I don’t even have to stay silent. I just have to let my motion express my emotion. And let my creativity be poured into finding new and different ways to do it.

I was thinking about the old cliche of the mime who’s trapped in the invisible box. The mime begins by exploring her surroundings and discovers that she’s trapped in a world where the walls are closing in. But as she begins to push, she realizes that the walls can move backwards as well. And then suddenly, she pushes a wall down and escapes into a world where there are no boundaries – and where every obstacle is a new adventure.

************************************************************

Copyright Sean J. Jordan, 2008. All Rights Reserved.
The author grants permission for this story to be distributed freely for non-commercial use.

Another thing that annoyed me was the insistence of these same Christians that the name “Jesus Christ” was the only name synonymous with the redemption of the soul. Truth be told, no one knows what the man we refer to as Jesus Christ actually called himself; the letter “J” didn’t even exist until the 9th century AD, and the Greek word “Iesus” is a translation of a Hebrew name. scholars believe he may have called himself “Yeshu” or “Yeshoua,” but the lack of sources outside the gospels make it hard to know what.

Both of those pet peeves played a heavy role in the creation of Elijah, who is very much like myself in the year 2001…

Josh

by Sean J. Jordan

December 5th, 2001 (Revised December 8th, 2001)

Love your neighbor as you love yourself, Alison kept reminding herself. No matter how annoying they are.

And Elijah was annoying.

“He’s been coming to bible study for three years now, and all he seems to want to do is stir things up,” one student bitterly complained. “I’ve been praying for awhile now that he’ll come around, but he’s one of those people who just seems bent on going to hell.”

Others in the group nodded in agreement, and Alison, ever the clueless college freshman, decided to speak up.

“It just seems like there’s got to be a better way to reach out to him than to ask him to leave,” she said timidly, feeling patronizing eyes turning towards her. “I mean, I know I don’t know him as well as the rest of you, but…”

“We gave him a warning,” the bible study leader interjected gently, and a few murmurs of agreement rose from around her. “I told him he could stay if he wanted to participate, but that he couldn’t talk about Josh.”

Josh. Elijah’s god, or so he claimed. And it had been the sheer mention of Josh that had created a verbal battlefield between Elijah and some of the older members of the group only moments before.

“We get people like this sometimes,” another student explained. “All they want to do is cause trouble.”

“There’s nowhere in the Bible where it says “Thou shalt be a doormat unto others,” someone else blurted out, and a few members of the group giggled.

“Sometimes, we just need to grit our teeth and pray for them,” the leader said calmly, and Alison found herself feeling uncomfortable as she heard it. “Maybe we should take a few minutes and go to God about Elijah.”

Alison felt her skin crawling. Why? she wondered. I’ve prayed for people before. But as the others in the group began bowing their heads, she excused herself with a sheepish statement about needing to use the bathroom and quickly walked out into the hallway.

Elijah was sitting outside, leaning against a wall and quietly talking to himself. I should just leave him alone, Alison thought, and then decided against it, instead walking to a spot next to him and crouching down.

“Are you OK?” she asked quietly. Elijah mouthed a few more words and then looked up and smiled.

“Sorry, I was just praying,” he replied cheerfully. He had a friendly, bouncy sort of voice. Alison sighed heavily and plopped down as her legs collapsed underneath her.

“They’re praying for you right now, you know,” she said.

He nodded. “They usually do.”

She shot him an annoyed look. “Do you get a kick out of antagonizing Christians?”

He laughed and pretended to rub his backside. “I did today.”

A look became a glare. “I’m serious. Is there a point to all this, or are you just trying to bother people?”

Now he was the one who was sighing, and she was surprised to see a serious expression on his face.

“Did it ever occur to you,” he said slowly, “that maybe I’m trying to save them?”

“Looks like you’re not succeeding,” Alison replied dryly. “I’d say you’re about 0-20 today.”

Elijah shrugged. “Yeah, I’m probably wasting my time. Most of them are set in their ways already.” His face brightened a bit. “But at least you’re out here. That’s got to count for something.”

“Just to try to talk some sense into you,” she protested. “I’ve got no desire to learn more about this… what did you call him?”

“Josh.”

“Right, Josh. I’m convinced Christianity is true, therefore, I am a Christian. QED.”

Elijah’s smile was almost condescending. “And I’m sure you could sit out here and prove to me that it’s all true, every word of it. Every ounce of dogma, every line of scripture.”

Alison shifted a bit to make herself more comfortable. “If you want me to, yes.”

“Please don’t,” he said, and then added quickly, “believe me, you wouldn’t be the first to try.”

Love your neighbor as yourself, Alison felt herself thinking, and stared at Elijah blankly. But how? she wondered. How do you love a guy who’s trying to frustrate you?

“I’m Alison,” she said almost automatically, extending her hand. “I don’t think we were really properly introduced.”

“Elijah,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it warmly. “You’re a freshman here?”

“Yes. Yourself?”

“A senior,” he replied with a grin. “Though sometimes, I still feel like a freshman.”

“Why?”

“Because I still haven’t lost my love for learning, I guess,” he said.

“So you’re a good student, then?” Alison asked, happy to change the topic to something more neutral.

“Terrible,” Elijah said wryly. “I love to learn, but I hate homework.”

“Do you like to read?”

“Love it. I think I read…” he paused to think, and then looked back up. “… four? books last week. Maybe five.”

“I’ve got one for you sometime,” she said. “Mere Christianity, by CS Lewis. It’s a…”

Elijah held up his hand and cut her off.

“I’ve read it,” he said. “Can’t you guys be a little more original?”

“I just thought you might like it,” Alison said, a bit wounded. “I’m not trying to convert you or anything.”

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “You’re going to miss your Bible study.”

“They’re just praying for you right now. I’ll go back in a minute.”

There was a pause. “Why,” he said after a moment, eyes still closed, “did you come out here anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “It just seemed like it’d make more sense to try to get to know you personally than to let everyone else tell me who you are.”

“I like that,” he said, still not moving. “We should talk sometime.”

“About Josh?”

“Yeah.”

She stood up, brushing the dust from the hallway off her pants. “Only if we can give equal time to Jesus.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“It was nice to talk to you,” she said, and began walking away. But as she turned and reached for the doorknob, she heard his voice.

“Do you mind if I pray for you?” he asked.

“Only if I can pray for you,” she replied.

“Let our gods duke it out, huh?” he said, and laughed. “I’ll talk to you later, Alison.”

She shook her head and returned to the study.

****************************************************************

It was nearly a month before she saw Elijah again, much to the relief of her friends in the bible study. He was standing in a small group of people, listening to a doomsaying, gay-bashing, bible-quoting campus preacher. Alison walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder and he shook his head sadly, not looking away from the performance in front of him.

“I’m glad Josh isn’t like this,” he said, and Alison groaned.

“Jesus isn’t like this either,” she said, turning away. Elijah turned with her, and they began walking away.

“You know, I tried to talk to this guy once, and he told me…” Elijah chuckled here, “… that I had a demon. Can you believe that?”

“Such a sad picture of Christianity,” Alison said. “I wish people didn’t think of us like that.”

“One thing I’ve never understood is how you guys can claim to worship the same Jesus and say that the other guy’s wrong,” Elijah responded. “One says hate homosexuals, another says love them. One says everyone’s going to hell, another says God doesn’t want anyone to. And then, my favorite … one says it’s a sin to consume alcohol and another invites you to talk about theology over a few beers. And it’s all in the name of Jesus.”

“And I suppose Josh isn’t so inconsistent?” Alison remarked darkly.

“Hey, Josh makes it easy. Two rules. Love him, love others. That’s all you need to know.”

Alison frowned. “Jesus said that, you know. Matthew 22:37-39.”

Elijah applauded. “Looks we’ve got a walking, talking Bible here, folks.”

“Maybe you should read it sometime,” she said stiffly.

“What makes you think I haven’t?” he replied. “But let me ask you… have you read the Koran? The Vedas? The Apocrypha? The Book of Mormon?”

“Of course not!” she replied indignantly. “Why would I?”

“How else are you going to know if they’re true?”

“But I know they’re not, so there’s no point in reading them.”

Elijah tsked. “That’s where you Christians get it all wrong. You decide if something doesn’t agree with your worldview, it’s not worth your time.”

“Now wait a minute,” Alison interjected, “if I believe Christianity is true, and other religions aren’t a valid way to God, then I can conclude their ideas aren’t as true as what the Bible’s got to say and therefore aren’t something I want to fill my head with. That’s reasonable.”

“Did you know,” Elijah said, seemingly undaunted, “that the book of Esther nearly didn’t make it into the Bible because it doesn’t ever mention God?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“And did you know,” he continued, “that the Catholic Bible has six books that aren’t in the Protestant Bible?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Alison replied. “What’s your point?”

Elijah shrugged. “If the Bible’s the word of God, I don’t understand why there’ve been so many arguments over what’s supposed to be in it and how it’s supposed to be arranged. Can’t God make up his mind?”

“Hey, it’s not God’s fault,” Alison said. “It’s people who are constantly trying to twist his words. You can make the Bible say anything if you take it too literally and out of context.”

“See, that’s why I like Josh,” Elijah said. “It’s hard to misquote a god who hasn’t said anything.” They turned a corner and continued walking. Alison shivered a bit and zipped up her jacket.

“So where’d you get the idea of this Josh guy, anyway?” she asked.

“Well, it’s an interesting story,” Elijah said. “I was raised by a couple of Christian fundamentalists. You know, the type who name their kids out of the Bible? Actually, I don’t know if you know this or not, but my name means “My God is Yahweh,” which I think is kind of ironic…”

“I asked about Josh, not you.”

“Right, right. So anyway, when I was in high school, I decided I’d had enough of this church stuff. I was tired of the dogma, tired of the hypocrisy, and tired of people judging each other for not living up to the standards of a God who just wanted to send us all to hell anyway. So I was laying outside, looking up at the stars one night, and I started thinking. ‘We either live in creation or chaos,’ I reasoned, ‘and I can accept that we live in creation because life’s just too depressing to live in chaos. So there must be a God, and it stands to reason that he’s got ultimate power and knowledge over his creation since it doesn’t make any sense for a God to create something he can’t control.’”

“Sounds reasonable,” Alison agreed. “Go on.”

“OK, so then I thought, ‘He’s got to be morally perfect, because I have the idea of moral perfection, and it doesn’t make sense for there to be created ideals unless the creator can live up to them.’ That’s actually a pretty complicated line of thinking, but I’ll explain it another time. And anyway, I went on to wonder if God was a personal god. I decided that he’d have to be, since there’s such a thing as personal beings in his creation, and that therefore, he must have a name and an identity.”

“And so you named him Josh,” Alison interrupted.

“Well, it was more along the lines of asking him if it was OK to call him Josh and not hearing him object,” Elijah said.

“That’s ridiculous,” Alison said. “By your logic, I could ask the air if it’d like to be called Harold, and reason that if it didn’t respond, it’d be content to be called Harold.”

“Hey, call it Harold if you want to,” Elijah shrugged. “I don’t think it cares. But you’re missing the point. Air isn’t a personal being. Josh is.”

“But why Josh? Why not Frank, or Joe, or …”

“…or Jesus?” Elijah finished for her. “Because his name is Josh. If it isn’t and it matters, I just have to trust him to tell me that.”

Alison stopped and smiled as a sudden realization struck.

“How do you know he’s not trying to tell you through someone like me?” she said excitedly. “His name isn’t Josh. It’s Jesus. Don’t you see?”

Elijah stopped and looked back at her with amusement. “Or maybe your Jesus is trying to use me to tell you his name is really Josh.”

Alison groaned. “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”

“Not at all!” Elijah replied. “I’m just trying to help you to see the truth.”

“I know the truth!” she cried. “Jesus came and died for your sins so you don’t have to go to hell! Don’t you get it?”

“Hell…” Elijah mused. “Now there’s an interesting topic.” He glanced at his watch and looked back at her suddenly with a start. “But it’ll have to wait until next time. I’m late for class!” And with that, he took off running, shouting something about hoping they’d get talk again soon.

I hope so too, thought Alison, shaking her head. I think one of us is seriously confused.

****************************************************************

“I ran into Elijah today,” the bible study leader said sadly towards the end of the meeting. “He said he’s still praying for us.”

A few murmurs of disapproval worked their way through the group, and Alison found herself disapproving as well. But not of Elijah, she realized. Why do I feel like I want to defend him?

“I wish he’d give it a rest,” someone said in exasperation. “Everyone knows he’s just mocking our beliefs.”

“Well, my pastor said sometimes God gives us devils to test our faith,” another student remarked. “Maybe God’s using Elijah like he used Pharaoh with Moses.”

“Elijah’s not a devil!” Alison was surprised to hear herself blurting out. There was an awkward silence as eyes in the group turned towards her. Uhoh, I’m in over my head here, Lord, she thought. “He’s just someone who really needs to know about God’s love,” she said, feeling as if she was stumbling over her words in nervousness. “And sometimes, I don’t really think that we’re doing a very good job in… ummm…” The glares were beginning to feel like daggers. “… uh, showing that love to him.”

Someone groaned. “What do you want us to do? Pay his rent? Wash his car? Take his finals?”

The bible study leader turned towards Alison. “We’ve tried everything. All we can do is pray for him.”

“Yeah, but…” Alison fumbled, “… maybe we need to… you know, just accept him. For who he is, not who we want him to be.”
A couple of people in the crowd lunged for their Bibles and began flipping furiously, but the leader held up her hand to stop them and smiled kindly.

“You’ve got a heart for people, and I really admire that,” she said sweetly. “But one day, you’re going to realize that all the good intentions and love in the world can’t save someone. It’s only through Jesus Christ that anyone can experience salvation. We may not like it, we may not think it’s fair, but that’s the way it works. What we think doesn’t matter.”

“I happen to think,” the leader added quickly, “that Elijah is a very neat guy. But I also know that unless he chooses to accept Jesus Christ as his lord and personal savior, we won’t be seeing him in heaven. And I think that’s really all that can be said about him.”

A few of the people in the group nodded in agreement, and even the bible flippers seemed to be satiated by that. Alison nodded too, thinking technically, she’s right. He really isn’t one of us.

As the meeting closed, Alison ducked out quickly as several of the people in the group began to make a beeline for her, dog-eared Bibles in hand. And maybe, she thought as she escaped from the throng of well-meaning scripture-sharers, he doesn’t want to be.

****************************************************************

“Hey, it’s Alison!” a surprised Elijah said as he opened the door and saw her standing there. “What’s the occasion?”

“I… wanted to talk,” she said, a bit unsteadily, and he looked concerned.

“Come on in,” he offered, sweeping his hand into the room. “Excuse the mess – I didn’t know I’d be having visitors.”

She walked in nervously, quickly surveying the efficiency apartment. It was a bit cluttered, maybe, but hardly messy. Elijah offered her a chair and sat down on his bed, smiling gently and waiting for her to speak.

“How’d you find out where I live, anyway?” he asked.

“I looked you up in the student directory.”

“Ah, just like a stalker,” he replied with a grin. “I’ve always wanted one of those.”

Alison decided to change the subject. “So, do you live here by yourself?” Stupid question, she thought as she looked around. Elijah simply laughed.

“Well, sometimes I rent my closet out to wandering vagrants,” he joked, “but otherwise, yeah. It’s just me. Not many people want to live with an iconoclast.”

“A what?”

“An unconventional eccentric,” he explained. “That’s me in a nutshell.”

“Oh,” Alison said, and looked around. “It’s nice.” And it really was. The room was filled with books, some in piles, some lining the walls on makeshift bookshelves on top of his desk, stereo, and kitchen cabinets. It had a very homey feel to it, which was more than Alison could say for her cramped cinderblock dorm room.

“Yeah, I like to think so,” Elijah said, and began to stretch. “So,” he started, pausing to yawn, “what brings you here? You look upset.”

Butterflies were forming in her stomach. “Well, um,” she started, “we talked about you in Bible study today.” Elijah nodded, but said nothing, so she tried to continue. “And, um, well, I kind of got in an argument with the rest of the group.”

“Over what?” he asked.

She reddened a bit. “I told them we should accept you as you are and quit trying to make you into what we want you to be.”

“A noble sentiment,” he agreed. “Is that how you really feel?”

“Well, yeah!” she said. “I mean, we can’t make you put your faith in Christ, but we can at least treat you with some love and compassion and just let you be you.”

“Be careful,” he warned her with a smile. “You’re beginning to sound like a follower of Josh.”

I am not a follower of Josh! she thought, but decided not to say it. “Um, how, exactly?” she asked instead, unsure if she really wanted to know.

“Because Josh accepts people as they are,” Elijah said.

“Well, Christians are supposed to do that too,” Alison retorted.

“Ah, but they don’t.” Elijah held up a finger as if to ward off her responses for a moment. “When was the last time you saw a practicing homosexual in a Christian church?”

“Well, there are churches that accept them, but…”

“… but they’re wrong, right?” His tone was much more serious now. “How about a prostitute? Or a drug addict? Or someone who lies all the time? Or a couple who’s living together outside of marriage?” Alison was silent. “They’re real people too, right?”

“OK, so?” she asked. Elijah threw up his hands and sighed.

“Exactly. ‘So what?’ you guys ask. ‘They choose to live in sin.’ But Josh says that they’re people too, and that he loves them as much as he loves you or me.”

“Jesus says that too.”

“Maybe he does, but I’d never know from looking at his church,” Elijah responded. “You know, back when I was still going to my parents’ church, I saw something incredible. There was this girl who’d gone away to college and come out of the closet. And you know what they did? They excommunicated her. They actually told us not to attempt to contact her or talk to her until she repented from her ’sinful lifestyle.’”

“And you know,” he continued, “it really bothered me. Here we were, constantly talking about loving a world full of sinners, and yet we were doing everything we could to be separated from them. That was when I decided I didn’t need Jesus anymore.”

“Just Josh.”

“Exactly. Because Josh doesn’t care if you’re gay or the wrong color or a thrice-convicted murderer and dog rapist. He’ll take anyone, especially the people who aren’t good enough for you Christians.”

“But Josh didn’t die for your sins,” Alison said. “Jesus did.”

“And that’s another thing… your dead God,” Elijah said without missing a beat. “You Christians and your dead God. You make such a big deal about his death, you seem to forget he’s supposed to be alive.”

“Death,” he declared, “isn’t in Josh’s vocabulary.”

Now Alison was getting frustrated. “Well, it is in mine!” she said. “and I refuse to believe in a god who can’t comprehend the reality of it!”

“Who says he doesn’t?” Elijah asked. “Maybe he’s just not partial to who he’s willing to accept.”

“But it’s not fair for a god to save everyone!” she protested.

Elijah looked at her sadly. “Typical Christian response. You guys only want Christians in heaven. But Josh? He’ll accept Ghandi, and Siddartha Gautama Buddha, and Plato and Socrates and whoever else is just trying to figure out who God really is without worrying so much about being fundamentally righteous.”

“And anyway,” he added, before she could respond, “I didn’t say Josh saves everyone. There are people who are bound and determined to live apart from him, and if that’s what they want, that’s what he’ll give them. But he’s not going to turn them down on the basis of who they were. He looks at them on the basis of who they are.”

“But that’s twisted!” Alison finally broke through. “By your logic, you don’t even have to believe in Josh to be saved!”

Elijah shrugged. “I think Josh reveals himself to everyone, each in an individual way,” he said. “How they choose to respond to that is between them and Josh.”

“So you’re saying all religions lead to Josh then?”

Elijah looked annoyed. “Stop putting words in my mouth,” he said. “I didn’t say that at all.”

Oops, Alison thought. “Well, what are you saying, then?”

“First of all, let’s get this clear… there is truth in other religions.” Elijah looked passionate and intense as he said this; This must be one of his pet peeves, Alison decided. “Virtually every world religion, for example, says ‘Love thy neighbor.’ Christians tend to discard that as a partial truth, but I see it as a stepping stone to telling people about Josh.”

“OK,” Alison said carefully. “So what do you tell them?”

“I tell them what I know. That there’s a god out there who’s more concerned with relationships than with rules. That what he wants is a world where people treat each other with real love – you know, the kind that’s not trying to take advantage of anyone or sell anything – and that he’s willing to accept anyone, even the worst sinner out there, so long as they’re willing to follow him.”
“Sounds familiar. What does following entail?”

Elijah shrugged. “Different things for different people.”

“OK, what does it mean for you?”

“A lot of thinking, a lot of exploring.” He looked contemplative for a moment. “I guess you could say I’m still getting to know Josh.”
This guy’s a froot loop, Alison thought, and stood up. “You’re impossible.”

Elijah smiled. “All things are possible in Josh.”

She leveled a glare. “Whatever. I’ll talk to you later.” And quickly, before he could say anything that might convince her to stay, she flung his door open and walked out of the room, slamming it shut behind her.

I wanted to stay, she realized, and stood there for a moment, outside his apartment, deep in thought. Anger began to well up inside her. I think he was actually starting to sell me on all of this.

She felt herself fuming. Lord, give me wisdom and strength, she prayed, storming down the stairs and out of the apartment building. Because right now, I’d be happy if I never saw him again.

I think.

****************************************************************

It was nearly Christmas break before she heard from him again.

She heard the phone ringing as she walked into her room on her way back from class. Let the machine get it, she decided, unslinging her bookbag and taking off her coat before easing herself onto her bed, hoping for a quick nap after a long day. She was vaguely aware of the answering machine’s message playing, but not really interested in who was calling.

“Alison, this is Jenny, from your bible study group,” a panicked female voice said. Alison sat up. There was a lot of noise in the background, as if the call was coming from a mall or someplace crowded. “Are you there? Please pick up.”

She lunged for the phone, very nearly hanging it up is it slipped out of her hands. “Hello? Hello?” she said quickly, hoping she hadn’t goofed up.

“Listen, Alison, I work at the hospital and… look, can you come down here?” the voice on the other end said quickly.

“Why?” she asked, a little surprised.

Jenny sounded as if she were going to cry. “Elijah’s here. He’s… not well, Alison. He was in a bad accident.” And then, softly, “I think he’s dying.”

Alison glanced at her watch and felt her heart pounding. “I can be there in 20 minutes, I think.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at the entrance to the emergency room, OK?”

Alison thanked her and hung up. She paused for a moment, still recoiling from the shock, and then quickly grabbed her keys and coat and ran out of the room, flinging the door shut behind her, quickly returning to chide herself to remember to put her shoes on next time before leaving once again.

****************************************************************

Jenny was waiting at the entrance as she’d promised, dressed in a volunteer nurse’s outfit. She did not look happy.

“I’m going to have to sneak you in,” she explained, looking around fearfully as they walked down the hallway towards intensive care.

“Just me?” Alison asked. “Isn’t anyone else coming?”

“He didn’t ask for anyone else. Just you.” Jenny ducked around a corner, pulling Alison with her. A doctor walked by, seemingly oblivious to them.

“He asked for me?” Alison asked once the coast was clear and they returned to the hallway.

“He said he’s got something really important to tell you,” Jenny replied. They stopped at a door. “Here we are. We might not have much time, so be quick.”

Alison walked into the room and saw a heavily bandaged form hooked up to more tubes than she could count lying in the hospital bed.

“Elijah?” she asked quietly, not wanting to disturb him, but his eyes opened at the sound of her voice.”

“Hey Alison,” came his muffled reply. “Thanks for coming.”

“What happened?” she asked, walking over to the side of his bed.

“I got hit by a drunk driver,” he said, a bit slower than usual, and Alison realized that it was hurting him to talk. “I don’t know what happened to him. I guess he’s in Josh’s hands now.”

Alison felt herself beginning to cry. “Can’t you just give up this stupid god of yours and get your heart right with the real one before it’s too late?” she asked, and began sobbing. “I don’t want you to go to hell!”

“I won’t,” he said, calmly and softly, grimacing as he moved his arm to lightly touch her forearm with his fingers in consolation. “Josh will take care of me.”

“No, he won’t!” she wanted to scream, but settled for simply saying it instead. “He’s not real. Don’t you see that?”

“I do see,” he said, with a simple smile. “And if I abandon him now, what’s the point of having believed in him in the first place?”

Now she felt angry, and glared at him between tears. “Did you call me in here just to thumb your nose at me?”

“No, I didn’t,” he said, sighing. “I have something for you.”

“What?” she asked, not wanting to trust him. “It’s not about Josh, is it?”

“Yes,” he replied, and slowly, with obvious pain, lifted his arm to a nearby nightstand and picked up a small, neatly folded piece of paper.

“I don’t want it,” she said obstinately.

“Please…” he said, extending it towards her. “You have no idea how much this hurts.”

She took it, looking at him sourly, and began to unfold it.

“Not here,” he said, and then smiled. “Think about what it says, OK?”

Jenny walked in the room suddenly, and Alison jammed the paper into her pocket. “Wrap it up, guys,” she hissed. “I’m going to be in a ton of trouble if they find out about this.”

“We’re finished,” Elijah said, his voice returning to its normal, happy tone, if for just a moment.

“But…” Alison protested. Elijah smiled again.

“I love you, Alison. And Josh loves you too. Don’t forget that.”

And with that, he closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep.

“I love you too, Elijah,” she said softly. “And just remember, it’s never too late to come to Christ.”

With that, she left, and Jenny, looking rather shocked, trailed behind her, saying nothing.

****************************************************************

She found out the next day that he’d died a few hours later of massive internal bleeding. Grief-stricken, she sat at her desk as she got home from class, crying and staring at the small fold of paper he’d given her the day before.

Do I want to open this? she asked herself, turning it over and over in her fingers. Do I want to confirm what I already know – that he died trusting in some made-up god and went to hell as a result? Part of her did not want to know – after all, she realized, I want to believe that he changed his mind at the last minute and is with Christ right now. But curiosity gave in to obstinance, and she found herself unraveling the note.

“Yeshuah wept” was all it said, and in big bold letters.

I don’t understand, she thought, staring at it in disbelief. What does this have to do with anything?

Yeshuah, the Hebrew name for Jesus. Yeshuah mashiah, salvation from God.

Jeshuha.

Joshua.

“Josh.”

She began to cry again.

****************************************************************

It was a small funeral, with only a few family members and acquaintances attending. Elijah, it seemed, did not have many friends. His parents were there, both looking very stern and puritanical, both looking too reserved to show anything but the outward signs of grief.

After it was over, Alison approached them and explained that she had been a friend of Elijah’s and that she was very sorry for their loss.
“Just tell me that he died in our Lord Jesus’s arms,” his mother said, looking as if she was about to lose control and begin sobbing then and there.

Alison smiled and choked back one of her own. “Not Jesus,” she said carefully. “But let me tell you about Josh…”

************************************************************

Copyright Sean J. Jordan, 2008. All Rights Reserved.
The author grants permission for this story to be distributed freely for non-commercial use.

I would hasten to add that I do not share Carl’s views on Adolf Hitler, or on much else, for that matter.

I want to rewrite this story as a daily blog, but I just don’t have the time. So, until I do that, here’s the original. Enjoy!

Diary of a Future World Leader

by Sean J. Jordan
Written: February, 1999
Monday, September 13th

I hate people.

I know, I know… it makes me sound like a jerk. I don’t care – especially after what happened today.

I joined this creative writing club during the first week of school because I thought it’d be fun. It’s only been going for a few weeks, but already, three of us have brought in stories to discuss. Mrs. Brown, the teacher in charge of it, makes copies for everyone and we read and then discuss the stories in our weekly meetings. Our meager membership of ten or so includes myself (the only male), a few cheerleaders, a couple of gawky, quiet females and three girls who must have been hand-picked from the depths of Hell. The worst of them is Nicole Jacobs, a creature I hesitate to call anything more than a “sow.” She’s extremely short and round, with stubby, fat little arms and legs, a pink complexion, and a flat, large, upturned nose that she snorts out of every time someone doesn’t agree with her. When I’m in the room, she sounds like she’s got a sinus infection.

At Nicole’s insistence, we discussed her story first. As I looked over my copy, I began to feel physically ill as I searched for a plot amongst spelling mistakes, run-on sentences, spliced commas, dangling participles, awkward phrasings, and drawn-out descriptions of mundane objects. I read through passages about two children, penguins, Eskimos, polar bears, and baby seals sitting on a snow-covered hill looking up at the Northern Lights and seeing scenes of peace from all over the world. As soon as the teacher told us it was time to start discussing the story, Samantha and Christine, Nicole’s toadying friends, both started frantically waving their hands in the air.

Nicole made a big production about it, extending her arm and waving it back and forth between the two before settling on Samantha. I rolled my eyes.

“I thought your story was excellent!” she said, sounding like she was about to gush forth praises. Before she got the chance, though, Nicole pointed towards Christine, beaming. I rolled my eyes even harder.

“Oh, I loved it…” Christine oozed. “I really think you should try to publish this.”

I was having trouble seeing at this point, so I cast a level glare at Nicole and raised my hand in an l-shaped, half-committed signal. Instead of picking me, she looked over at Mrs. Brown.

“Will you tell him to be nice this time?” she asked, shooting me a hard look. Mrs. Brown turned towards me and smiled.

“Carl, please just be constructive,” she said sweetly. I smiled at her and turned my glare back towards Nicole.

“You’ve definitely shown me a new and different way to write prose,” I said politely, “but don’t you think that your story might be a little more effective if you did some research? I mean, not to be critical,” I nodded at Mrs. Brown here, who was still smiling cheerfully, “but wouldn’t the polar bears eat the Eskimos? And aren’t penguins Antarctic birds?”

I could see hatred burning in Nicole’s eyes, and I just smirked at her as I leaned back as listened to Samantha and Christine quickly offering long strings of praising comments about Nicole’s work. A few of the other girls in the group offered suggestions, but I got the feeling that they all either liked the story or were too afraid to say anything.

Soon, though, we moved on to the next story, which I really found quite interesting. It was written by very meek, soft-spoken girl who rarely, if ever, says anything in the meetings. The basic story wasn’t remarkable – it was just another one of those tales where boy meets girl, boy leads girl on, and boy leaves girl for the captain of the cheerleading squad. The only difference was that girl then took an automatic weapon down to Wal-Mart and gunned down a random crowd to cope with her loss. I found it darkly amusing, and told her so, though most of the other people in the group seemed too disturbed to say anything about it.

I figured my story would be the favorite of the day, but almost immediately when we started discussing it, Nicole blurted out “It was stupid!”

“Well, what do you mean, Nicole?” Mrs. Brown asked. “You have to have a reason for saying that.”

“Have you read this?” she said loudly, holding it up for dramatic effect. “It’s about a guy who stops at a red light and relives his entire life while he’s waiting for it to turn green!”

I let it go – she was half-right. The story was actually about a man’s inner conflict as he stopped at a red light in the middle of the night when there were no cars in sight. Through the whole story, he fought an ethical, inner battle trying to decide if breaking the law was justified when no one was around, even if it was just to save a few seconds. It brought up memories of more important decisions in his life, which I cleverly brought in and out of the framework by having different objects in the car catch his eye and remind him of something. The whole thing was around 20 pages long, though I could have added in more detail if I’d tried. It was too long or too literary, maybe, but not bad.

“I didn’t like it either,” Samantha chimed in. “I mean, how can this guy think about so much in such little time? He’s sitting at a red light, not waiting for a train to go by.”

I didn’t feel like explaining my conventions to her, so I kept my mouth shut. I had been pretty sure that Nicole and her cohorts would bash the story. I was surprised, though, another girl rose her hand and said “It’s just plain boring, Carl.” Almost everyone nodded in agreement. “I mean, you jump around from a wedding to a court scene to a hit and run. It doesn’t make any sense, and it’s really hard to keep up with. You’d never get on a bestseller list with a story like this.”

The club meeting continued to go downhill from there as people offered suggestions to fix the story. Make it take place on a boat, they said, or a plane. Or put him in a car accident and have his life flash before his eyes. I just sat there and rolled mine. They all missed the point – it wasn’t a story about his life, but about the ethical dilemma of breaking the law for one’s own gain. The whole time, I was thinking this has got to be proof that I think on a higher level than they do.

This has been a long entry, and I probably should get some sleep. I’ve still got four days of school left this week, and almost four years beyond that. Being a high school freshman definitely isn’t something I’m going to remember fondly. Especially when people are as stupid as they are.

Tuesday, September 14

Hitler wasn’t such a bad guy, if you think about it.

Boy, that was a stupid thing to say in a public school. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone being sent to the Assistant Principal’s office for trying to challenge a historical viewpoint, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. All because I made the classic blunder in my class today – I forgot that people don’t listen to your explanations if they don’t like your theories.

I don’t know how, or why, we got on the topic of Hitler in my Western Civilizations class today. I guess it had something to do with talking about different forms of government and using Hitler as an example of fascism. Almost immediately, people started scowling and offering comments about what a terrible person they thought he was, and how he murdered six million Jews for no reason, and how he had tried to take over the world and make everyone serve his master race. The teacher, for the most part, seemed to agree with them, and kept nodding as almost every white Anglo-Saxon Protestant in the class condemned Hitler for his crimes against people they usually don’t give a second thought to.

I don’t know why I decided to say anything – I honestly don’t care what other people think because I know that most of them don’t examine issues like I do or even pay attention to their own comments while they rant. But for some reason, I waited until most of the ranting was done and told them that Hitler wasn’t such a bad guy.

I’ve never heard people get so quiet, never seen so many eyes turned in my direction. Wow, it tingles, I thought as I shrugged, knowing that they’d want a logical explanation for my “shocking” statement.

“Well, think about it!” I explained. “Some short guy with a mustache comes in, takes over a nation that’s been falling apart for almost twenty years, and then turns it into a place so powerful it takes most of Europe to stop him. He puts a stop to the crime and poverty that are rampant all over the place and gives Germany a strong sense of nationalism and superiority when it was the country beaten the worst in World War I.”

I saw a bunch of hands shoot up into the air, but I kept talking.

“Oh, and then people get all upset about the Holocaust. Hitler killed 6 million Jews because he thought they were getting in the way of what he wanted for his empire. You guys want to condemn him for that? How about Joseph Stalin, who at the same time was killing 40 million of his own people while he lived in a palace? How about the Roman emperor Nero, who’d cover people in pitch and set them on fire or, even better, sew them up in animal skins and send starving dogs chasing after them? And he did it because he thought it was funny! How about Ivan the Terrible, who built a huge frying pan in a village in Russia and cooked people in it because he suspected they were traitors? Would it make it worse if I told you he made everyone in the village watch, and he even took his baby son with him every day to watch people die?”

People were talking to each other now, and I could see that a lot of them were angry. Good grief, they’re not even listening, I thought. I was going to say something else, but somebody yelled something about me being a neo-nazi. Soon enough, a bunch of people were shouting and throwing stuff at me. The teacher was just sitting at his desk writing something. It wasn’t too long before I realized it was a disciplinary referral slip. After a minute, he got up with the pink sheet of paper in hand and started walking towards me.

I honestly expected him to give it to one of the people in front of me, but he put it in my hand, looked at me angrily, and told me to go to the assistant principal’s office and not to come back. I grabbed my backpack, glared at everyone, and left the classroom very slowly and deliberately, putting on a stone face but really feeling good inside about what I had just done. When I got out in the hall, I looked down at the slip. “Student caused a major disruption with anti-Semitic remarks,” it said. I grinned as I headed for the assistant principal’s office. I can’t get in trouble for expressing myself, I thought. He won’t do anything.

I’m not going to recount everything that happened simply because it was exactly what I suspected. I was shouted at, not given an opportunity to explain myself, and told that my parents were going to be called on the issue. I got a big lecture about how racism is an evil thing and that people like me didn’t make it very far in the world. I just ignored the man, for the most part, and nodded my head like I was agreeing that I had been wrong. He ended by saying if he ever heard about me making these sorts of remarks again, he would make me very, very sorry. I thanked him for his time and left, rolling my eyes as I went to my next class a few minutes late.

It seemed like people were glaring at me all day. Someone even jammed a death threat in my locker. I don’t care. I’m not afraid of them. I like it when my being right makes them mad, and I’ve got better things to do with my time than worry about whether or not they like me. One day, I’ll be rich and powerful enough that that will mean something. Then I’m going to make them sorry for every little thing they did to me.

It’s been a long day, so I’m going to stop here.

Sunday, September 19

It’s been a few days since I’ve been able to write, but nothing’s really happened. It’s been raining a lot, and I’ve been pretty bored. I think the most exciting thing lately happened at church this morning.

I still can’t figure out why my parents insist I go to church every week. It seems like all we do is interrupt our sleep long enough to change into nice clothes, drive over to the church, and then resume as the preacher drones on for about an hour. Don’t get me wrong – I enjoy going. I find it amusing to sit and watch as people who I know don’t hold much stock in Christian beliefs attend “just in case” God might let them into Heaven if they have sat in a pew for X number of hours. They’re almost always the ones who walk around and speak the church lingo, which normally consists of saying “brother,” “sister,” and “hallelujah!” at least once in each conversation. I do think there are probably a few sincere people who attend, but I have a feeling they’re the ones who are quietly worshipping while those who are there for show drown them out with loud singing and unfeeling “amen”s.

The sermon today was on something silly like “the Biblical Basis for Loving One’s Pets,” or something just about as impractical, so I cracked open my Bible and started looking for passages on the Antichrist. I don’t know why, but I’ve always had a strange fascination with the character. I guess the idea that a single man could singlehandedly threaten 2000 years of doctrines and religions is part of it, though I think a lot of it is because I wonder who it’s going to be, what he’s going to be like.

I’ve actually read a lot of books by people who say the Antichrist is alive today. A lot of them think he’s going to rise up in Europe somewhere. One guy even said that Hitler is going to be brought back to life and given evil powers to take over the world. Just about everyone seems to think the guy’s going to be supremely evil, a Satan worshipper, and hidden away by the Devil until the time is right for him to take over the world.

While our preacher was talking about how the evil Queen Jezebel was fed to the dogs in the Old Testament, I started thinking about where I would hide the Antichrist if I were the Devil. I definitely wouldn’t put him out in Europe – that’d be too obvious, I thought. If people believed he was out there, they’d start a witch hunt and try to flush him out. I wouldn’t want him being a Satanist, either, because it would make him too obvious when he tried to take power. I don’t even think I’d let him know what he was destined for – it might make him try to change the outcome of the situation. No, I’d hide him away somewhere in a Christian church, and I’d fill it up full of so many hypocrites that he wouldn’t want to be a part of their religion. I’d guide him to rise to power quickly and mysteriously, and then reveal my true intentions once he was too far in to back out.

I looked around at the different people in the congregation, wondering if any of them could be the Antichrist. The pastor was still droning on, something about God commanding us to care for “all creatures great and small,” though I had my doubts that he’d gotten that from the Bible. It could be anyone in here, I thought as I looked around at people’s still forms, each pretending to care about the good Samaritan story being applied to the humane society in town. This would be exactly the place I’d put him. But somehow, I’d have to get him to Europe…

Anyway, I’m going to go work on my German homework – it’s not as much of a chore as it sounds, though, because I really have a knack for German. My teacher always jokes that I sound like a native speaker, which I think is a sign that I’ll be getting an easy “A”. I’m also going to try to work on my story for creative writing club tomorrow. Hopefully, things will go better than last week.

Monday, September 20

Nicole’s boyfriend canceled our club meeting today.

It wasn’t that he actually came to school, showed up at the meeting, and told everyone to go home – far from it. He died over the weekend, and the memorial service was after school. Everyone in the club went, except for me. I didn’t know him, I don’t care that he’s dead, and I really didn’t want to see Nicole blubbering and talking about what a great guy he was. If he was dating her, he was a loser, and it’s probably better that he died before they could reproduce.

I was a little surprised when I heard the news this morning. “Hey Carl, did you hear about Doug?” one of my friends asked me during biology.

Nicole was sitting a few seats ahead diagonally, and I saw her fat head shoot up as I turned towards my friend. “No, what happened?” I asked.

“Well…” he said, grimacing a bit, “Doug and Kyle Presser were out in some woods, playing with Doug’s gun, and Kyle blew his head off.”

I laughed, and my friend looked at me with horror. “Carl, that’s not funny!” he said, his eyes so wide I honestly thought they were going to pop out of his head. This made me laugh even harder, and just then, Nicole stood up, walked over, and started screaming at me. I’m not sure what she said, and I didn’t even really find it funny, but I couldn’t stop laughing. She started smacking me on the head, wailing as each blow struck home. I tried to duck down and cover myself, but she started hitting harder and harder until the teacher came over and yanked her off me.

Before long, Nicole and I were sitting in the principal’s office, watching as he shifted very angry eyes between the two of us. “Nicole,” he said, after a moment of looking back and forth at us, “I understand your loss, and I know Carl wasn’t being sensitive,” – he glared at me here – “but that doesn’t give you any right to hit him.”

“I… I know,” she said softly, looking down. “He’s just such a jerk. I couldn’t help it.”

Now the principal’s gaze rested on me. “Carl, quite frankly, I think you deserved what you got,” he said. “We’re talking about one of your peers dying this weekend, and you’re sitting around laughing about it. Do you really find it all that funny?”

“No, I don’t think what happened is funny,” I said flatly with a straight face and a level gaze. “But when I get nervous, I laugh. It makes me nervous to think about how he died, so I started laughing. It’s involuntary.” It was a lie, but it worked – but then, that facial expression combined with a level tone and a plausible tale always do. The principal’s face softened a little bit and I knew I had evaded whatever horrible punishment he’d been concocting.

“Well, I guess I can understand that,” he sighed, “but you really need to be more sensitive, Carl. Next time, please leave the room or excuse yourself.”

“OK, sir,” I agreed, deciding to see how far I could push things. “Actually, I would have been happy to, but Nicole started hitting…”

“Carl, we’re not going to blame Nicole for this – she’s going through a rough time right now. I just want you to be sensitive to her loss, OK?”

“Sure, fine,” I said, smiling. “Can we go back to class now?”

Nicole was still glaring at me, but I stood up, turned towards her, and said “I’m sorry you got upset, Nicole,” thinking might as well make it look like we’ve resolved things. Though her contempt for me was still burning in her eyes, she did mumble something like “it’s OK.” I left the office shortly after and had a great day. After all, I outfoxed them both, and I’m still savoring it.

Wednesday, September 22

I never realized I was capable of miracles until today.

It started out after school when I went out for a walk in the city park. It was a pretty nice day, and since October’s not too far off, I wanted to make the most of the warm weather. As I walked by the pond, I saw Nicole sitting on the shore bank, staring into the water. For some reason – and I’m still not sure why – I felt compelled to walk over and talk to her.

I was still few feet from her when she said “Go away,” in a muffled voice. I stopped in my tracks and looked down at her, noticing she was clutching a tube of some sort in her hands. I sighed and turned towards the pond.

“You know, Nicole, I’ve always wondered why you seem to dislike me so much,” I said aside to her. I didn’t wonder, but I still heard a voice inside me telling me to talk to her.

“You want to know why? Because I hate you,” she said, still not looking in my direction. Her voice rose with anger as she spoke. “You’re a jerk, you don’t care about anyone but yourself, and you get on my nerves.”

“Whoa… whoa, calm down, I’m not that bad of a guy,” I soothed, though inside, I was tingling with delight knowing that she loathed me almost as much as I loathed her. She rattled the tube, and turned her hand a bit. I looked at it a little more carefully and realized it was a prescription pill container.

“Well, it doesn’t matter what I think anymore,” she said. “I guess you probably won’t be sad when I disappear.”

I moved a bit closer to her now. “So you’re going to kill yourself?” I said, reaching down and tapping on the pill container. “Is that it?” I felt very strange talking to her about this, but I decided to keep talking and see what happened.

“Yes, I am,” she said bitterly. “And don’t try to tell me that if I’m talking about it I don’t mean it. Christine already tried that.”

“No, I’m not going to tell you what to do,” I said. “It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind. If that’s what you want, I’m not going to stop you.” Actually, it was because I really didn’t care, but I figured if I told her that, she’d probably do it just to spite me, and I really didn’t want her blood on my hands.

“You just want me dead,” she pouted. “Admit it.”

“No, I just want you to make up your mind,” I said. “It’s your choice. I told you – if you’ve made up your mind, I’m not going to stop you.”

“But what if I haven’t?” she said a little more softly. “I mean, I don’t think I can go on living without Doug, but…”

I shrugged, thinking this is a waste of time. “Look,” I snapped, “here’s what I think. You can either get over him, live your entire life whining about him, or just end things now. But you have to decide that. It’s not right to get other people involved if you’re going to kill yourself, because then they’re going to blame themselves for what you decided to do.”

“You’re right,” she sighed. “You’re right.” I stood there for a minute, looking down at her, and then suddenly, she turned her face towards me, and I could see tears running down her pink cheeks.

“Here,” she whispered, handing me a scrap of paper. “Will you give this to my family?”

I took it and nodded at her gravely. “Good luck,” I said. “I’m going to go now, OK?”

“Carl?” she said as I started to turn. I figured she was going to try to make me stay so she could chicken out, but when I looked at her, she was smiling.

“Thanks,” she said. “You’re not as bad a guy as I thought you were.”

“No problem,” I said, raising two fingers up to my eyebrow and saluting her. “Good luck.”

I walked away from her and jammed the piece of paper into my pocket, not really sure what to do with it, but knowing I didn’t want to give it to her family. They’d probably blame me! I thought. There was a trash can not too far ahead, so I walked up to it and quickly deposited the paper. That was when the really strange part happened.

There was a bloody, dirty crow next to the trash can, writhing around on the ground as flies buzzed around it. For some reason, I felt a very strong urge to reach down and touch the bird, so I poked out my index finger and gently jabbed it. There was a sort of electric feeling as my finger touched its black feathers, and suddenly, it stopped moving. Oh great, I killed it, I thought as I watched, but then I noticed that the flies had buzzed away. Before I knew what was happening, I reached down and picked up the bird, feeling it seem to awaken in my hands. I cupped my hands together and held the bird upright. It looked straight ahead, turning its head slightly to the left and the right in jerky little movements. Suddenly, I lifted my hands up towards the sky and felt the bird leave my hands. As I watched it fly off, I realized I had just performed a miracle. Somehow, I had the power to heal and bring things back to life with a single touch. Giddily, I headed for home, all the while thinking I just performed a miracle…

My mom came up here while I was doing my homework and said she’d heard Nicole had turned up missing and asked me if I’d seen her.

“No,” I said without even raising an eyebrow. At least she went through with it. I don’t care. I have the power over life and death. She’s just a fat, annoying girl with problems.

I hope I can do something miraculous tomorrow. It’d be a shame to put this sort of power to waste.

Thursday, September 23

I had a really strange dream last night.

I saw a man who was absolutely awe-inspiring standing in front of me. It’s hard to describe exactly how he looked other than to say that he had a presence about him that made anything I’d ever experienced in life seem dull. In my dream, I was so affected I fell on my knees and started kissing his feet like he was a king or something.

“You’ve done well,” he whispered. “Now go to Berlin and fulfill your dreams, my son.” He put his hands on my head and suddenly, I felt fire pouring down on me, consuming me. But for some reason, I kept thinking of it as “brother,” and the man as “father.” That was when I woke up.

I don’t think it would have bothered me so much if I hadn’t gone to school today, though.

First of all, Nicole is dead. They said she died of a lethal mix of prescription drugs, and that it was probably accidental. I think people expected me to laugh again, but I didn’t. I honestly couldn’t have cared less.

More importantly, though, is the fact that my German teacher pulled me aside today and asked me if I might be interested in going to Berlin with her advanced classes over the summer. “I normally wouldn’t take a first year student,” she said, “but you have such a talent for the language that I’m sure you wouldn’t have any problems.”

I told her I’d think about it, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be going. I’d hate to let my father down after all this time.

************************************************************

Copyright Sean J. Jordan, 2008. All Rights Reserved.
The author grants permission for this story to be distributed freely for non-commercial use.

The Christmas Visitor

by Sean J. Jordan
December, 2007

It had been raining in spurts of ice and snow when the visitor first arrived on the back deck, shivering and panting heavily.

He was a large dog, probably meant to weigh around sixty pounds, but so skinny and unhealthy-looking that Joe had no doubt the creature was severely underweight. It was his eight-year-old daughter, Audrey, who’d found the dog lying underneath the toy picnic table, shaking and whimpering as the cold winds blew around the house. She’d come inside and asked her mother Evey for a hot dog, offering no explanation why, and taken it out and fed it to him without any thought of her own safety. It never occurred to her that the dog might be sick, or mean, or that it might be so hungry that it would gnaw on her hand as soon as the food she was offering. That was just how Audrey was; always thinking of others, but rarely considering the consequences. And while Joe secretly hoped she would never outgrow her outlook, he feared the world would teach her a lesson about its drawbacks long before she was able to understand them on her own.

But this dog was friendly, and even tried to follow Audrey into the house as she went inside to get him some warm water, his big black tail wagging feverishly as he followed her. That was when Evey first saw the creature, and tried to shoo him away by snapping her dishtowel at him, mostly out of fear and surprise. And that was when Audrey screamed and ran towards the dog, hoping to protect him, but instead scaring him away from the door and out into the yard.

“Close the door, Audrey,” Evey shouted. “I don’t want him in here!”

“Mom!” Audrey protested, and chased back outside after the dog. Evey stood at the back door, watching the dog disappear into the woods behind their house, and then called Audrey back inside. Joe walked into the kitchen, wondering what all the commotion was about.

“He was just hungry!” Audrey said.

“I know,” Evey replied. “And I’m sorry. I just saw this big, black dog trying to follow you inside, and I got worried.”

Audrey watched out the window. “We should leave some food out for him,” she said. “Maybe he’ll come back.”

Joe stepped next to her, surveying the backyard as he cleared his throat. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he said. “He might not be a nice dog.”

“He’s nice,” insisted Audrey. “He didn’t even growl.”

“He probably has a home to go back to,” added Evey. “I’ll bet he just got loose.”

Audrey shook her head. “He didn’t have a collar on,” she said. “He looked sick.”

“That’s just one more reason we should leave him alone,” said Joe. “He’s an animal, sweetie. He can look after himself.”

“But it’s almost Christmas!” Audrey cried. “What if he’s sick, and he has to spend it out in the rain? Isn’t that what those people did to baby Jesus?”

Joe and Evey exchanged a glance. They had been working through the Christmas story with Audrey, and the night before, they had talked about why Jesus had to be born in a manger instead of a hospital. Most children enjoyed the idea of baby Jesus being born amongst the animals, with shepherds and wise men standing by. But not Audrey; she’d been there when Evey had given birth to her little brother Franklin in the car, two years ago, and she’d seen that childbearing was a difficult and messy affair. The story of Mary being forced to give birth in a stable had made Audrey cry, because she understood what a cruel and difficult thing it was.

And so Joe helped Audrey find a plastic bowl and mash up a hot dog, and they filled another bowl with some hot water in case the dog needed to warm himself up. They set both bowls out under Audrey’s toy picnic table, where the dog could find some shelter from the sleeting sky, and Audrey sat by the back door, gazing out the storm door and waiting patiently for the dog to return. After about an hour, Joe saw her lying there, dozing underneath a sleeping bag with her head propped up on some pillows Evey had brought out, oblivious to the large black dog sitting underneath the picnic table, lapping up the water next to the now-empty food bowl.

Joe grabbed his coat and another hot dog from the fridge and walked out into his garage, taking the back door out to the deck. The dog saw him, and tensed up underneath the table, but Joe approached him slowly, holding the hot dog out and calling for him to come. It took the dog a moment to size up the situation, but he eventually decided that Joe meant no harm, and trotted forward, tail wagging slightly.

Joe coaxed the dog into the garage, and closed the door. The dog immediately shook itself, throwing water and ice all over the place, and then walked up to him and sat on the floor mat in front of the door to the house, waiting for a treat. His tail whisked back and forth on the garage floor, leaving a streak of water in its wake.

“Here you go, boy,” Joe said, and fed him the hot dog, glad to see the dog taking the meat from him gently instead of snatching it from his hand. Joe flipped on a light, grabbed a towel, and started petting the dog and talking to him gently as he attempted to dry the poor creature off. The dog looked tired. His ribs were showing, and his coat was matted with ice and dried blood in places, as if he’d been wounded in a recent fight just before the ice storm had hit. He smelled terrible, and one of his eyes was puffed up and swollen. Between coughs and sneezes, he nuzzled and licked Joe with affectionate gratitude as he warmed up there in the garage.

Joe looked up after a moment and noticed Evey and Audrey standing there, in the doorway to the house, watching him.

“Is he a nice dog, daddy?” Audrey asked.

“I think so,” Joe said. “No tags, though.”

“What should we do?” asked Evey.

Joe sighed. “There’s no way I’m letting him out in the cold again,” he said. “I guess he can stay in the garage while we call Animal Control and see what we should do.”

Audrey was excited by this. “Yay!” she cried, jumping a bit on the balls of her feet. “Can we give him a name?”

Joe looked up at Evey. She shrugged. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt,” Joe said. “But you need to understand that he probably already has a name, and a family, somewhere else, all right?”

Audrey nodded. “Let’s call him…” she said, and hesitated. She grabbed her mom’s leg and looked up shyly. “Coal,” she whispered.

Joe laughed. “Because he’s black?” he said. “Or because you’re going to be getting a lot of that in your stocking when Santa comes?”

Audrey’s face reddened, and she shouted, “I’m not getting any coal, daddy!” in that defensive way of hers.

“Of course you’re not,” said Evey. “But I think it’s a lovely name for a dog.

“Coal it is,” said Joe. And he invited Audrey down to pet the dog as he sent Evey inside for a bucket and some soap so they could clean Coal up.

************************************************************

Audrey had always wanted a dog, but Evey had never wanted one in the house. So she was thrilled to have a dog in the garage to play with that afternoon while Joe and Evey talked about what they should do. Coal was friendly enough, but he was clearly sick; it was hard to tell if he was simply weak from malnutrition or if he had caught something worse out in the elements. Joe made a call to Animal Control and explained the situation, and they promised they would send someone out as soon as the road conditions improved. “From what you’re describing, he’s probably fine,” said the dispatcher. “Probably just someone’s dog who got loose, like you said. Even so, I’d suggest you just leave him in there until we can send someone out. You don’t know what sort of tendencies he has.”

Joe kept that last part from Evey, because he didn’t want her deciding that it was too dangerous for Audrey to enjoy playing with Coal in the garage. So he sat out there watching, enjoying the sound of his daughter’s screams and giggles as Coal chased her around and played fetch with a tennis ball. And though the dog was clearly worn out, he loved the attention he was receiving from Audrey. Joe was worried he would have to pry the two apart at bedtime.

Audrey insisted on eating her dinner out in the garage, and offered one of her chicken nuggets to Coal. The big black dog wolfed it down, and licked her on the face affectionately in a bid for more. Joe mashed up the rest of the hot dogs in a bowl, and made sure the dog had plenty to eat. Once they were finished, Joe tied a loose rope around Coal’s neck and they took him out for a quick walk so he could relieve himself for the night. Audrey wanted to keep playing once they returned to the garage, but the dog was too tired — he walked over to a pile of old blankets Evey had set out and laid down. Audrey sat next to Coal, hugged him, and sang him a little song. It was cute, and Joe found himself wishing he knew where his camera was so he could take a picture.

“Audrey,” Evey called softly, “it’s Christmas Eve and it’s time for bed. You know what that means.”

Audrey did, and she rushed inside to change into her pajamas and brush her teeth. Evey started inside as Joe rummaged around for the presents he’d hidden under a pile of junk.

“What do we do about the dog?” Evey asked.

“He’ll be fine,” Joe said. “He’s better off in here than out there.”

Evey sighed. “She’s already attached, Joe. What are we going to do when Animal Control gets here?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

Evey started inside, and then stopped. “I don’t want a dog,” she said, and went inside.

Joe leaned down to pet Coal. The dog opened its eyes and looked up at him, eyes bloodshot, but deep, and soulful. “Sleep well, buddy,” he whispered. The dog licked his hand, and Joe rose to go inside, hoisting the bag of wrapped presents up on his shoulder.

************************************************************

Audrey was up long before it was light outside, and she’d managed to wake up her brother in her excitement. As Evey went to fetch Franklin, Joe put on his bathrobe and walked out to the living room, where Audrey was sitting excitedly next to the Christmas tree, eating a piece of chocolate she’d dug out of her stocking.

“Presents! I’ve got presents!” she cried.

“I noticed,” said Joe. “Wait for your mother.”

Audrey sorted through her stocking again. “Daddy, can I give some chocolate to Coal?” she asked.

It took Joe a moment to remember that the dog was still in the garage. “Dogs can’t eat chocolate,” he said. “But I think it’s OK to give him an animal cookie.”

“OK!” she shouted, and she ran to the kitchen to grab the box. Joe walked towards the door to the garage, yawning. Audrey met him there, and they stepped out into the garage. The dog was lying there quietly, and didn’t even seem to stir as they approached.

“Wake up, Coal, wake up!” Audrey shouted. The dog didn’t move, so Audrey sat down next to him and started petting him. “Wake up!”

Joe was beginning to realize that something was very wrong as Audrey said, “Daddy, he feels cold.” And just as she said it, the realization of what had happened set in. He had no idea what to say, so he simply walked to up towards Audrey, placed his hand on Coal’s back, feeling the chill where there had once been warmth, and said, quietly, “Yes. Yes he does.”

Evey was at the door, holding Franklin, and she caught Joe’s worried expression. “Audrey, let Coal sleep,” she said. “You need to come open your presents now.”

That was enough to pry Audrey from the dog, and she jumped up excitedly and ran into the house. Joe picked up the box of animal crackers she’d left behind.

“He’s, um… he’s gone, Evey,” Joe said softly.

Evey’s eyes widened. “What do we do?” she whispered back.

Joe rose. “I’ll figure something out,” he said. “Let’s not spoil the morning.

Evey sighed. “We never should have let this dog in,” she said. “I knew something bad was going to come out of this.”

Joe nodded and said nothing, but as he followed his wife inside, he realized that he could not have disagreed with her more.

************************************************************

They put Coal out of their minds for a few hours and spent some time opening presents and making breakfast. They laughed as Franklin played in the wrapping paper and the boxes and ignored his toys, and they ooed and ahed as Audrey showed off her gifts proudly. Audrey occasionally would ask if she could go out to see the dog, but Joe would simply say, “Let’s let him sleep, sweetie,” and she would let it go.

Eventually, they sat down at the table as Evey made some pancakes, eggs, and bacon, and Joe sat next to Audrey.

“Did you like what you got for Christmas?’ he asked.

“Yes,” said Audrey.

“That’s good,” he said, and took a deep breath. This was going to be hard.

“Do you know why we give presents to each other on Christmas?” he asked her.

“Um…” she said, scrunching up her face as she thought about it. “Because we like to get stuff?”

“Yes,” said Joe, “but even more than that, it’s because we like to give stuff, because when we give, it tells other people that we love them.”

“Oh,” said Audrey.

“Did you give anything to anyone this year?” Joe asked.

“No,” said Audrey. She hadn’t; Evey had never had time to take her shopping.

“I think you did,” said Joe.

“To who?” she asked.

“To Coal,” Joe said. “You saw that he was hungry, and cold, and wet, and alone, and you gave him food, and a place to stay, and a family, and a friend. You gave him the best present that anyone could ever ask for.”

“Oh,” said Audrey. She smiled. “That’s neat.”

Joe took his daughter’s hand. “Coal gave us something too,” he said. “Coal gave us the chance to know him for who he really was. When we met him, we didn’t know if he was a mean dog or a nice dog. But now we know, don’t we?”

“He is a nice dog,” Audrey agreed.

Joe cleared his throat. “What I’m saying is…” he was aware that Evey had turned her back now, and was crying. “Sweetie, Coal knew something yesterday that the rest of us didn’t. He knew that it was the last day of his life, and he thought he was going to have to spend it out in the cold, in the rain, by himself. But then you saw him, and you let him into your heart, and you gave him a home.”

Audrey’s eyes were wide now. “What do you mean, daddy?” she asked.

“Do you remember how Coal was cold, and still when we went to see him this morning?” Joe asked. “That’s because he died, honey.”

Audrey’s eyes were full with tears now. “But it’s Christmas,” she whispered.

“I know,” said Joe. “But he was very sick, and he was going to die anyway. And that means you gave him a very special present, because he could have died out in the cold, by himself. But instead, he died here, in his sleep in a warm place, with people who loved him.”

Evey had turned back around now, tears streaking down her face. She clearly needed to hear this too.

“Coal was a wonderful dog,” Joe said. “I wish we could have known him longer. But I’m glad that while we did know him, he was happy. We gave him the best thing anyone could give him on his last day.”

Audrey leaned over and buried her head in her father’s chest. “But I’ll miss him,” she sobbed.

“I will too,” said Joe. Evey walked over and placed her arms around them both, and for a few moments, no one said anything. Just being there was enough.

************************************************************

“It was probably heartworms,” said the Animal Control officer as they knelt over the dog’s lifeless form in Joe’s garage the next morning. “Happens a lot around here with the strays. There’s nothing you could have done.”

Audrey shook her head. Evey hadn’t wanted her there, but she’d insisted on seeing Coal one more time. “That’s not what my daddy says,” she said.

“Oh?” said the Animal Control officer, smiling and looking over at her. “What did he tell you?”

“He says we did everything we could have,” Audrey said. “That’s different.”

The Animal Control officer smiled. “I suppose it is, Miss,” he said, and patted Audrey on the shoulder as he rose. “I suppose it is.”

************************************************************

Copyright Sean J. Jordan, 2007. All Rights Reserved.
The author grants permission for this story to be distributed freely for non-commercial use.
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