Jumping Jesus and the Catholic Block
by Mike E. Purfield

My sister, Glenn, knocked on the door at 10:30 that Sunday morning, like she always did. Then, with a key I wished I never gave her, she entered my apartment.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," she screamed joyously.

Right there was a perfect example of how my older sister didn't know me. I've been up working on my new novel since 7 A.M. I had a deadline that Friday coming up.

I sat at the kitchen table with my coffee and paper and watched my sister place her large, cheap bag on the couch and take of her coat to reveal dead people's clothes. Glenn never bought clothes since she changed , instead she collected for the poor, you know, clothes people had given away after their family member died, and then picked her wardrobe from there before she handed them over to the church.

Glenn stepped into the kitchen and stopped short, staring at my clothes.

"You are not going to wear that today to Church are you?" she asked.

"Good morning to you, too," I said while sipping my coffee. "Just so you know, this outfit cost over thirty dollars. Will it insult the church if I wear clothes I paid for?"

Confusion covered her face.

"I swear, you talk in a completely different language.

That makes the two of us, I thought, but should have said.

"You want any coffee?" I sighed.

"Yes, thank you."

She sat at the table, really enjoying me serving her. I poured a cup for her.

"Tippy top," she urged as I poured.

I bit my tongue (the second time in five minutes). Glenn always said that whenever we went out to eat. She felt that the restaurant community was ripping her off when ever she ordered a beverage and did not fill it to the top. When Glenn paid for a glass of liquid, she expected the full glass. I guess even your own sister can rip you off, huh?

I sat down at the table and watched her sip the coffee. She then looked at me.

"You all right?" Glenn asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

"You look...troubled. Miserable."

I sighed and said, "Well, I'm a single white girl in Jersey City who is looming towards their thirty-fifth birthday with nothing to look forward to. All that in consideration, I think I have the right to look a little miserable."

"You don't have enough God and Jesus in your life," she insisted.

"Glenn, please."

"Also, it's those terrible books you write. All that death and demonology. Horrible violence. No wonder you're miserable."

I stood up and took her coffee to the sink.

"Oh, look at the time, we're gonna be late for Mass."

Glenn looked at her watch and agreed.

***

I kind have liked Saint Anthony's Church. It was quiet and peaceful. I didn't always listen to what the priest had to say, I didn't sing, but I thought a lot. I had good thoughts, often coming up with great bits of dialogue or scenes for the current novel I was working on. I guess in some way, worship was good for me.

Then there was Glenn who sat next to me. She always broke my concentration. When I stood or sat next to her, she did not sing with the rest of the congregation; she screamed, desperately trying to be heard over the others. This usually carried on through out the Mass; her "Amen's" and "Also With You's" could be heard down the block. Damn, even the priest up at the altar looked around to see who it was.

"Come up with me for Communion," Glenn said, pulling my arm.

"Would you let go? You know how I feel about that crappy wafer they serve," I snapped quietly.

Glenn shot me an angry look, matching mine.

"Not enough God in you," she snapped back.

"More like not enough cock," I said.

To say her face had a look of shock would be an understatement. Glenn released my arm and went up to the altar. I then laughed quietly to myself.

After Mass, I hung out on the steps outside and smoked a cigarette while Glenn talked to Father Paul and his helpers inside. I couldn't wait to get home and away from Glenn. Don't get me wrong. I loved my sister and I felt a bit sorry for her. She was not always into the church stuff; I don't think anyone really is. This may sound bizarre but she was a successful college professor over at Rutgers. She taught a popular English Lit class. In fact, she was the one who pushed my writing the most, always encouraging me and reviewing my pages.

Then one day...I'm not even sure what happened. She quit her job, started working low wage jobs at supermarkets and retail stores, and took an interest in religion.

I had a theory. About two years ago our mother died from Leukemia. She suffered for years but never told anyone. I didn't find out until Glenn found my mother dead in her bed. My mother's doctor told Glenn and I at the hospital. Glenn didn't look too surprised. I think she found out earlier or my mother told her. My mother's death must have messed her up. Made sense, right?

Well, maybe. Like I said, it was just a theory.

"Okay. I'm ready," Glenn called out, coming down the stairs of the church.

I stubbed out my cigarette and flicked it on the street.

"You shouldn't be smoking in front of the church," Glenn said. "You look like a prostitute."

"Oh, please. I wish," I said, walking down with her.

Glenn drove me home in her crappy Ford four door.

"I signed you up for the Festival this summer," Glenn announced, smiling at me.

"What?" I asked.

"You know. The Saint Anthony's Festival. We're going to operate one of the stands. I think the bottle toss."

"And you didn't think to ask me?"

"No, of course not."

"And why?"

"Wow, you and the questions. Because you would say no. You always say no to helping out the church or to things that are good for your soul. We have to support them so that the neighborhood has spirituality. If there is no church, then Godlessness will run all over these streets. Where would we pray? Where would we worship?"

I took a deep breath, trying so hard not to scream. My head pounded. It was torture. I managed to say, "Fine."

Finally, she stopped at my building. I kissed her cheek and thanked her for the ride.

Glenn smiled and wished me a happy day.

***

I worked on my novel for a few hours, then I went food shopping. When I came back, there was something left in front of my door. Glenn was popular in my neighborhood as well as my building. She collected food and clothes from people and then (after she took what she needed) gave them to the church to give to the poor. Since they all knew she was my sister, and Glenn lived in North Arlington (20 minutes away by car), they dropped their donations in front of my door. People left all kinds of things: garlic shampoo, old lingerie, broken toys; but this one took the cake.

A jar of pickles.

I opened my door and brought my bags to the kitchen. I then went back outside, picked up the jar of pickles, and placed it on my coffee table. After I put my food away, I gave Glenn a call. She wasn't home so I left her a message abut the pickles and how she can come by tomorrow morning to pick them up.

***

Sunday nights were not the same since The X-Files left television. I had no interest in The Sopranos and there was nothing good on the 600 channels I paid the cable company for every month. I finally settled on The Pet Psychic on Animal Planet.

I fell asleep.

***

I tapping woke me up. I was still on the couch and the television was still on Animal Planet. I looked around the room to see where the tapping noise was coming from. The pickle jar on the coffee table was tilting from side to side as if something was trying to get out.

Standing up, I backed away from the jar, fearing it was going to explode and shoot shards of glass in my face. Jesus, I though, did some psycho leave a bomb in the jar for Glenn to open. I always thought that her recruiting for God was going to attract a nut.

Then the jar stopped.

I had to get it out of my apartment. I went into the kitchen and slipped on a pair of oven mitts. I wrapped my hands around the pickle jar, extending my arms, and headed for the door.

The lid shook.

I panicked. I had no idea what to do. If I dropped it, would it explode? If I ran to the door, would I even make it?

The lid flipped off.

I pointed the jar at the wall, closed my eyes, and turned my face away. I felt a great weight release from the jar. Something heavy slammed against my wall.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a man on the floor. He was about my age, maybe a few years younger. He wore a dirty white robe and sandals. His brown hair was long, nappy, and dirty, matching the beard on his face. On the floor next to him was a...a pogo stick? He sat up and rubbed his head where it hit the wall.

I then looked at the hole in my wall and quickly forgot where he came from.

"Look what you did to my wall," I screamed at him.

Rubbing his head, the man looked back at the wall, then looked at me. He smiled.

"Hello, my child. Sorry about that."

"Buddy, if I'm your child the you must have been dipping your wick in the wax when you were two."

The man flinched, confused.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Ahh, not hell. Who in heaven? I am Jesus Christ!"

I laughed and sat on my couch.

"Yeah, you're Jesus Christ and I'm having a dream," I stated to myself. "I'm just feeling guilty about being mad at Glenn."

The man who claimed to be Jesus Christ stood up and hopped on his pogo stick. He bounced up and down, smiling like a loon.

"You're Jesus Christ?" I asked.

"Yes, my child."

"The guy who died on the cross?"

"Well, sort of. It's a long story. I'll tell you about it later. My publicist thought that dying on the cross was more dramatic than what really happened. The truth is always so much more embarrassing. But, yes, the same man."

"Oh, yeah, if you are Jesus, then what the hell are you doing in a pickle jar and bouncing on a pogo stick? But most importantly, how the hell did you end up on my doorstep?"

"Well, isn't it obvious? I live in the pickle jar and have you ever been on a pogo stick? They're a lot of fun," he said, bouncing up and down. "But I'm afraid I can't tell you how I ended up on your door step. Someone must have placed...placed...me...there."

His eyes moved off me and his smile fractured.

"You all right?" I asked him, placing the pickle jar on the table and standing up.

"Yes...No," Jesus said. "Should the room be spinning?"

His eyes closed and his body went limp in mid jump. His feet slipped off the footholds and the top of the pogo stick smacked the bottom of his jaw. Jesus fell backwards and landed on the floor. The stick dropped onto my coffee table and landed on the floor.

"Damn, that had to hurt," I said, kneeling down next to him.

There was some blood from his mouth. I opened his jaw and noticed it was coming from his tongue; he must have bit it. Looking through his hair, I noticed an open bruise where he crashed into the wall. He must have fainted from a concussion or something.

I thought about whether I should call an ambulance, but I wasn't sure if that would be useful. I mean I had to explain who he was. Either people would think it was a big deal, or they would lock me up in the nut house. Also, he was Jesus, did he really need a doctor? Maybe he could just heal himself.

So, I dragged his heavy ass to my bedroom and on the bed. I cleaned and bandaged his head wound. He breathed evenly and didn't make a sound. He should be all right.

I closed the door to my bedroom and then walked back to the couch. I stretched out, tired as hell, and eventually fell asleep, wondering what to do about Jesus in the morning.

***

The sound of squeaky springs woke me up the next morning. I opened my eyes and saw Jesus jumping on his pogo stick between the couch and the coffee table.

Okay, it wasn't a dream.

"What is with you and that stick?" I asked, annoyed. I was not a morning person.

"Do you want to try it? It's a lot of fun."

"You're weird," I said, sitting up, trying not to touch him with my legs.

"Thank you so much for taking care of my head. I would deem you a Saint if the quota wasn't filled."

"Quota? Oh gee, that sucks." I realized what a bitch I was, then said, "You're welcome. You feel alright?"

"Yes. Thank you. I do that often, hitting my head whenever the jar opens. I have to do something about that."

"You need to see a doctor or something?"

"No. I'm fine. Bouncing back, as you can see," Jesus said, motioning to the stick.

I arched my brows and faked a laugh through my crankiness. "Heh, heh, great."

I walked into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Jesus bounced behind me and stopped at the kitchen table.

"Are you alright?" he asked me.

"I guess. I'm just not a morning person, don't take it personally."

After I switched on the brewer, I turned to the jumping Jesus. He stared at me with the greatest concern.

"What is it?" I asked.

"You are not a believer," Jesus pointed out. "There are more and more of you every day."

"Well, that church of you made doesn't help."

He rolled his eyes.

"That damn organization does more harm than good," Jesus complained. "I had nothing to do with it. Roman Catholic. The Romans wanted me dead and then all of a sudden they want to finance my cause. Back in the day, I just walked over to the ghetto and socialized with people. I helped them find happiness in themselves, not in some house of worship. You can worship my father anywhere."

There was a lot of contempt on his face.

"So, I'm not going to hell because I don't support or worship in the church?"

"Oh, my. No. The church has nothing to do with heaven or hell," Jesus said. "It all depends what you have in your heart. Like right now, if you were to die, you would go straight to heaven."

A warm tingly feeling came over me. I must have blushed.

"Really?" I asked.

"Really. You are a good person. I know it. My father knows it. If you don't believe yourself, then believe the bandage you made for my head."

"Maybe I believed all along, and just didn't realize it," I mumbled.

"Hm, maybe," Jesus said.

There was a knock at my door.

"Helloooooo! Good Morning!"

"Shit," I said. "My sister."

I moved around Jesus at the entrance of the kitchen.

"Where's your jar?" I asked, panicking.

"Um, I think on the table."

The lock to the door opened.

"It's me. Glenn. Your sister!"

"How nice. Company," Jesus said, bouncing around to face the door.

"Fuck," I snapped. "Quick, into the bedroom."

I pushed Jesus on his pogo stick down the hall and to the bedroom.

"What's wrong," Jesus asked. "I'd love to meet your sister."

"No, no, no. A very bad idea," I said.

"Is anyone home," Glenn called out from the living room.

I pushed Jesus into my bedroom.

"Stay here and don't say a word," I ordered.

He frowned and shrugged his shoulders, bouncing away on the metal stick.

I closed the door and turned towards the kitchen.

"Yeah, be right there," I said.

I could hear the springs of Jesus bouncing in the bedroom. I peaked my head into the room and snapped, "Would you cut the shit and get off that damn thing? You could wake the dead."

"Well, actually I could wake..."

I closed the door on him and walked to the kitchen. Glenn fixed herself a cup of coffee and turned to me. I stood by the threshold and caught my breath.

"So, what brings ya by?" I asked.

"You left me a message, said you had stuff for me to bring to the church."

"Oh, that's right. If you don't mind I'm gonna keep it for myself. Actually, I already ate it so I can't give it back."

"Oh," Glenn said, disappointed. Then she looked at me. "Why are you sweating like that? Are you feeling ill?"

"Sweating. Oh, I was just masturbating."

"Oh, stop that," Glenn said, holding her ears like her favorite monkey statue. "I did not hear that."

I laughed.

"You know you can go to hell for indulging in yourself like that."

"Says who?"

"God. Jesus Christ. The church."

I stopped laughing. Glenn was pissing me off. I wanted to take her into my bedroom and prove to her that there was a spot in heaven for me. But I remained cool.

"Okay, whatever," I said.

"So there is nothing for me here?"

"No. Sorry to drag you out here."

"Fine," Glenn said, standing up and taking her coat off the back of the chair. "I guess I'll go to work."

Squeaking came from my bedroom. I cringed. Glenn released her coat and listened.

"What is that?" she asked.

"I don't hear anything."

She moved past me and stood in the hall.

"It's coming from your bedroom," she observed.

"No, it's not."

"What do you have in there?"

"Nothing."

"What God forsaken devilry do you have in your bedroom?"

"Nothing. Jesus... I mean. You know, I don't like the tone you are taking. Why do you always have to brand me to evil? Why can't you see me as a good person?"

"Do you have a man tied up in there again?" she asked, completely ignoring everything I said.

"What? No."

"My God, you have a man tied up in there and he's trying to get out," Glenn said, truly worried.

She walked down the hall and headed for the bedroom door. I chased after her and grabbed her arm. She shook me off and stopped at my door.

"Glenn, please. Don't."

She opened the door all the way.

Jesus Christ smiled at her, bouncing up and down on his pogo stick.

"Hello," Jesus said.

Glenn screamed.

Jesus screamed.

I screamed.

My sister then fell back and landed on the floor, out cold.

"Oh, Jesus," I said.

He hopped out into the hall.

"Yes?"

"What? Oh, nothing."

"Was that your sister?"

"Yes. Probably one of your biggest fans."

He smiled and said, "Really."

"Well, sort of."

"Let's wake her up. Maybe she wants my autograph."

"What, you gonna sign her bible?"

"Oh, no. I hate that damn book. So inaccurate."

I sighed, wondering what was going to happen now. Would Glenn be changed by what she saw? Would she even remember?

I had no idea.

"Listen, can you get off that thing for a few minutes and help me put her on the bed?"

"Yes, of course."

***

Jesus picked Glenn up by her feet, and I took her shoulders. We placed her on the bed. I moved to leave the room, expecting Jesus to follow me, but instead he stood by Glenn's head. He placed his hand on her forehead and mumbled some words. When he finished, he smiled and left the room behind me.

Out in the hall, he hopped back onto his stick.

"What was that about in there?" I asked.

"Just saying a prayer for her."

"Okay, listen. You have to leave."

Jesus frowned.

"But I just arrived. I can make your life so much better. Actually, I only just started."

Just started? Yeah, right.

"I'm sure you could make it great. But I'm afraid what kind of damage you could do to my sister, and hiding you on her is just too much work."

"Oh, I see."

I walked to the coffee table and picked up the pickle jar. He bounced up behind me as I turned to him. I took the lid off and peered into the jar. There was a black void, certainly no pickles.

"This doesn't look too comfortable," I said.

"Are you joking? It's the best jar they ever made. Judas is so jealous of this jar. He keeps asking me to trade with him."

I laughed; it felt good. The last 24 hours have been so surreal.

"Once you are inside is there anyplace you want me to drop you off at?" I asked.

"Oh, just leave me with someone who could use me in their life."

"Alright. Well, it was nice meeting you."

"And it was a pleasure meeting you, Elizabeth. Keep up the good work for me."

I held the jar out and pointed it at Jesus. He hopped up into the air and tilted back. He then shot into the jar feet first. Once he was all the way in, I placed the lid on.

***

It didn't take me long to find someone in Jersey City who could use Jesus in their life. I went to Journal Square and found a homeless guy that I saw whenever I passed through there. He was tall and skinny and quite hairy. He sat by the Kiss 'N' Ride and shook. I walked up to the man and handed him the jar. It didn't look like he really saw me, but he smiled at the jar.

"Be sure to open it when you are alone," I told him.

I thought he heard me. He nodded slightly.

I went back to my apartment and found Glenn in the kitchen, sitting at the kitchen table and sipping her coffee.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

"I had to run an errand. I wasn't gone long," I lied. "How are you?"

"I feel so wonderful," Glenn said.

"I was worried you hurt your head. Do you remember what happened?"

"I fainted, right?"

"Yeah, you did."

I took my coat off and hung it on the back of my chair, then sat. I studied Glenn's face, wondering what was going on behind it.

"Maybe you're exhausted," I said. "Working too hard."

"No. Not at all," she said. Then Glenn leaned forward. "It was something else. I had a vision. I saw Jesus Christ."

"You did?"

"Yes. He was in your bedroom and he told me something."

"Um, what did he say?"

"He said, 'Glenn, don't worry about your sister, Elizabeth' Then he said, 'There is a place in heaven for her right between you and your mother.'"

Tears dripped out of her eyes, but her face kept smiling.

I then realized what Jesus meant by starting to make my life better. I reached over and took Glenn's hand.

"Thank you," I said, and smiled.

©2003 Mike Purfield

Mike Purfield is the author of DIRTY BOOTS, OWEL AND OSMOSIS, and STEREO SANCTITY. Send all threats to: www.authorsden.com/mikeepurfield