Feetsprints

One day at work I was asleep under my desk. It was OK, because I put on my schedule that I had a lunch meeting in Coney Island. Then I walked around the office that morning huffing and puffing. "Damn it, I have to go all the way to Coney Island for a meeting. Can you believe that?" I'm not sure anyone cared, just like they didn't care that I slept under my desk, but I want to be responsible. I want to be a team player. So I lie to them.

Anyway, while sleeping I had a dream. I was walking along the beach with Jesus as many scenes from my life flashed in the sky. As I watched the part where Terry Harkin, his brother Mike and I played strip spin the bottle in 4th grade, I also noticed two sets of feetsprints. Actually mine was a shoe print. I was wearing my new Merrill hiking boots which I bought at JDR Shoe Outlet for $54.

Jesus was handsome and black, like Denzel Washington only with holes in his hands and feet.

"Do you get angry that most images of you show a white guy with long hair, my Lord?" I asked of him.

"Look at the scenes from your life, my son. Besides, there probably shouldn't be any graven images of me, I think. I never was quite sure about that one."

"One what?"

"What?"

"What?"

"You said you weren't quite sure about that one. One what?"

"Oh, commandment.”

“Huh?”

“Just watch the scenes from your life.”

So I did as the Lord said, what he commanded, and wondered if that makes eleven commandments. I was unsure whether I could ask him if it was indeed eleven, though I imagine it must actually be something like the 14,688 commandment. I mean if Yahweh orders two Whoppers Junior (thanks Bill Safire) at Burger King does that count as one or two commandments?

Watching my life flash in the sky was pretty darn impressive. I was most touched by the scene of Dad and I sitting in the bar across from Shea Stadium listening to the eighth and ninth inning of the game. We never stayed for the end of the game. They cut off the beer after the seventh.

“Lord, did you have anything to do with that Bukner error in 1986? If so, thanks,” I said. I meant it too.

“I did, as a matter of fact. I was watching the interviews after game 5 and Roger Clemmens said his success was due to his improved slider. Not once did he thank the Lord almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, of all that is seen and unseen, for his Cy Young Award.”

“Black people always thank you first. I saw the Ebony-Jet Vibe Awards to satisfy a multicultural requirement in college.”

“That’s true; they do. That is why I want them in heaven first and thus subject them to poverty, violence, drug use, racism, disease, and a systematic genocide. They are my people. By the way, where did you go to College?” he asked.

“Montclair,” I answered.

“Ah, blessed are the stupid…”

As my life kept flashing before my eyes I was sad because Jesus never copywrited or trademarked all those cool things associated with him. If he had any business sense, he’d be so freakin’ rich right now even Bill Gates would worship him (I think Gates converted to Judaism in a failed attempt to get into Wharton back in 1979).

Instead of being a self-supportive Messiah, each Sunday we all have to kick in a few bucks to keep him in a good pair of sandals. I do get a kick out of my dad, though. He always checks the “Other contribution” on his church envelope and writes in “$500” in big permanent marker. He makes sure to drop it a few times before the offering, giving other people a chance to see what a big shit he is. Week after week he did this. Inside the envelop was a poorly photocopied picture of some lady’s ass. Damn Dad liked that picture. There had to be about 2,000 copies to be found all around our house.

“You didn’t do grunge very well,” He said, commenting on my Nirvana tribute band, Smells Like Teen Hormones.

“I thought all flannel was alike, and my hair wouldn’t lie flat like Eddie Veder.”

“Hmmm.”

Could you beat up superman?”

“Superman isn’t real.”

“So you say, but if he was real, could you beat him up? He had some pretty wild powers.”

“I could beat up Superman.”

“Batman?”

“Road kill.”

“Green Lantern?”

“I’d extinguish him.”

“How about Popeye?”

“He’s not a super hero.”

“Who said anything about superheroes, Lord? I just asked if you could win in a fight. Besides, you just proved yourself to be a stooge who is controlled by DC Comics and Marvel.”

“I’m nobody’s stooge. I’m the Lord.”

We kept walking, our silence interrupted only by Jesus’ commentary on Tom Cruise (he never should have fired his old publicist, and Elron Hubbard is actually a nice guy. Too bad he’s in hell.)

As my life continued to flash in the sky, the scene became the present. I was watching from above as Jesus and I walk side-by-side, holding hands in a non-gay way. It was all in real-time. I guess the FCC doesn’t control Godly visions.

When if first became apparent to me, I groaned from deep within. Disappointment and despair quickly overcame me. What had I been living my life for? Does Jesus not have my back? I needed to say something.

“Lord there is no feetsprints. No feetsprints. You say in the Bible (or was it Reader’s Digest?) that you would stay by my side no matter what, no matter where. You died on the cross for the forgiveness of my sins. I go to church each week and ardently believe garbage men, and not scientists, are the only people on Earth worthy of destroying embryotic stem-cells. And now I see that you have left me, no feetsprints!” I sobbed uncontrollably. My faith was not just shaken, it was smacked around and kicked to the curb.

“My son, you cry for no reason,” saidth the Lord. “The reason you seen no feetsprints, is because we are in the parking lot. There is no sand in the parking lot, hence no feetsprints.”

“Can I have a ride home, Jesus?”

“Sure kid, hop into my Hummer. I have Sirius and XM.”

“It must be good to be Jesus.”

“It is, kid, it is.”