Chapter 37

The snow was so white. Jesus had never noticed how white the snow was until it began falling like a blanket on the concretely, the tiny snowflakes covering the ground with an unearthly pure sheen. Jesus didn’t know how long he had wandered that concrete jungle, like he was impervious to the cold. He just wanted to feel something. He wanted to feel something other than this symphony of misery. How could she leave me? How can I be alone again? How? The questions swirled in his mind like snowflakes in the breeze. Time, like life, seemed insignificant. All that was real was his pain. All that was concrete was his suffering. The sidewalk, the buildings, the cars and streets and people and little restaurants that fed them- they were all movie props. This was all a big movie, a big joke, a great cosmic comedy in which he was the protagonist. Or was he the antagonist?

Who am I?

The question rang in his mind like a distant alarm bell. He was disconnected. separated, pulled apart at the seams. He was everything. He was nothing.

How could she leave me?

How? How was this possible? His rationale slipped and fell like a first time ice skater, its tires spinning like a truck stuck in mud. Who can I trust?

The snow covered him. He was a snowman. He was Jack Frost. He was jack the ripper. He was cold and hot. He was dark and light. He was day and night. He was Winston, he was Sophia. He was Christian, he was Rodrigo. He was a million snowflakes falling in an unstoppable storm, cascading in a cold dreary grey white from high above.

Who am I?

It was a dream, and he was the sandman. He followed the dream to a place where all dreams end, The Rooster. He stood across from the building that only hours ago represented the culmination of all his dreams and all his victories, The Ridgeland Post.

“You’re a failure,” Said Chris Waters.

Who am I?

The Rooster was there beside him. but it wasn’t time yet. No, there would be a time, and this wasn’t it. He circled back around the block. circling. circling, and circling like a snowflake. He was a snowflake. He was the breeze. He was the open Pacific Ocean. He was nothing. he was everything.

He was a tiger. He was the predator that hunted the most dangerous prey. He was the soft paws that crept up from behind. He was the white blanket of snow that absorbed the sound of footsteps like a sponge absorbs water. He was instinct. He was terror. He was a loaded .2J7 magnum, hammer cocked all the way back, barrel pointed down the stairs of the Rooster at the back of Leroy’s head. He was Monday. He was the gunshot that rang out clear as day. He was the police officer two blocks away who was so accustomed to hearing gunshots that he didn’t even bother to respond. He was the muzzle flash. He was the footsteps, quickly covered by fresh snow, leaving the scene. He was the witness. He was the perpetrator. He was the victim. He was the scarlet, blood soaked slash that pooled in front of the unmarked front door of The Rooster.

Who am I?

He got away with it.

When Jesus woke up Tuesday morning, he felt like a new man. Not better, just new. He felt like someone he had never seen before, never met before. The feeling was so persistent that he had to check in the mirror to make sure it was still him. It was him, all right, but he had grown a bit of a beard. He liked it, and decided to keep it.

While Jesus washed up and prepared breakfast, he began to weigh his options in his mind.

O’Neil could likely get him into a less expensive apartment. Maybe he could start working at Luke’s again, at least until he found another journalism job. After his relative success at The Ridgeland Post, maybe he would be able to find an even better job. And most definitely a better girlfriend. He moved the boxes out of the living room and into the closet. He would donate them later when he had time. The first thing he needed to do was call O’Neil. Maybe he had even been able to get in contact with Winston, like Jesus had many times asked him to. He dug up the phone number from a pile of scrap paper and work notes stuck on his desk. Just as Jesus was about to dial the number, there was a knock on the door. He checked the spyglass. It was John. Jesus opened the door and let him in.

“How’s it going, John?” Jesus said with a wide smile. Gone were the trust problems. Gone were the voices.

John looked at him, slightly bewildered, and then looked around the apartment.

“Andrea home?” John asked.

“No, she left,” Jesus said.

“To where?”

“No, I mean she left left. Gone for good.”

“That’s terrible,” John said, shocked, “What happened?” “We broke up,” Jesus said, as if he was simply stating a fact.

“Was it mutual?” John asked.

“Not really. But, hey, that’s life,” Jesus was in surprisingly good spirits despite his restless sleep.

“What did you do yesterday?” John said, switching the subject.

“I got fired, for one,” Jesus said.

“Fired? You’re their best writer. That’s a real shame. What else did you do?”

“After that, Andrea left.”

“And then?”

“Then I went to sleep. Hey, want a joint?”

John studied Jesus face for a second then replied, “Sure, I could use a joint. Let me use the restroom first.”

Jesus ground up a bit of weed that he had managed to hide from Andrea when she left. He made a mental note to buy more once he made some money. John returned from the bathroom.

“Know any places hiring?” Jesus said.

“We might need some help at the bar. Strictly part time,” John said.

The two continued to make casual conversation as Jesus rolled and lit up the doobie. They discussed job prospects for Jesus.

“You know, Karla’s single. She’s a fox, and you speak the same language,” John said.

“She’s a fox all right. How old is she?”

“Shit, twenty five going on forty by my guess. She’s old enough.”

“That’s true,” They passed the joint back and forth and selected one of the rock and roll records Andrea had managed not to run off with.

“You know, I never did like The Beach Boys,” Jesus said. “They’re too happy. Too uppity and bright. I want something with a little more edge to it, a little more cut.”

“You tried The Doors?” John said. phone.

“Oh yeah, they’re great.”

The joint burned down to a roach and John said his goodbyes.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Jesus said.

“No problem. If you need anything, I’m only a phone call away.”

John left with a signature smile, and Jesus placed his call to O’Neil, who didn’t pick up the phone. He’d call him back later.

It wasn’t a full hour later when there was a forceful knock on the door, almost a slam, and a gruff voice shouted, “NYPD! Open up or we’ll bust this door down.”