Zombie Jesus

I’d passed them up already, accelerating toward another job site — always short on time. They were standing on the opposite edge of Weisner Road when we locked eyes, so I pulled over.

I looked in the rear-view mirror and this lady was towing an old man along by his arm. He had an odd shuffle and obvious difficulty walking, so I backed up to where they were.

I exited my van and ran over to their side. “Buenos dias, como están?” I asked.
“Bien,” she answered. “Nos puedes dar un ride al Lowes, la Fiesta Foods?”
“Si, claro!” I answered as I opened both doors on the passenger side of my Previa, pushing paperwork and my tools aside and placing my daughter’s car seat to the rear.
“Asi esta bien, yo me acomodo” she said, over my shoulder…

I stepped back and replied, “Ya, mira. Subanse.” She leaned him onto the front seat and stooped over, trying to push her husband into the front seat while lifting his legs at the same time. He just stood there, like a zombie.  His eyes were glazed over with cataracts, a ghastly milky-white layer that clearly kept him from seeing much of anything. There were two crosses on each of his hands, residual glue from I.V. needles. His rayon print shirt from the 70s flapped on loud bones as he just leaned there.

I thought he was about to fall over, so I asked her to step aside and let me get him into the van. After some hesitation, she let me.
That’s when realities shifted, and past traumas breached their lair — to run amok in my psyche.
I languished in prison for years, with gruesome memories visiting more than family and friends. A lifeless, stiffening body as it welcomes rigor mortis is one of those memories that’s hard to forget. While I worked to get the man into my van, a sickening realization rose in my head: “He’s dying, right now!” I tried to sit him inside but his stiff legs weren’t cooperating. “He’s dead! You’re a felon — he died while your hands were on him!”

I brushed the thought aside and forced his legs to bend; I pivoted him a little and managed to tuck them into the leg compartment.

“He’s dead!” I heard, screeching in my head. I continued getting him into my van but this man was unresponsive and not helping much. I tried scooting him in, but his bones here heavy and now his waist wouldn’t bend. I leaned the seat back, straddled him on the front seat as I set a foot down in my van next to him, nearly laying on top of him.  I got him in a bear hug and stretched him out onto the front seat. That was the only moment I ever sensed life in him.

“Así esta bien,” she kept insisting but by then, I was thinking of my little brother, before he died of cancer at 20 years of age. I’ll make sure he’s comfortable…  I pushed the man’s stomach down while raising the back rest and there he sat, stiff as Lazarus — waiting for Jesus to beckon him from the tomb. I laced his stiff arms just right and buckled him in. I positioned the AC registers toward him and stepped back. I couldn’t help but smile cause he looked like a king — frozen, yet royal, staring into the far-off future through my windshield.

The woman told me they needed tortillas from Lowe’s when I realized the absurdity of dragging this ailing husband around for something so small. I offered to get tortillas from a convenience store or somewhere closer.

“No, quiero ver si me encuentro con una señora que me debe diez dólares.”  That’s when it hit me, she’s going to pan-handle. “Fuck it,” I thought, “Might as well give this dying man the best cruise he’s ever had.” I turned the AC on high, put a RayMix Cumbia on and turned up the bass. I imagined my little brother riding shotgun and I started crying.

I was grateful for the foam on my sunglasses because they kept my tears from spilling out. My lips, throat and chest trembled occasionally, but I fought to keep my composure. I glanced sideways for a minute and there he sat once more. Jesus Christ, slowly dying — next to me.
I’m dead already, he’s dying, and who’s the lady in the back? She blurted something out but I couldn’t hear her so I turned down the music. She was fuming about how broke they were, and needed those 10 dollars…

“She’s Miss America,” I thought to myself, dragging what’s left of Jesus around — knowing he’ll make her some money. I turned my music back up, but couldn’t ignore her after that. She kept sniffling and I wondered if it was allergies or cocaine? I kept crying quietly, in my glasses — they’re so much smaller than my old prison cell. An image surfaced in my head: It was of an ex-felon in a fancy van with Jesus Christ riding shotgun and Miss America in the back seat, eager to tax the poor — an unbelievable freaking trinity, speeding down I-70, bumping bass, heading to buy tortillas.
I gave her my business card and asked her to please call me when they were done so I could get them back home.

A part of me knew she wasn’t going to — but I hoped for the best. I pulled into Lowes, and ran around to let them out. His sandals kept falling off and I swear — in my mind, they were old leather sandals from back in the day. I put them back on and for proof, paused to snap a picture. A delusional thought deep inside told me these were the feet of Jesus himself! I got him up and on his feet where once more, Miss America took over.

“Tienes diez dólares para ayudarnos?”
I hate when they ask for money…  I hate when we see ourselves as victims.  I gave her a five and some ones. A part of me wanted to talk shit to her, but who am I to judge? I thought about a verse I recall from a life I lived long ago, when I used to believe in God:

Mathew 25:40
“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'”

As they were walking off, I took my sweaty bucket hat off and put it on his head, remembering there’s a blue one sitting on the stands at Sutherlands. I decided to get my leaking front tire fixed at Big-O and walk to Sutherland’s, in an attempt to gather myself. These stupid crying seizures that plague me can last for days.

As I’m pulling around onto Foster, I run into my homie Korrupt. Instead of just waving like we usually do, he starts approaching my van, saying something and signing gestures. I smile and try to act “normal,” waving a peace sign through the window but he opens the passenger door and within seconds starts asking, “What’s wrong?”

He sees right through my sunglasses — somehow. He got in and kept asking, “What’s wrong, what’s wrong?” He reaches out to hug me, still asking what’s wrong, me signaling that it’s nothing but eventually — I broke down and cried openly. I hugged my homie tight and sobbed while cradled in his biceps.
I blurted, “Everything’s wrong, brother. Not for me, but for so many others…”

My experience a few minutes earlier spilled out and somehow, it helped immensely. My crying fit dissipated just like it came.
I parked my van at Big-O and my homie drove me to Sutherlands to buy a hat.

I was bummed out because the blue one was gone, and the closest to them in style was a khaki-colored one that was too tight for my big head. “Damn, I hope Miss America calls me, so I can swap hats with the Jesus she conveniently drags around,” I thought. They never did call; professional panhandlers don’t value relationships much if there’s nothing to squeeze out of ’em…
For the rest of my day, I worked at the Provencio house, fuming about my hat, wondering how I might find those two again…

I came home that night and told Lily about my adventure, including that I’d gone back to Sutherlands to replace my hat, but it wasn’t there anymore.

“Raul, don’t worry, I went to Sutherlands yesterday and bought a hat for my dad after you told me where you got yours at. Here, you can have it,” she said. “It’s in my room.”
There it was, the blue bucket hat I remembered when I opted for the green one instead.
Thank you, God, for being all around me — despite the fact that I have trouble believing…

P.S. Big-O fixed my tire for free.