by Ida Griesemer
A few weeks ago, my little nephew started signing "Jesus" on all his emails to me. Throwing it in there at the end where his name used to be. The rest of his messages were his usual kid stuff. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the normal 9th grader steam he liked to funnel my way every couple of days. Steven I'm so pissed. Listen to this shit. Cindy sold the Suburu because she heard from Ms. Randall that I got kicked out of bio again. Randall’s got it out for me bad since who knows when. If she were a cannibal I’d get eaten first I swear. Hammerstein the bio teacher got all heated when me and Cross were rolling paper towels all down the halls instead of ripping apart frogs. Sent us downstairs to the tombs and as soon as I saw Randall’s scrunched up raisin face I knew I wouldn’t escape without a call to Cindy. Shit timing too since mom just found all these empty bottles in my closet. Remember that Absolut you got me for the 4th of July? She found it. Nothing left of course but I was saving the bottle to make into something but now I can’t but that shit doesn’t even matter since she sold my car. Said it was too old anyway and that I could practice on the Taco. The truck’s way more fun to drive of course but it’s bullshit cuz we both know damn well who’ll get first dibs on going places once I get my license in five months. Your mean ass sister. Say something to her Steven? I swear I can’t talk to that lady anymore. Jesus.
The first few times I hardly even noticed. I just assumed it was some weird ADD mistake. Something he typed unconsciously because half his attention was on a glittery cross from a pop up ad. It kept showing up though. “Jesus,” always tagged on at the end of his notes, just sitting there like it belonged. Four-wheelers are all yours this weekend Steven. I don’t even care if take your boring new girlfriend instead of me because I’m skipping town. Crossing the border. Nothing between me and Montreal but the middle finger I’m gonna give to the passport inspector when he laughs at my dumb picture. I don’t even have time to write this because they’re loading up the buses right now. Have fun with Charlene Moleface or whatever her name is while I’m soaking in some sweet Canadian sunshine on the student council’s dime. Au revoir, motherfucker. Jesus.
I mentioned it to him a couple times but he never gave any explanation. Hey Bobby, I wrote. What’s the deal with this “Jesus” trip you’re on? I know it’s hard to believe the first time a 10th grader lets you up her shirt, but last time I checked that doesn’t count as a miracle. If you’re looking for god you should meet my new blender. Milkshakes like you wouldn’t believe. Bring your mom over here on Sunday - just make sure you’re not driving. I just put in a new fence and I’ll be damned if your delusional ass swerves into it again because you think a chipmunk can’t take care of himself. See you soon, kiddo. Steven.
He never answered my question. Kept writing me, kept the “Jesus” signoff, kept ignoring my demand for him to shed a little light on what kind of televangelist late night t.v. bullshit was getting to his soft head. So finally I called up Cindy, my sister.
“Hey Cindy,” I said, “Was there a sale on holy water at Costco?”
“Steven? What are you talking about? Last time I went to Costco was when you dragged me there for that phony sushi knife demonstration that ended up being a white guy in a kimono standing behind a George Forman. You know I get my Pepsi at BJ’s.”
“Your kid is on some biblical tip. My inbox keeps filling up with love letters from the son of god.”
“Huh? From who?”
“Jesus.”
“You’re kidding me. How did he get your email address?”
“Cindy, wha-“
“Goddamn. I can’t stop Bobby from writing you or from doing whatever the hell he does on that net, and as long as you’re not giving him ideas about how to sneak into The Wrap or whatever nasty new strip joint they put in since those Christians arson-ed the shit outta the old place, your little man-to-nephew correspondence is fine with me. But if he’s gonna start giving your address out to whoever strolls by – I don’t even know what to do about that. Goddamn net rascals. Love letters you said? From Jesus? What the hell’s he doing loving you? Have you even met that punk before?”
“Holy shit, Cindy, lay of the crack. I’m talking about Bobby, your nut job of a kid, putting ‘Jesus’ at the bottom of all his emails, and you’re off ranting like the dead prophet is a kid who just moved to the neighborhood.”
“He did, Steven! A whole family of creeps moved in right down the street. The kind of people who all it takes is one glance and you can just see the meth lab they’ve got in their basement. One look at her face – at Jesus’s mother, I don’t even know that woman’s name – one look and I’m picturing test tubes and Sudafed and bathtubs full of glowing liquid. She’s kinda cross-eyed, maybe that’s it. And their kid, Jesus – who the hell names their kid that? Drug addicts, that’s who – he’s been living here two weeks and he’s already lounging around my living room like it’s a goddamn tackle shop. He’s got something Bobby wants, I just know it. He’ll come through here and Bobby’ll feed him Pringles like we’re living in the chip factory. Kids keep cleaning out my cupboards. And I’m too scared to kick ‘em out cause who knows what kind of shit they’d get into at Jesus’s place. Probably trip and fall into a meth vat and come home looking like he’s aged sixty years with three teeth and nothing but a few gray hairs on his head. Little Bobby wouldn’t even see it coming.”
“Well this is a goddamn relief,” I said. “I thought I was gonna have to sit that kid down and talk him out of joining some psycho cult. Nikes, Koolaid, I was picturing all that shit. Now that it turns out he just has some little boy crush on the new kid, I can rest easy. You two coming over here on Sunday? I tivo-ed Alien.”
“Ah, fuck. Yeah I think we can make it. Was supposed to cover brunch for Jenny but I’ll get out of it. This week’s been too long to spend my day off serving waffles. He’s using that kid’s name now? Really? This is a goddamn travesty, Steven. Bobby was our grandfather’s name. And I don’t care what a drunk he was – he was a noble drunk. He could be six bourbons deep and still tell a joke that didn’t just crack you up, but also had some twisted wisdom thrown in that made you shiver a little bit. Like he was tickling you with one hand and scratching his nails down a chalkboard with the other. You remember that shit. You loved him just like I did. And now Bobby thinks nothing of giving that up? To play like he’s some kid he just met? Throwing it all away for Jesus? That’s fucked up, Steven. I don’t know about you, but that feels pretty fucked up to me.”
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