What if I were to tell you that The Second Coming of Christ has already happened… sorta…

About the Artist:  

Torrey Kurtzner (Undeclared, Class of 2018) writes mostly satirical humor pieces, inspired throughout his life by television shows like The Simpsons, Seinfeld and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.  In the future he would love to write comedic screenplays for movies, sketches or television shows.  One of his biggest dreams is to both write and adapt a sketch for Saturday Night Live (SNL).

Warning: This piece contains explicit content (swearing, references to drugs) and may not be suitable for all audiences.

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Rebirth of Cool

by Torrey Kurtzner

Even though I’m eight miles away from the ocean and stuck working a graveyard shift inside a 7-Eleven down in Long Beach, I can still faintly hear the soothing sounds of waves caressing the sandy beach shores through these brick walls that imprison me as I rest slumped over behind a customer service countertop. Their sounds of beauty are cut short by the constant ticking of a clock that hangs above my head; its nauseating presence reminding me that my shift is nowhere near complete. I occasionally glance over at the glass doors towards the store’s front, but I’ll be damned if I ever saw a soul enter during this time of night.

I turn to my left to stare down a dimly lit hallway marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY”. At the very end of the hallway and to the left is an exit which leads into a deserted staff parking lot- save for Dave’s Hyundai Elantra. I can hear a muffled conversation taking place between Dave and his drug dealer outside. On a regular night, we would’ve been blitzed by now, and that ticking clock above my head would be tap-dancing about the store. But tonight’s a different night, and with the prolonged absence of drugs in my holy veins, my sober mind begins to wander upon unwelcome feelings that have been haunting me for the last three years while hiding in this troubled paradise.

I let out a sigh as Dave comes rushing back inside. He carries with him a small brown paper bag as he clumsily jumps over the customer service countertop. He looks me in the eyes, his of which are already tainted with redness:

“We got a little bit of everything tonight, man! Downers, angel dust, speedball, and some grass!”

Dave’s level of enthusiasm doesn’t pass over to my troubled state of mind. I nod unenthusiastically as he continues to sort through his small bag of treasure.

“With all these drugs, we should be set until Wednesday, man! And today’s only…”

Dave raises his wrist up close to his glazed eyes to read a digital watch that’s been broken since the day it was purchased.

“…Sunday, man! Far out.”

Unfortunately for Dave, it was Wednesday. It wouldn’t be worth the effort to tell him this though, for anyone that still uses the phrase “far out” has long forgotten the meaning of time. Then again, I should talk. I still dress like it’s BC.

“So, man; what do you wanna do first?”

“Count me out tonight, Dave. I’m not feeling up for any of it.”

Dave chokes on my words as if they had taken the form of second hand smoke.

“Not feeling up for it? Well, what the hell are you feeling up for, Jesús?”

I told people that my name was “Jesús” upon arriving to California three years ago. The change in persona wasn’t too original, and in a town like this, I probably could have stuck with “Jesus Christ”, no questions asked, but I wanted to play things low key… Then again, I still to this day wear white robes and Birkenstocks, but so do nearly half of the people that inhabit this corner of the world, so it works out in my favor. Plus, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t actually like it that way. It feels good to finally fit in with people, which is more the reason as to why I’ve been cowering over the idea of proclaiming my return to the world.

Still, with the thought of responsibility now present within my mind, I was beginning to rethink the past three years. I needed to know if I still had my touch.

“Music… I need music to concentrate to.”

With that, I point to the closest radio, and snap my fingers. Nothing happens. I inhale and snap them again. Nothing. I then go into a fit as I frantically snap at the inanimate object in hope that it will turn on. Finally, Dave reaches over my shoulder to turn on the radio. In doing so, music instantly begins to play.

“Hey, don’t feel bad, man. Even the Fonz needed to touch what he wanted to play.”

I look at my hands, both of which are partially covered in a pair of yellow wristbands to hide my crucifixes. I try to remember the last time I had commanded something to move, but all that comes forth are fogged memories of getting high in this 7-Eleven with Dave. In the course of three years while doing nothing, had I simply become “Jesús”?

My mind rushes back into reality as the sounds of the Jackson Five band grooves out of the radio. I glance over at Dave, who is happily bobbing his head back and forth to the rhythm.

“Now this is music, man!” he preaches as he goes into a poorly conducted spin. “Joe Jackson taught his kids well!”

“Joe Jackson was a power hungry monster disguised in a father’s suit!” I scream aloud with a level of passion that surprises Dave. “It’s no wonder Michael went off the rails like he did; his father drove him to the brink of insanity!”

“Hey, man; Joe Jackson might not have been a cuddly teddy bear, but he was a great pusher. The man just wanted the kid to realize his potential, and now, he’s known as the King of Pop! That title don’t come easy, man!”

“Yeah- well, a title like that doesn’t make up for years of abuse and suffering. Not to mention the entire backlash that Michael received in his later years. It all comes back to the shitty parenting on Joe’s part. Why couldn’t he have just let him be? Michael could have found greatness in his own right without having to suffer through that entire emotional trauma.”

“I don’t know, man. Sounds to me like you’ve got some personal angst against Joe Jackson.”

I sigh at the carelessness of Dave’s words. I look up to see the store’s crude Budweiser statue advertisement of my father down near the beer aisle, his right hand formed into a “thumbs up” sign, while holding a can of Budweiser in his left. The words “God loves Bud, and so should you!” are written on a t-shirt that covers his chest.

“If only you knew the half of it…”

“Hey, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories. You shouldn’t feel bad; my dad was also a pusher.”

“Oh? Did he force you into a lifestyle that promised nothing but neglect and personal angst from the people around you? Did he tell you at a young age that you were supposed to lead ‘his’ people into a newly developed system of moral code and religious preference?”

“Well… no. My dad sold drugs, man. Hence, ‘pusher’. He made me the man I am today, and I roll with it, man. You just gotta sometimes… Now whaddya say we head out back and snort some angel dust?”

“No thanks, Dave. You go ahead.”

“Alright, man.” Dave shrugged.

As Dave leaves, I continue to stare down the statue of my father. The Budweiser advertisement makes him out to look like someone you could party with on any given night, but in reality, he was no better than Joe Jackson. His teachings drove me to be killed by my own damn people. I can still feel the pain from the crucifixes, for wristbands can only cover up so much.

After several minutes of staring, I finally break silence and begin to yell at the inanimate statue as if it were real flesh.

“What do you want from me, Dad?! To come out of hiding and announce my rebirth to the world? Don’t you know what happened last time I tried to persuade your teachings on others? What’s wrong with continuing to live the life I’ve made for myself?!”

I bury my head within my hands in frustration. I don’t expect to hear a response, but then… it happens:

“The life you live is the life of a bum, NOT the life of a savior.”

I look up to see that the Budweiser statue advertisement of my father has been given life by that of the man himself, and is now walking towards me. He stops at the customer service countertop and leaned in, Budweiser can still in hand.

“My son… you reek of narcotics.”

“Look Dad, can we just cut to the chase? I don’t want to announce my rebirth to the people of today. If I do, they’ll just kill me like my people did before. So what’s the point? Why not just live life? You know, I fit in pretty well down here. No one even asks me questions about my clothes.”

“Yes my son, but is that reason enough to just give up on who you are as a person? You’re Jesus Christ, the savior of man! You have the power to inspire people and change the world! Do you really want to give up all that potential and live under a fake persona for the rest of your life, knowing that you could have been something bigger?”

“But Dad, my powers are weak! I can’t even command a radio to play music!”

“Since when did you get the impression that you could command radios to play music, my son? You’re Jesus Christ, not Hudini.”

“Oh…I thought I could do that…”

“My child; have I taught you nothing? It’s not about the powers, it’s about the knowledge you can share with the world. I understand that you’re scared about exposing your true identity, but it’s just like you said; you blend in down here… Granted, you’ve been doing nothing but getting high for the last three years, but you’ve blended in, you’ve become ‘cool’, and in a day and age like the one you see today, only the ‘cool’ will prosper. That is why you will make the perfect leader.”

“Wait a second… you think those people out there will finally accept what I have to say now because I’m ‘cool’?”

“Exactly, my son. Not only are you Jesus Christ; you’re Jesus Christ with an attitude, and the people will flock to that.”

“But what if being cool isn’t enough? This could be my last chance to make you proud… I can’t help but feel I’m missing something.”

My father nods slowly, and looks around the store. He comes across a sunglasses rack and picks out a black, rip-off pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers.

“I think I’ve found that ‘something’…”

I put on the pair of shades and turn to face my father. He smiles and nods his head in approval.

“Now you’re ready, my son. Go. Show the people the way.”

I turn to leave towards the “EMPLOYEES ONLY” hallway, slowly taking off my wristbands with each step that I take. Before I exit, I turn to my father one last time.

“Thanks, Dad. I’m sorry I ever thought of you as a Joe Jackson.”

“It’s ok my son… As the people of today would say: ‘fuck Joe Jackson’.”

My father and I share one last smile before I head out the back entrance towards the parking lot. There, I see Dave lying on the hood of his Hyundai Elantra, smoking grass while watching the stars. Upon hearing my approaching footsteps, he sits up to see me in my fresh pair of sunglasses.

“Jesús! You come to join the party?”

“No, Dave… I’ve come to start the party.”

I throw my wristbands to the ground and raise both of my hands up towards the sky, fingertips extended. Dave sees for the first time my crucifix marks.

“Whoa! Jesus Christ, man!”

“That’s right.”

And with that, I levitate off into the night sky, leaving behind Dave to wonder if what he saw had really taken place.

Copyright © Torrey Kurtzner (2016) All Rights Reserved.