One.2

I shower and I dress as I do each day—wearing the whole armor of God. Having my loins girt about the truth and putting on the breastplate of righteous; putting on the helmet of salvation, wielding the shield of faith and the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God, and oh yes, my glasses. As I look out of my apartment window and witness the daily chaos I feel small, helpless. Or perhaps, more realistically, it’s the feeling of being under whelmed that is doing me in and I think that maybe a prayer will steady me, although I doubt it. This one way relationship with God has grown old to be honest. It seems that I do all the talking and I’m tired of hearing my own voice, especially when I’m begging. I tell myself, “I’ll make it,” and unfortunately I know that it’s true.

Yes, I know that I’ll make it but what I’m not so sure about is whether it’s faith or resignation that makes me believe this—devotion or doubt. I’m 30-years-old, that landmark year for Jesus when he decided to go out and preach. Those 40 days and 40 nights in the desert half starving to death and being tempted by the Devil being taken to the top of temple to look upon the world. At least Jesus traveled. I’ve been to Iowa and drove through Wisconsin and meanwhile, I’m still waiting to be tempted by my next door neighbor, Esme. I need an event, something to assure me that this is my true calling. I’m tired to being the one who has to carry the cross around the baseball field. I need a sign, you know, just a hint like if God would sneeze or I’d meet a homeless person that was really an angel in disguise or, you know, if I could get a date.

My first temptation came in Becky Nelson’s basement at the age of six. We sat on an old sofa and kissed until her father came downstairs and mentioned something about cleaning house. It was my first time fleeing. In high school, when I became the state fleeing champion, I could look back upon that summer afternoon in Becky’s basement when a bit of pride. Still, it seems that I’ve never overcome being in the basement in one sense or another. After my first go around at college when I became a comedian for a short while, I was always the first guy on, the cellar dweller, competing with the $4.95 fish special for the audience’s attention. There always seemed to be a Becky in the crowd and how I tried to seduce each and every one of those girls from towns like Davenport, Cedar Rapids, Omaha or Rapid City. Seduce them, bring them back to my cheap hotel room and kiss on the couch until their father’s came to get them.

As I get ready to leave, I wait for the sound of Esme’s door opening. I have been under her spell for the entire seven month’s that she’s lived here. She is broodingly beautiful; an oval, pale face cropped so neatly by her black bobbed hair—so perfectly framed, if only I could hang her on my wall. I wait twice a week, alternating days so as not be too obvious. Her boyfriend, who is one of those squarely-built guys who wears his ball cap backwards, has thwarted my attempts on more than a few occasions.

I hear her rustling about her door, wait and then finally open mine, fumble my keys for a delay until she appears in the dimly lit hallway.

“Hi, Alexander.”

“Oh, hi Esme. How are you?”

She makes a face, thinking. “Okay I guess.”

“Really? Just okay? You know I’m always miserable and then if something good happens I work my way up to being a little less miserable.”

She smiles and Jesus it’s like a flame when she smiles. “Interesting approach. What are you doing today besides saving souls?”

“I don’t actually save souls,” I explain. “I just lease them out with an option to buy. I’ve got a meeting this morning actually and then I’m visiting old people at Martin Luther Home, which is always a lovely experience.’

We’re walking down the stairs and if I had any courage at all I’d ask her to marry me right then and there. Right beside the cracked drywall and the coffee-stain on the carpet.

“Don’t you like old people?”

“Not so much. They’re like big wrinkled kids who think that because they’re old they can do whatever they want. Honestly, when I get too old and start drooling on myself and you know, can’t hear anything and am all hunched over looking like the goddamned Hunchback of Norte Dame, I hope someone has enough sense to take me out to the woods and shoot me.”

She’s smiling yet, concerned. “Did it ever occur to you that you may be in the wrong profession?”

“Once, twice maximum.” I pause for dramatic affect. “Old people are fine it’s just I don’t want to be the last person they see before they die. Every Thursday when I walk into that place there’s always that pressure weighing on me that I may be the last living person they see and I don’t even want to be the last living person I see before I die, so….”

Esme was laughing as we stepped outside. Her laughter spilling into the cool air and that laughter was like a wave I felt I could ride to some unknown happiness I’ve never known. “Good Lord, Alexander. You always make me smile. I swear I can be having the worst day and you can make me forget about it.”

I nervously rubbed my hands together, “Well, there’s not many us out there but I do what I can.”

And then, we parted. Her towards the university and me six-blocks toward the church, still riding that wave of her laughter like some crazy magic carpet. That was it. A sign from God—a beautiful young woman laughing on a cool, crisp morning. God had created woman and your damn right—it was good.