The Wine of CommunionHardy Coleman
1400 words Remember that Friday night a coupla weeks back it got down to seventeen below? Well anyway, that's the last I seen of Jesus. Had a half-empty bottle of Lizard Piss with him that he stuck into the snow, did a little dance around it, mumbled a few hallelujahs and when he pulled it out, tasted just like vintage M. D. 20/20. Only better, if you can believe that. One healthy swig and it felt like you'd swallowed a propane heater. “This swill is Goddamn miraculous!” I said. He just chuckled and blew his big red nose. So we found some scrap wood and built a fire there by the Mississippi, shot the breeze about the best spots to fly a sign, how it's most generally the folks driving rusted-out shitmobiles that'll toss you a dollar or a hand fulla change. Ain't never them bastards in their B. M. W.'s with the windows rolled up tight. Talked about women and lawmen. It's kinda weird, you know? Speak of the Devil, then up show the cops. “Oh shit, not this again,” said Jesus, then he took off running. I figured he musta knowed somethin I didn't, so I done the same. Looking back, I reckon I assumed that dude would posses Olympic speed but then, he's old, ya know? And I shoulda listened cause he's always yammering about where those government boys drove them nails through his feet. “Hell yeah, Skunk, I used to be a wide receiver. Could scorch both you and your pet cheetah on a post pattern seven days a week, even if I was schnockered. Course, that was back before the fucking nails.” So like I was sayin, we was high-tailing it across the ice but the cops were gaining on account of them holes in his feet and also, he was pretty well piss-faced. Now me, I don't particularly mind a night on the county's expense. (At least it's dry and warm.) But Jesus, get him rolling and he can tell you a few stories about some of the cells he's slept it off in. Suffice it to say, he ain't in no hurry to go back. But we come up to this patch in the middle where the water tends to get all bubbly and runs fast and right then his feet gave out. I mean, gent just went down on his knees like he's prayin to his old man or somethin. These two gumshoes ain't more'n fifteen, twenty steps behind us shouting crap like, “Stop, in the name of the law!” and “Up against the wall, motherfucker!” and “Go ahead, make my day!” And by the sound of it, they meant business, too. What the hell am I gonna do? He ain't too heavy, as in; That's what you get on a diet of homemade wine. So I grabbed him under his smelly armpits and threw him over my shoulder like he's a sack of dirty hymnals and off we went, skating over the water on nothing but faith and fumes. The ice was real thin, you could see right down to the bottom and let me tell ya, there's some ugly-ass creatures swimming around down there gnashing their teeth. And oh man, what teeth! But skate we did! Then just about the time we'd made it across and we was fixin to head into the woods, them two coppers pull out their roscoes and shout, “Gigs up, you low- life skeezicks! Hands in the air or you're sleeping at the morgue tonight!” Hey! Wadn't our fault that the ice was flimsy. Wadn't our fault them two fuzz roaches was overly fond of dough nuts. I turned when they hollered and threw my mitts in the air, dropping old Jesus like stolen loot. “Don't shoot!” I shouted back. But they did shoot, them stupid flatfoots. Guess they figured a couple lushes for target practice wadn't nothin more'n good, clean fun. However, right as they was squeezing off their rounds; right as they was planning what to tell their cronies back at Dunkin D's what they done to them two winos on the river, the ice broke. I felt the heat of a bullet part my hair and heard screaming sounded the same as in that movie, Jaws, when the shark's munching down his breakfast. Then it got all quiet and peaceful there on top of the water. “That was close, man,” I said, then looked down at my buddy. “Crap! He's got hisself hit.” Ain't nothing more'n a pile of rags and bones, that long hippie hair of his lookin dark as his blood in the moonlight. Went down to sitting and gathered him up in my arms like his momma woulda. “You fuckin pigs!” I yelled. “Can't you see he didn't mean no harm?” And I started to cry right there, my two butt cheeks stuck to the ice. Didn't give a rat's patoot if anybody seen it or went and told the news lady. Friends is kinda rare in my social echelon, and I'd just lost a good one. 
But that ain't the end of the story. Few days later I was cheating my way through a game of solitaire in the county's petty misdemeanor hotel. It had been a slow night for business: Wadn't nobody else been arrested except old Toothless Larry, and he was passed out, snoring like a congested hog. Then I heard a steel door clang and the rattling of keys. It was Officer Friendly come to set me free. “Morning, Skunk,” he chimed, a little too bouncy. “Time to rise and shine!” “I need a bloody Mary first.” “We're not that kind of hotel,” he replied. “Cup of coffee?” “O. K. Cup of coffee.” He led me down the hall to receiving and poured me a cup. “Saw your friend on Sunday.” “My friend?” “Yeah. Your main man, Jesus.” “Piss off, lawman!” This was gettin me angry. “Your people shot him down last Friday.” Talk about shit-for-brains … “Well you know, that's the wonderful thing about this great nation we live in.” He just kept right on smilin. “Capitalism, Skunk! That's where it's at.” “What kinda crap you talkin?” “You just can't keep a good man down.” Officer Friendly stood there like I was supposed to figure it out. Stupid as he is, still, I guess he could tell by my face that I wadn't getting it. “He's back. Jesus is back!” I shoved my fist in his mug. “I told ya piss off once already! Don't toy with me, asshole.” He stumbled backwards, held his hands up in front of hisself. “I'm not! I've got proof.” “Go on.” He reached into his blue coat and pulled out a flask. Unscrewed the cap, offered it to me. “Here, give this a snort.” I musta looked pretty skeptical. “You want proof. This is the proof.” I took a mouthful. Sure enough, it was the proof … High proof stuff. Good old M. D. 20/20 with a propane chaser. I just grinned and handed it back. “What did I tell you?” Officer Friendly chuckled. He knocked one back, but instead of the pleasure of a good belt, his expression turned to confusion. He eyed the flask, then took another swig. Then he spat it out; spewed it all over my face. Now I been drinkin various and sundry liquid refreshments for quite a little while. Some folks might even call me a professional imbiber. I know my fluids. “This IS NOT what he gave me!” Friendly was real hot under the collar. “I told him if he'd keep me supplied with that grade A wine he makes, that I wouldn't haul him in.” He dumped the contents out onto the floor. PURE, CLEAR WATER. “Damn! I already collected money from half the guys on vice squad for advance orders.” Right then, I seen it clear as a glass of corn liquor. He always was a sly bastard, that Jesus. My grin turned into a big, gap-tooth smile. “Thanks for the drink, Officer. But I really gotta be rollin along. I hear H2O is good for ya.” Nodded my head at the puddle on the concrete floor. “Ya shouldn't oughta waste it.” Then I picked up my belt and shoelaces at the admissions desk and walked on out into the bright, cold morning. Headed towards the river, lookin for an old friend and a shot of holy water. |
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