Jesus Christ Bobby! (Short Story) Read online

  Jesus Christ, Bobby!

  By Noah Weiler

  Bobby didn't want to go to church today, but his mother was adamant. So, in that sense, it was just like every other day.

  It used to be they only went to church on Sundays, but now it was every day. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Bobby never wants to go but always ends up going. Because of his mother.

  The drive to church was nauseating. There was no talking but plenty of noise. The noise came from the engine as Bobby’s mother forced the vehicle through intersections at impossible speeds, taking turns at sharp angles. The noise came from the tires as they painfully left parts of themselves behind. The noise came from the back seat, where broken things flopped from side to side, like skiers going down a slope.

  They arrived a few minutes late. His mother parked the vehicle by plowing it into a curb. Bobby put a hand on the dash but not in time to avoid thumping into it with his head.

  “Ow,” he said, and his mother said, “Come on, we’re late.”

  His mother was halfway across the parking lot before Bobby had managed to scramble out of the car. He slammed the door and ran after her, rubbing his forehead.

  They sat up front. Not in the very front but, you know, pretty close to the very front. Right behind Mr. Russell. Mr. Russell teaches Sunday school - not just on Sundays, but every single day - and picks his nose often, whether or not people are watching. He wipes his multi-colored boogers on the seat beside him. His suit is always brown. No one ever sits beside Mr. Russell.

  The sermon was boring. Same as always: the minister gets all worked up. Like he's scolding a child. Like a bad report card came in the mail. He sweats a lot and before long his forehead begins to shine. Sometimes the minister will snap his head back while shouting and you can see the sweat fly off. He sometimes uses words Bobby doesn't understand. Words like 'beseech' and 'oposeth' and 'exalteth'. Not that Bobby's usually listening. Not that Bobby really cares. He wouldn't even be there if it weren't for his mother. He'd be at home watching television. Or outside playing hide and seek with the girl next door. She's older than Bobby and her name is Rachael. She's pretty. She usually wears dresses but when they play hide and seek she wears jeans.

  Bobby's mother will sometimes ruffle his hair to make sure he's awake. He hates it. Of course he's always awake because the minister is yelling at everyone. Who could sleep through that?

  Behind the minister is a wall with a bunch of candles and flowers and higher up on the wall is Jesus. Jesus is big and tall and dead and nailed to a cross. There's a prickly vine of thorns wrapped around his head and a huge gouge in his side, just below the ribcage. A rusty-colored cloth diaper is wrapped around his waist, covering his privates. There's nothing holding the cloth in place, no knots or clasps; it just sits there all on its own. Bobby often wonders if Jesus had a big penis. Bobby hopes to have a big penis someday.

  Today was the same as every other day until they passed the money tray around. They pass the tray up and down every isle, and people voluntarily put money in it. The tray is deep. Bobby’s mother always puts five dollars in the tray. One day she didn't have any money and everyone had to wait while she wrote a check; while everyone waited, Bobby snuck a twenty dollar bill from the tray and crumpled it carefully into his palm. But today she had money and no one had to wait.

  Today, as Bobby's mother passed the tray to the next person, Jesus began to scream. It was unexpected and Bobby jumped in his seat and let out a little squeak of surprise. The congregation as a whole snapped awake in their seats and inhaled sharply. From the corner of his eye Bobby saw his mother twitch and lose her grip on the money tray. Saw her launch it, in fact, into the air, where it tumbled forward, end over end, in a steep arc, glinting under the fluorescents as it dumped bills and change and what appeared to be a gold watch all over Mr. Russell’s head, shoulders, and booger-encrusted seat.

  The minister himself let out a holler of surprise. He made several noises that were not quite words as he whirled around and lost his balance and stumbled sloppily down the steps from the pulpit, bonking his head against the podium on the way down. “Ow,” he said into the microphone. His voice boomed from the church speakers. He landed hard on his butt and scrambled away from...well, Jesus.

  Jesus Christ.

  Jesus trembled on the wall. His eyes, bulging and bloodshot, shifted slowly from left to right, straining to see everyone. He looked incredulous. He looked insane. He looked lost. He glared at Bobby. He swiveled his head and glared at someone else. Without any type of warning He screamed again, a horrible high-pitched wail, and it was terrifying. He tossed His head back and slammed it against the cross. A spray of blood erupted from beneath His crown of thorns, spattering the wall behind Him and flowing into His eyes and mouth, at which point He stopped screaming and began to gag. From the hole in His side, a small stream of blood began to snake down his leg and pool onto the carpet.

  All at once there was a flurry of activity as the congregation remembered to breathe. There were shrieks and shouts and curses as families jumped up from their seats and scrambled toward the exits, husbands trampling their wives and mothers shoving their children aside. Jesus began to thrash on the cross, twisting His body and pulling against His restraints. After a moment, Bobby realized Jesus was trying to free Himself.

  Mr. Russell turned around and said, "Bobby."

  Bobby peeled his attention from Jesus and focused on the face in front of him.

  "Yes, sir," Bobby said. Mr. Russell’s face was both calm and severe.

  "Listen here, son. I need you to run to my classroom. In the closet behind my desk there is a plastic box. I need you to bring me that plastic box. I need you to run and I need you to do it right now. Do not listen to your mother."

  "Yes, sir," Bobby said, and got up and ran toward the foyer. Almost immediately, someone shoved him from behind and he nearly fell. Bobby turned and kicked out blindly, connecting with what felt like an ankle. A blurred shape tumbled and went down. Bobby’s mother screamed his name and he didn't listen to her. His forehead still hurt from thumping it on the dash.

  On the way to Mr. Russell's classroom, Bobby thought about his next door neighbor and about her legs in particular. He’d only ever seen her legs from the knees down. He thought there must be a way to get her to wear a dress for hide and seek. He also thought about burning ants with a magnifying glass. The sun was out and it would be a good day for it.

  When Bobby reached Mr. Russell’s classroom, he paused just inside the doorway, having momentarily forgotten his purpose. The classroom smelled of chalk powder. Bobby had tried eating chalk once and had found it disgusting. The colored chalk tasted the same as the white chalk. Ants, however, weren’t half bad, if cooked properly. And dog food. Dog food was good.

  There was another scream and Bobby said, “Oh, yeah...”

  The plastic box was right where Mr. Russell had said it would be. It was blue on the bottom and yellow on top and looked like a lunchbox. Bobby checked it carefully for boogers and found none. He picked it up by the handle and started back toward the foyer. The lunchbox was heavier than he'd expected, and it hurt when it banged against his thigh.

  There was a tremendous clatter from beyond the foyer and several men began shouting at once. When Bobby rounded the corner he saw that Jesus had managed to tear loose from the wall, and had apparently taken the cross with Him.

  Bobby sprinted up the center aisle and when he reached the pulpit saw a flustered Mr. Russell wrestling with Jesus on the carpet. Jesus had torn loose from the cross and was kicking wildly and throwing elbows while Mr. Russell held Him by the neck with both hands. Blood was everywhere. Jesus’ screams
had become gurgles and His face an unhealthy shade of blue as He struggled to breathe. Mr. Russell, showing a surprising quickness, slipped an arm around Jesus’ neck and squeezed hard, grimacing with the effort. Thick veins throbbed on Mr. Russell's forehead and he was covered in sweat. Change had fallen out of his pockets and lay scattered on the carpet. Mostly nickels and pennies, Bobby saw. Several men had come to Mr. Russell's aid and were struggling to get a hold of Jesus' arms and legs.

  "Bobby!" Mr. Russell hollered. "Give me the hammer, son!"

  Bobby blinked and looked down at the lunchbox. He fumbled with the tiny latch and it sprung open, dumping a large rusty hammer onto the carpet. It was big and dangerous-looking and after a moment Bobby saw that it was not rusty at all but covered in dried blood. He picked it up gingerly, grasping it with the tips of his fingers, and made his way up the steps and handed it to Mr. Russell. Jesus caught Bobby's eye and gave him a savage, madman glare. Bobby nodded politely and made his way back down the steps, wiping his hands on his pants.

  After a long, admirable struggle, Jesus began to lose His gumption. Bobby watched as the fight slowly left Him. His arms and legs stopped flailing. The fire in His eyes dulled, became less hard and less focused. Seizing on the opportunity, Mr. Russell and the other men quickly wrangled Jesus on to the cross and began to nail Him back to it. Mr. Russell’s arm went up and down with the hammer, fast and efficient, the pounding reverberating beneath Bobby’s feet. Occasionally Mr. Russell would miss with the hammer, slamming it into the meaty flesh of Jesus’ palm instead of the head of the nail. Jesus winced but did not cry out. He'd gone through this type of thing before, Bobby knew, but that had been a long time ago. Bobby thought it must hurt pretty badly, being nailed to a cross, though probably not as bad as the first time.

  Through all the wrestling and fighting, all the punching and kicking, all the choking and nailing, the diaper had somehow not fallen off Jesus’ privates.

  By the time they'd finished, Mr. Russell's suit was a darker shade of brown. It had taken a long time. Most everyone had left the church by then; a few stragglers wandered aimlessly through the aisles, staring numbly at one another. At one point the front doors swooshed open and Bobby watched as a mother and father walked in, tiptoed carefully down the center aisle, peeled the motionless, rumpled forms of their children from the floor, and hurried quietly back toward the exit.

  Up in the pulpit, all of the men had blood on their hands and faces. They breathed heavily. They slumped down to the carpet for a while and tried to catch their breath. Abruptly, Bobby saw that one of the men was in fact a woman, Mrs. Quinn, who had a very pretty voice and really belted it out when they sang hymns. Her blond hair was black with blood and grime. Her blouse had been torn open and one of her breasts partially hung out, rising and falling with her breathing. She saw Bobby staring but made no move to cover herself.

  Jesus was quiet again. His eyes were closed and he didn't seem to be bleeding anymore. His mouth looked a little mean, though. He was showing a few teeth. Bobby's dog does that when he's eating and Bobby tries to play with him. Bobby's dog's name is Sam. Bobby's mother thinks Sam is a stupid name for a dog. Sometimes Bobby doesn't listen to his mother.

  Mr. Russell came down the steps and ruffled Bobby's hair. It wasn't annoying like when his mother did it.

  "Jesus Christ," Mr. Russell said. "What a pain in the ass."

  “Yes, sir," Bobby said. It was hard to see Mr. Russell's face through all the blood.

  Mr. Russell sighed as he bent over and began picking up the money that had spilled from the money tray.

  Table of Contents

  Start

 

 

  Noah Weiler, Jesus Christ, Bobby! (Short Story)

  Thanks for reading the books on GrayCity.Net