HITTING THE BOARDS

"Jesus," rumbled Shiva irritably. He sprouted two more arms to keep pace with the blinking lights and pulsing knobs of the Celestial Switchboard.

Osiris laid a hand on Shiva’s shoulder. He ducked an undulating appendage as it tore a patch chord free and waved it like a lasso. "What’s wrong?" He asked.

"No, I mean Jesus." Two golden fists slammed down hard on the True Form of Teak Reception desk. "Have you seen Him?" The entire switchboard display went dark for an instant.

"I think He stepped out." The polychromatic light show resumed full-tilt. Shiva shook his head. Sacred Ganga water sprayed everywhere.

"Hey, hey, hey. Watch it--you’ll short out the unit." Osiris wrung out the gold-embroidered schenti that hung around his waist. Hands on hips, He frowned on its wrinkled pleats.

Shiva threw down the Holy Headset and spun about to face Him. "Jesus was supposed to spell me before the end of the human millenium. Where is He?"

Lillith glided by. She perched a generous buttock on the corner of the desk and reached over to tickle Shiva under the chin. "Face it, hon. Christ’s a schlemiel. And that makes you, my well-endowed friend, a--"

"Yeah, yeah."

"I’ll take over for a while," Osiris offered, "if you’ll help me find my penis."

They both sat looking at him, their brows aloft.

Osiris leaned forward confidentially. "Fertility ritual later."

"Ah," smiled Shiva. He dug in His pockets a minute and tossed Osiris a cylinder of obsidian stone carved with five faces. "Keep it," He said as the Egyptian god turned it wonderingly in His fingers. "Got a million of ’em."

Meanwhile, on the Little Blue Planet, Jesus Christ strolled down a street in a bland Southwestern Ontario city. This wasn’t the swank part of town. The houses sat on scrubby or non-existent lawns too close to the traffic. Paint, siding, and faux-brick peeled away from the sides of buildings.

A big-boned man in an auburn wig and a silver lame mini-dress shouldered past Him. "Watchit," the cross dresser’s smeared lips mumbled around his cigarette. Jesus smiled over His shoulder as the man shambled away down the sidewalk. The Lord liked it here.

Catching sight of a garish blue and orange sign, Jesus crossed the street. He entered where it said GERT’S AESTHETICS and descended the narrow linoleum stairs. Gert, svelte in fuchsia hot pants that offset her pink beehive, was just settling a hairdryer over the head of her nine fifteen client.

Her name wasn’t really Gert, but Aimée, and she was more of a hairdresser than an aesthetician. Once He’d asked her why she didn’t change the sign, and she’d told Him AIMÉE’S sounded too highfalutin for the neighbourhood.

The Lord sat down in her chair and the cracked vinyl emitted a sound like it was passing air. Her nine fifteen glared balefully at Him; He grinned at her raisin-like reflection in the mirror.

"Ain’t seen you in a while," said Aimée as she moved up behind Him. Her horizontal striped sweater blotted out the nine fifteen. "You got such a brilliant aura--I never forget an aura."

"You see them?" asked Jesus conversationally.

Aimée snapped her gum a couple times. "Oh yeah." She settled the plastic cape over Him, securing it around His neck with her cool fingers. "Yours is bright gold--that means you’re real spiritual. How much you want off?"

"Just the ends. And a trim for the beard."

"’Kay."

Jesus looked up at the little ceramic statue of Our Lady above the mirror. Tiny white lights ringed it like a halo.

"You Catholic?" asked the hairdresser, reaching past Him to take up the spray bottle. "Jewish?" she persisted when He shrugged. "You look Jewish."

"He looks like that Ferris Bueller," chimed in the nine fifteen from beneath the hairdryer.

Aimée caught His eye in the mirror and twisted round to slide the air blower switch to high. "What’s your name, anyway?"

"Jesus."

"Huh. You’re pullin’ my leg, hon. you mean like ‘Hey-Zoos’, right?"

"Sure." The Lord smiled companionably.

She finished with Him just as the timer on the counter dinged. Aimée didn’t turn off the nine fifteen’s blower right away. She dusted His shoulders, swept away the plastic cape, and leaned forward. "You’re much more rugged than Matthew Broderick, Rabbi."

"Rabbi." Jesus raised His eyebrows. "Haven’t heard that one in years."

"G’won," Aimée told Him, giving Him a little shove with her turquoise fingernails. "You radiate."

"Feel no qualms about the crocodile dung, my child. May the setting sun smile on you." Osiris pulled the patch chord and glanced up at Lillith. She was still encamped on the Reception Desk, legs folded neatly beneath Her robes.

"That’s a load of hooey, croc dung as a contraceptive."

"You’d be surprised."

"But the recreation versus procreation stance—that was refreshing."

"Thanks." Osiris patched into another call. "Belial? No, I’m sorry—there’s no one here by that name. Old Horny? Certainly not. I don’t care what he told you his friends call him, madam." Osiris flipped a switch. His index finger broke off and fell on the desk. With a disgusted harumph, He jammed the errant digit back onto its knuckle. "What kind of joint do they think we’re running here, anyway?"

Lillith pursed Her lips and tapped His hairless knee. "Nice loincloth. Very swank."

"It’s a schenti."

"Semantics, Sweetheart. It might as well be a wet T-shirt."

"That’s Shiva’s fault."

"Some fault." Lillith favoured Him with a Cheshire grin and shrugged. "What’re you gonna do, when you wear a river in your hair?"

Down the way a bit from GERT’S, Jesus came upon a tiny yellow brick church. It perched on a triangle of grass at the junction of three streets. Its hedge was well kept, and a few straggling tulips poked up along its limestone foundations. Quite picturesque, all in all. But the Lord frowned beneath His newly trimmed mustache. He crossed his arms over His chest and stared hard at the prominent billboard screwed to the church’s wall.

SOMEONE’S DYING TO MEET YOU, it proclaimed in massive block letters. Beneath was a reasonable facsimile of Him, spread-eagled on the cross, and below that a listing of Easter weekend services. The Lord narrowed His eyes. His jaw dropped a bit, as if He might say something, and then He pivoted, heading for the small wooden door marked OFFICE that stood just off the sidewalk.

Inside, a well-scrubbed blond youth sat behind the desk. "Good morning, sir," he piped up. "Praise Jesus!"

"Thanks," replied the Lord with a modicum of calm.

A wrinkle appeared between the kid’s eyebrows.

"Your name is Simon, isn’t that right?"

The wrinkle became a furrow. "Uh, yes."

"Bless you, Simon. Now then, what would you do if the Son of God showed up one morning--right here, smack-dab in front of you--and said He was fixing to kick some ass?"

"I--" stammered the boy, "--well I guess I’d say Halleluia, sir."

"Say Halleluia, Simon."

"Uh--" The youth glanced nervously down the corridor behind the desk. "Pastor Tad!"

Pastor Tad had close-cropped black hair and obviously patronized an expensive tailor. The Lord resisted the urge to lay hold of the discreet little hoop in the pastor’s left ear; He settled for a silk-clad elbow and hauled him out for another look at the billboard.

"So what’s the deal here, Tad? I suppose you’d call ‘SOMEONE’S DYING TO MEET YOU’ good advertising."

"Oh, that! Clever, isn’t it?"

Jesus compressed His lips. "It’s a touch morbid, really."

"Ah, but that’s just the thing! Look--I feel like I can really talk to you." Tad took His arm. "It’s the latent guilt factor and the pathos, y’know--gets the ole sinner right here!" The pastor pounded his own chest. "Drama, high tragedy, the blood of the Lamb spilt just for him--and cha-ching--he’s through those sanctuary doors like a bull after a matador. Amen!"

"I see. And then it’s open season, is that it?"

The pastor jabbed Him conspiratorially in the ribs. "You got it, my longhaired bohemian friend--why just the other day I had a total brainstorm: ‘SOULS, SOULS, SOULS’ up in lights. A flashing LED display! Wouldn’t that be great?"

Jesus held up His hand and materialized a flaming whip from the air.

"Hey," said Pastor Tad, "what’s going on?"

Osiris clawed off the celestial headset and deposited it in one of Shiva’s hands. Arms akimbo, He took a few strides away from the switchboard. His shoulders heaved up and down.

"What?" chorused Shiva and Lillith.

The Egyptian god popped a thumb over His shoulder. He was barely able to speak between bouts of hysterical laughter. "There’s some poor kid on the line—thinks he’s going to burn in the Pit of Eternal Fire or something--’cuz he called the fuzz on Our Lord Jesus Christ, whom he mistook for a Marxist. He—" Osiris paused between shrieks to gasp for air, "--he only saw the error of his ways when the Lord pulled a fiery whip from the ether and split their church billboard in four pieces!"

"Christians!" Shiva hooted gleefully. He held the headset to His ear and Lillith squeezed closer, tilting Her head to listen. The pubescent voice on the line descanted a fretful litany of John 3:16, interrupted by occasional snatches of the 23^rd Psalm.

"Only begotten Son--that always slays me," whispered Lillith. She rolled Her eyes.

"Rod and staff is good." Shiva banged his trident on the Holy Linoleum. "And the Valley of the Shadow of Death--very poetic!"

Just then a silvery cloud appeared by the switchboard and Gautama the Buddha materialized from the nebulous mists of Nirvana. He flicked a button on the switchboard. "I don’t suppose You three realized You were broadcasting Cosmos-wide," he informed them irritably. "Somebody left the system on Page."

"Oh for the love of Ra, won’t you lighten up, Butsu? Christ is in the cop shop in some cheesy little one-horse--" Osiris leaned an arm on the Buddha’s shoulder, but He shook so hard with laughter that His hand broke off at the wrist and bounced onto the desk blotter. He reached out and grabbed it, twisting it back on. The hand was mounted obscenely backwards. Shiva doubled over in a paroxysm of soundless mirth that plastered Lillith with Ganga water.

"Give me that," growled the Buddha. He made to rip the headset from Shiva’s fingers, but the Hindu deity raised it on His trident, beyond Gautama’s grasp.

"No way--you’ll sock him with that ‘no permanent or lasting self’ schpeil and the kid’ll freak out. He’s just a poor little Bible thumper."

"Oh for Pete’s sake." Still giggling, Lillith swatted Shiva in the third eye with Her sopping robe and retrieved the headset.

With a bow She presented it to the Buddha. "Keep the seat warm, babe. We’ll go collect J.C. and have Him back on the job before the kid has his next wet dream."

"Just OM, no dialectics!" chided Shiva. The trio began to de-materialize. Gautama shook his head as Lillith’s misty foot collided with Shiva’s rear end.

Jesus stood poised in the middle of the cell, one hand in the pocket of His jeans. The other, meanwhile, directed his jail mates in song. Two grubby drunks and a size XXL- B and E shouted, "’Nuther Saturday Night and I Ain’t Got Nobody!" It was going as well as might be expected without a guitar. They’d just got to the bit about the honey and the money when one of the guards came in to shush them.

"Okay, okay, maestro--that’ll do."

"It would do much better, officer, with a set of morracas."

"You betsch I would," slurred one of the drunks loudly, cupping his hands at chest level.

"Uh huh," said the guard. "C’mon, Son of Man, some kind devotee posted your bail." He unlocked the cell’s sliding door and reached in to take Jesus by the bicep. By way of blessing, the Lord drew a cross in the air as He followed the guard out.

"Schpectacles, teshhticles, wallet, ’n’ watsch," belched the other drunk. He raised an imaginary hat as his Redeemer disappeared from the lockup.

When He finally made the front desk, Jesus broke into a cheek-splitting grin. There was Aimée in all her hot-pink glory; she sized Him up over her turquoise plastic sunglasses.

"No personal possessions, no ID," muttered the desk sergeant. "You’re lucky the lady was willing to vouch for you, Rabbi."

Aimée linked her arm through His as they strode out into the afternoon sunshine. "I figured it was you when I heard about some lunatic trashin’ the Easter sign."

"So you think I’m a lunatic, Aimée with the sea green eyes?"

She raised her shades and stared at Him a touch unchastely.

"Don’t let Him kid ya, honey--He’s just a schlemiel."

They turned, and Aimée gasped at the trio of two men and a woman wreathed in nearly blinding light. The woman’s robes were diaphanous and clinging, all colours at once, like oil film floating on a puddle. One guy had about eight arms and the other could’ve been King Tut, judging by his loincloth.

It’s a schenti, whispered the Lord without moving His lips. Aimée swivelled back to Him in wonder. "Say," He asked, "what year is it?"

"Two thousand and one," Aimée answered, kind of breathless now.

Jesus slapped a palm to His forehead. "Oi-Vey! Gotta run." With His thumb He drew a quick Star of David on the hairdresser’s forehead and dashed over to join His compadres. The halo of light quivered a half-second and grew so brilliant she had to shade her eyes.

As it continued to expand and dissolve, Aimée could’ve sworn she heard:

"Rabbi, my ass!"

"Ah, give Him a break."

"Hey, Your hand’s on backwards."

"Oh yeah."

"Give it a whack with this--watchit--aww, Jesus!"

A long black phallus fell at Aimée’s feet. She picked it up and ran a thumb over its five-faced surface. Cocking an eyebrow, she continued to squint up at the sky, but she couldn’t see anything at all.