The Hidden Jesus

The electrician did not want to speak. He stared at the ceiling and scratched his muscled forearm, on which was tattooed the name Sarah, with a circle/bar over it. He was here to avoid jail time and that was it. He preferred to keep his yap shut.

That wasn't good enough. That wasn't part of the plan. He had to speak. They made him do it. They said, Tell us about your life. Tell us how it feels. Shegog, the Pain & Suffering Workshop leader, said they could wait. We can wait as long as it takes, he added. Redemption is in no hurry.

In this box of silence, Sanchez stared at his shiny black wingtips, new and loose, like the borrowed shoes of a dead cop. He heard coughs. A defrocked priest with a sweet potato nose and eyes like pools of sadness slowly ripped a white paper napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. Hull, the security guard, watched him do this. He wanted to grab the priest's hands and make him stop, but he didn't. The Pain & Suffering Workshop was all about learning to do what did not come natural. Hull imagined the napkin shreds projected into smaller and smaller divisions, like a reflection of mirrors facing mirrors, seeing yourself in ever-shrinking reflections down to the size of an eyelash morphing to a tiny peacock tail.

When the electrician cracked (as they all did eventually, it was only a matter of time), his chin trembled. All looked away. It was ugly business, this giving in. The electrician said his name was Sanchez and that he was an alcoholic, a drug addict, a sexaholic. Crystal meth, adultery, insurance fraud. You name it, he said. I done it. I'm a louse. I once stole from a March of Dimes box, for Chrissakes.

Shegog closed his eyes and nodded. Go on, he said. You are on the path to light. Sanchez sighed and rubbed his watery eyes. I did some bad things. I threatened my wife with an extension cord because she refused to do me anymore. So I shouted at her I said, You don't want me to touch you anymore, how about this? So I looked around and the first thing I could find was an extension cord and I yanked it out the wall and dragged her by her arm and tried to whip her with it.

He paused and shook his head. He went on: She grabbed the refrigerator door and squirmed away, and I started to feel bad. I just couldn't do it. The look on her face, Jesus. I kept pulling on her and finally she let go and I dropped the extension cord. I twisted her wrist a little, but I really didn't hurt her bad. Still she never forgave me for that. No sirree. You bet I heard about that, and will hear it about the rest of my goddamn fucking life. Welcome to Disneyland.

The others in the room stared at their feet. They sat in a conference room in a Christian rehabilitation center. Out the window, in the distance, loomed a snow-capped peak. Everyone called it Sorry Mountain.

Get it out, said the defrocked priest.

Jewel, the travel agent with the rough voice of a screamer, scowled. Oh, right, she said. Thanks for sharing. If you ask me, this creep ought to be shot, is what he ought to be.

Shegog frowned. Nobody is shooting anyone. That isn't helpful.

No, you're right, said Jewel. Not shot. I'm sorry. That's too good for him, she hissed. Maybe ground up slowly on a meat grinder. Like, one hand at a time.

Now now, said Shegog. As head counselor, he'd already admitted he had once been a drunk and a heel himself. We're in the comfort zone right now, aren't we? This is where we share. This is where we listen.

Fine and dandy, said Jewel. I listen. I heard. I just happen to think shit for brains here, Sanchez, doesn't deserve to live. That's...