The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy by Duncan Whitehead Page A

flicking from side to side, as it did when he was annoyed.
    “Oh, do come along and say you’ll at least give it a try. A volunteer is worth a thousand pressed men,” pleaded God again.
    “No,” I said.
    “You will do it,” said God. The anger had once again returned to his voice, and I felt slightly intimated.
    “I won’t do it,” I said. There was shakiness in my voice, and I knew he would pick up on it.
    “You will!” shouted God. The outburst startled me, but I remained steadfast.
    “I won’t,” I said calmly. I could not believe I was even having this conversation. Walter sat on the coffee table, his face inches from mine. I could smell the tuna on Walter’s breath.
    “Oh yes, son, oh yes, you will do it. This isn’t the last you’ve heard of this,” and then Walter meowed.

CHAPTER

11
    I KNEW THAT GOD HAD left the moment Walter meowed. That meow signified that the conversation was over, and God had left the building. Walter resumed his sleeping; he curled up in a ball in his favorite position on the sofa. I eyed him for a few moments, half expecting him to raise his head and for the discussion with God to start again. Once I was satisfied that this was not going to happen, I decided the one thing I needed was a drink. I poured myself a neat scotch and drank it quickly. While not unusual for me to take a drink alone at home, it was unusual for me to drink before noon. I felt the burn in my throat as the whiskey descended my throat. I sighed and took a deep breath. I needed that.
    I made a mental note to call my parents. I supposed I owed them an apology. It seemed they were not as mad as I had first thought, however, their failure to inform me of the full facts surrounding my birth until yesterday remained contentious. I held off calling them immediately. The encounter with God that morning had actually taken it out of me. I had a lot to ponder and a few more questions for God. I was not happy that our conversation had ended so abruptly. I was usually not so confrontational, but he had rubbed me the wrong way. I felt his attitude, while maybe acceptable wherever he came from, was not going to work with me. Maybe I had gone too far, and maybe I hadn’t shown the respect due to the creator of the Universe, but the fact that he felt he could waltz into my life and proclaim me his Messiah galled me slightly. He certainly had some nerve.
    I wrote a list of questions in preparation for our next encounter. I felt if I had a direct line to the Almighty, I needed some important questions answered. Despite our conversation that morning ending abruptly, I was sure he would be back in touch once we had both calmed down. I supposed I might have hurt his feelings by turning down his job offer, but I could not see myself as the second coming. There were reasons, many reasons, as to why I was not a suitable candidate to be the Messiah. I imagined the looks of sheer horror on the faces of Christians the world over once they realized their savior was a podgy, Jewish architect from Greenwich Village. In any case, who would ever believe it? I was sure that history was full of pretenders, who claimed to be the second coming of Jesus Christ, and everyone laughed at them and they were incarcerated, or worse. I was sure I would be the least believable of them all despite the fact I actually was the Messiah.
    I was intrigued, though, as to what Armageddon entailed. Did it actually mean the end of the world? Had God passed me crucial information as to the destiny of mankind? I wasn’t sure what my next move should be. Should I call the Pentagon and warn them that the end of the world was nigh?
    I took another mouthful of scotch and closed my eyes. I needed to share my burden. I also needed the views of a third party. In a situation like this, a man turns to one person for advice, the one person who could shed light and reason on all of life’s tribulations, the one person a man can truly rely on—his drinking buddy; mine