The Hand of Jesus

Jesus is a maintenance man at my work. Not the messiah, although that Jesus was a carpenter, and would undoubtedly prove skilled at managing the position, but regarding the common Spanish name Jesus (pronounced hey-soose). Jesus is a good guy, an amiable muchacho, but it would not be a stretch to say that he’s not all there. And I don’t mean in a having lost his mind sense (a distinction belonging to a former maintenance man who, in lieu of his assignments, smoked crack cocaine and drank liters of cheap vodka in his shop), but literally, in a having lost some body parts way – most notably, quite a few fingers.

When Jesus shakes my hand, several wiggling stumps burrow into my palm, never failing to give me the heebie-jeebies. My hand swallows the entirety of his, making it feel less like we’re shaking hands and more like I’m grabbing the paw of a golden retriever.

I often wonder what happened to those digits. He’s a maintenance man, so the tendency is to assume some mishap involving an electric saw. Oddly, the fingers have been edited at uneven lengths, suggesting that each one was lost in a separate accident. It’s this theory that causes me to chuckle.

Now, there’s nothing overtly comical about a man who’s lacking fingers, but you have to wonder about someone who keeps losing them. One by one, his fingers disappear. You can understand losing one finger, but after that you would think he’d be a little more careful.

I imagine Jesus, standing over a crimson-dappled table saw, exclaiming, “Oh, for the love of Pedro… I have lopped off another one!”

And then some time passes, and before you know it Jesus is pruning, not paying close attention, and promptly laments, “Dios mio! My third finger in as many weeks! Only two left on this hand…”

By the time he lost his forth finger, the whole ordeal must have seemed old hat for him. I picture Jesus, more exasperated than anything, grumbling, “Oh, great. Just great… another one. Get out of the damn way, fingers! Damn it!” while slamming his hand – or what was left of it – onto the blood-splattered tool bench.

Jesus walks with a bit of a limp, so it is not inconceivable to assume he’s rid himself of a few toes, as well. I guess once you’ve gone through all your fingers, your toes would be the next logical place to start. A protruding nail here, a black widow spider there… an overaggressive sewer rat. You would have had a hard time playing ‘This little piggy’ with Jesus. …this little piggy had none, and this little piggy went wee, wee, wee, all the way into the meat grinder.

Or maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe Jesus got in too deep with a cartel, amassed a debt he couldn’t pay off. He doesn’t seem like the type, but do you ever really know? This hypothesis would explain why none of his missing phalanges were able to be reattached, being that they became sobering, gruesome warnings mailed to other defaulted debtors. Or maybe he had gangrene, or frostbite, or reached out in the misguided attempt to pet a snapping turtle. There is Jesus, howling in pain with a giant turtle locked onto his hand while his family stands around shaking their heads and exchanging bemused, knowing glances. That Jesus! He’s at it again! He is one pathetic hombre, isn’t he… Maybe the answer is all of the above.

Carolina suggested that he might have been born this way, which, though plausible, is not a presumption that I particularly care for. While sparing Jesus considerable pain and embarrassment, hers is a possibility that rules out intrigue. I want to envision the time Jesus went eeling and got a little too adventurous or the party at which he had one too many Coronas and wagered somebody that a blender couldn’t cut through bone – what a terrible bet that would be to lose. There’s no cachet in someone simply entering the world without fingers; it’s much more exciting for that person to have had – and subsequently lost – them in a tragic accident(s).

Whatever the explanation, imagine the consequences of losing your fingers when you’re a handyman. While no one will ever confuse me with somebody at one with manual labor, my thinking is that you needed – for starters – a functional hand for this type of work. Is says so right there in the word: how handy can you be when your mitt consists of a palm with several nubs?

I was reminded of my old barber, a pleasant, soft-spoken Pakistani man named Bob. One winter years ago, Bob abruptly disappeared from the barbershop. Questions naturally arose, and the other barbers were forced to relate the grisly tale that accounted for his absence. Apparently, after a heavy snowfall one day, his snow blower had become jammed, and, well, Bob went about his problem the wrong way. While he eventually returned to duty, his haircuts were never quite the same.

But, despite their limitations, both Bob and Jesus persevered tirelessly in their lines of work without complaint. You had to hand to them.

Rubbing me the wrong way.

For many years I dreamed about a professional massage. Oh, I’ve had a few amateur sessions – lackluster performances, really – reluctantly carried out by girlfriends whom I would badger until they eventually gave in. They’d go through the motions but you could usually tell their hearts weren’t really in it.

When I got married, I figured that a job of one’s wife was to put her hands to good use. Unfortunately, I would learn that this “use” more often than not tended to involve cooking, cleaning, and gesticulating theatrically about the size of the mess I’d left in the kitchen; noble endeavors, you could argue, but not as far as my taut trapezius was concerned. A professional masseuse was what I needed, a person not only skilled in the art of bodily delights but who wouldn’t start complaining after a mere five minutes.

For her birthday, Carolina received a gift certificate to Bella Sante, a spa on Newbury Street, and I immediately invited myself along. Swanky spas on Newbury are neither cheap nor in my comfort zone, but this was my one chance to be rubbed down by an expert and I wasn’t about to miss it. I began my preparation for the big day by diligently harassing Carolina until she agreed to request a woman for my massage. Not necessarily because this is the one circumstance in life in which it’s socially permissible for some lady to douse her hands in oil and then work them all over somebody else’s husband, but because I strenuously object to having beefy man mitts do so. Call me homophobic, but, well, there it is.

The fun started when we stepped in. I was feeling a little on edge, this being my first expedition to a predictably steeped-in-estrogen spa, engendering a feeling not unlike the proverbial bull in a china shop. I was hoping to cling to Carolina for support throughout the ordeal, she being the alpha female you need when navigating unfamiliar terrain. While I like to think of myself as the pants-wearer in our family, it’s totally Carolina. She’s the one who makes all my merchandise returns, wrangles with the Verizon people, deals with our landlord, and, should I mention that the coffee is getting low, has a pound of Starbucks waiting by sundown. Basically, she does most of the crummy jobs I prefer get accomplished without my involvement.

Unfortunately, my plan was shot when we were immediately separated, my wife shown to the women’s locker room while I was escorted by an extremely effeminate male to the men’s room. It was not unlike the first day of kindergarten and I was being pried away from my mom.

“There’s a robe, shorts, and slippers in your locker,” he sort of murmured, then commanded, “Take everything off and then meet me back out in the lobby.”

“Okay… but wait… so I take everything off now?”

“Yeah!”

“And then… meet you in the lobby… out there?”

“Yeah!”

I’m not saying the gentleman was turned on by the idea of me in the nude or anything, but he definitely seemed gung-ho about this whole disrobing business. And yet, I all but begged him not to leave me. Managing myself in a spa is not a condition I am in any way practiced in.

Of course, of course there were no shorts to be found in my locker, or in any of the others that I desperately ransacked, leaving me without a fairly important component of my ensemble. Oh, man... So what did spa etiquette dictate in this little quandary? Was I supposed to sift through the dirty laundry bin and retrieve a soiled pair? Forget about them altogether? Scream for help?

Think, damn it. Think…

Realizing I was taking too long to emerge from the locker room, I simply left my cargo shorts on, donned the robe, and nervously made my way out into the lobby. The attendants at the front desk all had a good laugh and I was sent back into the locker room to remove my cargos.

“But there were no other shorts in there,” I protested.

“Then wear your own,” the womanly guy said.

But I was wearing my own. “But not these ones?” I asked, noticing my voice had become high and flighty.

They all chuckled again, and I felt my face grow hot. I was reminded of Arnold Swarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop when the kids are enamored with the ferret and he says, all stressed out, “We are having fun now.” What exactly was so funny? I had the distinct impression I was missing something intended to be obvious, but what? Did they think I’d brought another pair of shorts just for the occasion?

“You can wear your boxers in you want,” womanly guy told me with a good-natured twinkle in his eye.

If I wanted? What were my alternatives? What I wanted was to tell him that I don’t wear boxers, but that would undoubtedly send the front desk into bellows of laughter and force me to make a beeline for the exit. I wasn’t trying to cause trouble, I just wanted to know what to do. Now they had me pegged as an imbecile.

“It’s nice in here,” I blurted out, as if that would somehow fix things.

Removing the cargo shorts, I wrapped the robe – a silky, kimono-type thing – around me with a triple-knot and timidly proceeded back into the lobby where fully dressed people were milling about. It’s funny the things you think about while parading around among clothed strangers while wearing a small silky robe and not much else. The probability of surviving a leap from the nearest window comes to mind.

Thankfully I was able to rejoin Carolina in the lounge, where a group made up entirely of women quietly sipped organic beverages and listened to New Age music while stealing curious peeks at the big man in the small robe. I kept trying to make conversation with Carolina but apparently banter is frowned upon, as my efforts were repeatedly brushed off.

“But I’m bored and scared,” I whined. “I want to talk.”

She laughed and went back to her magazine; I quietly sulked, feeling beads of sweat trickle down from my armpits and a cool breeze whisk up my kimono. I wondered, not for the first time, if I’d made a terrible, terrible mistake.

After a while our masseur and masseuse emerged – a big bald man and an attractive blonde, respectively. For a brief moment I was terrified that there’d been an oversight, some clerical error, and the strapping bald man would say, “Okay, Marc!” and I, being too non-confrontational to do anything about it, would grudgingly acquiesce to his meaty demands.

So I was immensely relieved when the woman called my name and led me to a small, dimly lit room and instructed me to take off my robe and then climb under the sheet on the massage table while the masseuse, named Maria, waited outside. The dimensions of the small room, long table, and big me coupled with the poor lighting were all but logistically unfeasible, and at one point I lost my balance, bumped into the table and crashed into the door. Idiot. I can’t imagine what Maria must have thought when that thunderous commotion occurred.

Lying facedown on the table, I was finally beginning to relax and enjoy the massage when I smelled something funky. At first I thought it was the massage oil but soon realized it was Maria’s feet.

The objectionable odor, which wafted up through the hole in the headrest, entered directly into my nostrils. In Maria’s defense it was at least 95 degrees on Saturday, but still, the last thing you want piped into your stationary face during a massage is someone’s inescapable foot stench.

Can't... breathe...

When I wasn’t suffocated by smelly feet – or having mine tickled by Maria (I really had to gnash on my lip to keep from giggling and jerking my foot away when she did the foot-tickling) – the massage was pretty good. Nothing transcendent, but top-notch, the kind of thing you could get used to very quickly did it not set you back rent money.

Afterward, back in the locker room, I decided to take a quick shower when I came face-to-face with a brawny black guy who had also just finished with his massage – which was conducted, I had noticed, by a masseur.

“Which way are you going?” he asked, blocking the only shower stall.

“Uh…”

“Did you want to go in the shower?”

Together? I thought nervously. Is this type of behavior standard for post-spa treatments? Instead I urged, “You go ahead.”

A while later, back outside and seated on the patio at Charlie’s, I ignored Maria’s advice to drink lots of water so to flush toxins out of my body and instead uploaded even more by way of the ginger mojito, musing to Carolina between sips, “We should do this more often.”

Stitches

I was raised in a household serviced by basic, commercial broadcast television. It was viewed on an obese, rabbit-eared TV set that loafed in our living room like a curmudgeonly squatter, providing the Mesozoic-era quirk of being made to get up and actually approach the device every time you wished to surf the four channels you had access to. This wasn’t as big a problem as you might think, given that three of them tended not to come in.

At some point we upgraded to basic cable, a watershed moment for our fledging family. Still, without a decent package there were few tangible upgrades but for the remote control and the porn station. While we didn’t actually get the porn, it wasn’t entirely blocked, either; you’d get a scrambled picture of distorted, moving body parts and full erotic audio replete with moans, groans, and pleasure-stricken affirmations that far outdistanced anything on Nickelodeon.

When my father cashed in seven sleepless years of medical school and residency for full time work as an emergency room physician, the rest of his family was finally able to cash in on proper television. Our home no longer plied with standard cable but by the crème de la crème package, including upwards of, at last count, infinity movie channels, one was afforded the great edifying delight of sneaking downstairs once one’s parents were safely in bed and discovering the naughty proceedings of cathouses and the raunchy thrills of unscrambled soft-core porn. We were even furnished with primo add-ons, like Sunday TicketÔ, where you could sponge up every NFL game, 17 weeks a season.

Years later, after I had inadvertently started a family of my own, I would discover the cycle to have reset itself; my last two football seasons after becoming a dad, I am sorry to report, were reduced to channels 4 and 25 broadcasted games only – not even ESPN. Our cable threshold had been pretty much capped at network programming. Last time I checked, having NBC, ABC, CBS and Fox wasn’t called cable, it was called free television. Pardon my French, but what kind of horseshit is that? Incidentally, do we hate the French so much that we associate their entire language with coarseness and vulgarity? But I digress.

That my television viewing became cheapened in fatherhood was a fact that needled me even more during the nine A.M. to four P.M. window. The only thing worse than the mindless excrement that passed for daytime television, in my mind, was the hoard of glazed intellects drinking it in, their afternoons saturated with this claptrap.

Did this viewing demographic honestly have nothing better to do than to sit in their shoddy living rooms every day reviewing the events of Herbert v. Arnold, due to the latter having allegedly shot the plaintiff’s dog in the ass after a dispute over some repair work? Did they really believe Arnold’s tapestry of poorly sewn together, obviously fabricated lies? For one thing, his timeline was a farce. Had he truly feared for his life, would he have gone back to the car to retrieve his gun? Doubtful; he’d have left and kept going, wouldn’t he have? Secondly, if we were to believe that his was a BB gun, why would Arnold have been charged with possession of a firearm by the local police? What, he didn’t mention to them that it was only a BB gun? They couldn’t tell the difference? His story was simply implausible.

Sadly, I know the facts of this case because I found myself increasingly glued to the very poppycock I long disparaged. There’s only so much you can do with a teething 10-month-old baby during Boston’s blustery winter months in a small apartment, and I consequently noticed that my Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday early afternoons were preceded and followed by the erudite events of Judge Alex and his brethren.

(As a brief aside: during this time period, if you were to ask Emma, “Where’s the fan?” she would look upward, smiling, and announce, “Ca!”

She did so one day and I thought to myself, You know, about a year and a half ago you were one of my sperm. Now you’re this little girl who smiles at fans and calls them ‘cas’ and squeals with laughter while I tickle you and who theatrically plops your head on top of your arms when I say “Emma no.”

This is outrageous.)

During one lackluster Thursday after the twentieth consecutive read of a book involving a ridiculous turkey who can’t seems to figure out that his pants don’t belong on his face, we flipped on Judge Alex (he was our favorite), Emma playing by my feet while I lounged on the couch, getting fatter. Presently she turned and raised her hands, the universally accepted sign in Baby-speak meaning “Uppy.” So I scooped her up and plopped her beside me, upside-down. After wrangling to right herself, Miss Fits proceeded to snuggle into the crook of my arm, tilting her head back to offer a happy smile, then rested her little noggin on my chest while the courtroom excitement unfolded. After a few minutes she glanced at me again and, apparently deciding that I was lacking something, removed her treasured binky from her mouth and plunged it into mine.

And it occurred to me then that I could live out the rest of my life never finding a better job, never publishing a word – not even as a two-bit hack mystery writer – never moving in to a spacious Brownstone on Beacon Street or summering anywhere, never driving a $40,000 sports car, never traveling the world or getting back to my fighting weight or owning a plasma television or even signing up for a better cable package, and that would all be fine – quite fine – as long as there was this.

If my past has taught me one lesson, it’s that life isn’t about having the most of everything but making the most of everything. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy those commodities, you understand, but the inherent charm in having what you need – including being able to watch trashy TV with your occasionally mischievous daughter who is willing to share with you her binky (meaning: she loves you like crazy) and having a wife who puts up with you – is what counts. The integral stitches of that elusive happy life.

The rest is gravy.

**JOB APPLICATION**

To whom it may concern:

Hello! My name is Marc and I am seeking gainful employment with a struggling, morally questionable corporation more concerned with the almighty dollar than keeping the client, one that boasts a far-reaching, disingenuous mission statement; a company waste-high in lawsuits that can best utilize my distaste for authority and desire to get “paid more for doing less.” You know the type of job that people say monkeys can do? That. That is what I’m looking for.

I am an exquisitely clever man. Cunning. Crafty. No doubt you will be impressed with the variety of ingenious ways with which I will endeavor to cut corners and sweep problems under the rug!

If you are looking for someone who is self-motivated and persistent, I’m your guy! Like when my dealer is out of town and I shakily ask around on the streets for some blow, or how I keep tabs on my exgirlfriends. Watching… waiting…

Moreover, I am a substantially attractive man (physically) and am not averse to trysts with the client, coworkers, or your cleaning woman Juanita, who I hear puts out if you but dangle the term citizenship (now there’s a fine piece of tail, eh? Mamasita!).

I enjoy creating a relaxed, comfortable environment for all my colleagues. Like how I make ribald racist jokes to keep everyone laughing, or compliment women on their breasts and asses. They love this. (Even when I don’t verbalize the flattery, my lecherous, hungry gazes are usually indication enough!) People show their gratitude by coming up with silly, endearing nicknames for me, like Shyster, Dead Beat, and Jackal, just to show me I am one of them. Ha ha! (ps. Please note these are my nicknames, not to be confused with my aliases.)

You are probably wondering if I can multitask. I am happy to respond in the affirmative… And how! Why, practically every night I find myself juggling my raging alcoholism, crippling methamphetamine habit, and devastating self-hatred, yet still find time to download illicit pornography and verbally abuse my baby’s momma. No small feat!

I am a BIG fan of diversity in the workplace, and I look forward to working with a vast array of people within a variety of races, religions, lifestyles and political affiliations.*

I’m very flexible when it comes to my schedule. Sometimes I might arrive for work on time, while others I might stagger in hours late, barely coherent, wearing the same rumpled clothes that I had on the last time you saw me and emitting a strange odor that will seem to be a cross between cheap perfume, alcohol, and some other, vaguely chemical scent. This will usually be after one of my famed 48-72 hour benders, which fortunately I keep restricted to only the first and third weekends of the month. **

Don’t be alarmed by my absence of relevant job experience (or curious lack of a work history altogether). I can assure you that I have had/pulled many jobs, it’s just that on the advice of counsel it is evidently in my best interest to omit them from this missive. Oh, and please do not contact my references. But if you must, bear in mind that these are outrageously hilarious people who will feign confusion, like they don’t even know me. Kooks!

Obviously, I will expect a salary that is grossly inconsistent with the level of work that I accomplish.

I look forward to hearing from you!

___________________________________________

*Except Jews, blacks, gays, Hispanics, women, Catholics, Poles, Arabs, Asians, republicans, democrats, libertarians, Muslims, Scientologists, lesbians, Baptists, Indians (both real and the tribal ones), senior citizens, agnostics, the disenfranchised, fatties, retards, vegetarians, freaks, Mormons (or is that redundant!), do-gooders, go-getters, depressives, intellectuals, bisexuals, children, extroverts and people who are left-handed.

**And second and fourth.

**WIFE APPLICATION**

(I originally wrote this on April 23^rd, 2006. The tongue-in-cheek tenor was apparently lost on Karma, which promptly wove a few madcap twists into my otherwise haphazard, liquor-bathed existence…)

People often say, “I’d hate to wake up and be [some advanced age] having [some cumbersome burden] and never having [fun experience too late to consider].” I’ve uttered these words myself, usually over stiff drinks at unsavory bars, but I’ve never taken the line too seriously. That was until this morning, when I woke up with the disconcerting knowledge that I’m 27 years old. Twenty seven! How and when did this happen? There’s no humanly way I can be this old. 22, maybe… 23, TOPS. But 27? 27 is the age where you’re an ostensible full-fledged adult, as in kids, a house, and a fledgling 401K. One minute you’re in 6^th grade, rummaging around in your father’s top bureau drawer, finding a bag of marijuana and box of condoms (Dad?), and the next you’re practically over the hill!

I’m way behind, and drastic action is necessary; I feel that my only recourse is to significantly fast track my life. As such, I will immediately begin accepting applications for a spouse, preferably one with baggage (I’m already 27, obviously I don’t have the time to be cultivating deep-seated festering wounds and unplanned children from scratch).

There’s no time for wooing. We’ll be bypassing courtship as well as the honeymoon phase and plunge directly to discontented married life! Applicants should be prepared to nag me for not assisting with the household chores, never being home, and caring more about my goddamned friends than I do my own children, for crissakes. You should seek to create an abrasive and unwelcoming atmosphere when I return from my soul-deadening 12 hour workday at my mindless office job, affording me the unmistakable feeling that I’m damned if I do, damned it I don’t.

Further, you should pack on the pounds and withhold sex on a regular basis while simultaneously criticizing my spare tire, which I might get rid of if I got off my ass and did some work around the house for a change. The usage of sex as a weapon is a plus, though not required.

You may want to assimilate various adjectives into your everyday lexicon, including “lazy,” “beer-drinking,” and “no good.” Belittling is a MUST! You will oversee the slow erosion of my inflated male ego until feelings of inadequacy and resentment become permanently encoded into my makeup.

We will plan family trips in our Dodge Caravan that are certain to be awful for all parties involved, particularly our ungrateful children, who will not see the inherent value of a trip to Colonial Williamsburg in lieu of Disney World. On the highway we will invite them to play the license plate game, where they will earn a quarter for each different plate they identify. The lying, opportunistic bastards will invariably spot license plates from all 50 states.

I will refer to you as my “old lady” and will not give you the respect that you deserve for raising the kids while I’m off doing God knows what.

I anticipate having my every little mistake brought to my attention and relentlessly harped upon; you may find it useful to devise a mental database where you can store such transgressions and thus more readily throw them in my face when we fight. To this end, constant bickering will be expected, mostly surrounding my drinking, gambling, and emotional unavailability. Your arguing strategy will ideally consist of emotionally charged, sweeping generalizations against which I cannot possibly hope to defend myself.

Any and all sexual activity will be referred to as “horsing around” and, as previously suggested, such activity will be unsatisfactory, mechanical and passionless on the rare occasions when we do horse around.

Our children. Our kids should be smarmy, spoiled little sons of bitches who will take us for granted and assume that the origin of money is trees. I will anticipate them walking all over me, my reprimands directed at them met with the venomous retort of, “You’re not my real dad!” instilling in me the sharp sting of self-loathing which I will remedy with vodka and your Valiums as I watch M*A*S*H reruns deep into the night.

Ideal candidates should possess numerous maddening quirks, such as chewing your food slowly and with your mouth open, so that I may witness our overcooked pot roast being softly pureed in your meaty chops at dinnertime.

Lastly. You must have a working knowledge of ho w to train a man. As you are all undoubtedly well aware, the only good man is a properly trained one, and who better to accept this responsibility than you, my wife.

Please do not delay. I am 27 and the clock is ticking!