“Enjoy your destiny, you black devil,” Sandy says with a devilish sneer, looking in disdain at the squashed corpse of the fly on their palm.
That would be the inciting incident of their boring day. Although Sandy identifies themselves as a woman now, they’d still rather not use she/her pronouns. Who in their right mind wants to subject oneself to the same crap that modern women have to go through, from sexual harassment to pay inequality. Moreover, in the interest of avoiding awkward encounters with backward morons, ‘They’ is a safer choice these days; still making a statement that Sandy no longer fits into what society defines as a man, but at the same time, the ambiguity of the pronoun avoids the trouble of being harassed by pricks who have nothing better to do throughout their productive day other than taking a stance on the gender of the others.
Sandy used to think that with religion pushed to the corner and out of their way, they now have the true freedom of self-expression without being bound to countless man-made laws.
The laws are a direct order from God, men would claim, promoting themselves to be the middlemen between God and the clueless sheeple. And whoever was brave or mad enough to stand up and call out their bullshit would fall victim to the new laws—coming out fresh from the oven—that criminalized doubt and disbelief.
No religion, no laws, no bigotry—this was the promise of Enlightenment.
It did not take long for Sandy to realize the naivety of their dreams. It turns out that we can throw ancient man-made laws away, but we cannot take the lawmaking instinct from men. They’ll make up new shit. They don’t wrap it with religion anymore since religion doesn’t sell these days, but nothing stops those creative lawmaking machines from targeting Sandy and the likes of them.
Sandy sighs and blows on the dead fly in their hand. They wish the day was busy so they would not have to think about their hopeless issues anymore. There was a time, not long ago, when they would not have had time to scratch their head at work. But since last week when Vincent fell to his death at the bottom of the valley, Eden Adventure Park is more like a ghost town from a post-apocalypse movie. The Pendulum Ride, which Sandy is in charge of, is at a standstill. The sign on its entrance gate says it would need at least two passengers to operate—and there are none. The roller coaster cars are sitting there silent. The carousel is still running but with no music, and there are only two or three children on it. The zip line in particular has no visitors.
Rumor has it that Morgan, the park owner, did manage to bribe the inspectors and the city officials—as he always does—to turn a blind eye to the incident, but money cannot erase the public’s fear. If this continues for too long, Morgan will have to declare bankruptcy, resulting in layoffs and the subsequent painful job-hunting. Sandy might as well start applying now before fellow park operators fill the open positions for seasonal workers.
Their chain of thought breaks when Zechao, the roller coaster operator passes by.
“Where are you going?” Sandy yells.
“To the grass,” Zechao responds without turning back. The grass is what the operators call the grass-covered field in the center of the park.
“What’s up there?”
“I dunno. It could be cool.” That is a strong enough argument for any operator not to carry on with their boring day.
“How about the visitors?” Sandy asks even though they already know the answer.
“What visitors? Do you see any?” Zechao says over his shoulder.
Sandy does not see any. Only a few, but none even near the Pendulum Ride that they are in charge of. “Fuck it,” they mutters, flicks the dead fly out the window, and leaves the booth to join their fellow operators.
As Sandy approaches the grass, they notice quite a small crowd gathered at its center. There appears to be 20 or 30 of them. Most of them are park operators, recognizable by their yellow vests, while others are also park visitors. Apparently, they have found this gathering more interesting than the park itself. Omar might have put on another show, Sandy figures, showing off his freaking muscular body.
As Sandy gets closer, they notice Omar exercising behind the crowd, about 10 to 20 yards farther from them. Hanging from the bar that he has attached to a tree branch, Omar performs his usual impressive one-handed pull-ups. He does not look happy, though. Having his nose wrinkled, from the corner of his eyes, Omar watches the crowd that is not watching him.
Sandy takes their eyes off Omar’s muscular, steamy-hot body, turning their attention to Jesus who is now visible among the standing crowd huddled around him.
That’s new! Sandy thinks.
Sitting on the grass, Jesus appears to have not shaved for a few days. That is new too!
Everybody else is standing, including Paul, who is awfully close to a good-looking park visitor. Lucky her! Paul is a nice fella in general, and he is even nicer to girls. All the park’s female operators have enjoyed his attention and possibly affection at some point, except for Sandy. Perhaps, it will take time for Paul to get used to Sandy’s new identity.
“Everybody is mean these days,” Jesus continues his speech, “so much hate, full of anger, full of unforgiveness. It’s like we wake up every morning, thinking whom should I hate today? It’s like we have an endless stack of injuries in our hearts, we have never forgiven them for what they have done to us, and we are constantly seeking revenge.”
“On whom?” Silvia asks, her squinted eyes laser-focused on Jesus.
“On everybody,” Jesus responds straight away, turning to Silvia. “On anybody who comes across our way. Once you let your heart be filled with hate, you have little control over whom you project it on. The hatred will rule your heart and you through it. We need peace in our hearts,” Jesus squeaks. His face twists when he takes a hard swallow, Adam’s apple visibly moving up his throat. “It starts by letting things go. By forgiving—”
“Then do what?” a middle-aged park visitor interrupts with his unenthusiastic tone and then looks away from Jesus as if he expects no convincing answer.
“Do good,” Jesus responds, turning all the way to him. “Isn’t that the goal? Growing into a merciful human who does good to people, exercises compassion, and shows clemency. We have gotten ourselves so busy with the details of prayers and rituals that we have forgotten the purpose. The simple, sensible purpose: doing good.”
“So, who did you forgive?” Sagar asks with a silly sneer.
Scowling at him, Guneet, who is dressed as handsomely as ever, elbows Sagar.
“God,” Jesus responds right away, his voice hardened with certainty. “I forgave God. If you can forgive God for what He has done to us, you can forgive everybody else.”
“Enough blasphemy for today,” Omar yells from behind, attracting everybody’s attention. All sweat from the pull-ups, he approaches Jesus.
The crowd parts open, clearing out of Omar’s way, like the Red Sea did for Moses—except that here people do it out of fear.
“Take it back before I break your teeth,” Omar says, pointing his clenched fist at Jesus.
Jesus sitting on the grass seems totally powerless against muscular, beast-like Omar standing above him.
Sandy wishes Jesus would take it back. Everybody loves Jesus—even Omar—and no one bears seeing him hurt.
None of the operators interfere, though. They rather take a step away to safety. It is hard to blame them since Omar is quite a scary person even when he is calm and partly savage when he is angry.
Jesus smiles, yet his face whitens with fear. His shaking head does not indicate that he would comply with Omar’s demand.
Omar marches on toward Jesus, raising his clenched fist.
Leaving the good-looking girl alone, Paul jumps in front of Omar and defends defenseless Jesus. Handsomeness, charisma, and now bravery. Paul is hotter than ever. He puts his hand on Omar’s sweaty chest and pushes him back. “Hey. Easy, easy. Easy, tiger.”
Growling through his clenched teeth, Omar raises his furious glare to meet Paul’s gaze, who is taller than him.
Staring back at Omar with his serious, sexy eyes, Paul stands his ground.
Omar growls louder, baring his teeth like a leopard ready to tear flesh.
“He’s just talking, bro,” Paul says, gradually turning up the charm with his irresistible smile. “Relax, alright? Take it easy.”
Oh, my gosh! What if Paul gets hurt? Sandy wonders and fears.
Omar eventually breaks the staring contest with an aargh and stomps away.
Sandy takes a relaxed breath, prouder than ever of Paul, their personal hero.
After only two steps, Omar stops.
Just leave, you animal, Sandy thinks. Nobody likes you here.
Omar leans to the left, trying to locate Jesus behind the safety of Paul. “I wasted so much time trying to guide you to the path of righteousness. But you instead go crazy, rambling blasphemies. I wanted to save you from the false religion of the church. And you did what? Went make up yet another cult! I will fix you. As God is my witness, I will fix you, even if that’s the last thing I do in this life.”
Omar turns to leave, only to face the crowd that blocks his way. Surrounding Omar like the Red Sea that is closed together to Pharaoh, they no longer seem to fear him. Paul has inspired everybody to stand together in support of Jesus.
Omar shoves people out of his way to leave.
“Omar,” Jesus calls.
“What?” Omar shouts while turning.
Everybody turns to Jesus. In contrast to Omar, he is quite calm and peaceful. A few moments pass by.
“What?” Omar shouts again, louder this time.
“I forgive you,” Jesus says eventually.
“Forgive your ass,” Omar says with disdain on his face and shoves his way out through the crowd.
With the day coming to an end, the few visitors of the adventure park have left already. The park operators should be heading home soon, hopefully with a positive takeaway from the message they received through Jesus. Omar, however… Omar should… Jesus sighs. How could I save Omar?
It was indeed a crazy day. Jesus badly needs to paint to calm His nerves and hopefully reassure His heart. And what better place to reconnect with the source than His usual evening spot: the willow tree at the edge of the cliff overlooking the endless beauty of the valley?
Like the natural artist that he is, the sun paints half the sky red as it sets behind the mountains.
Laid back on the tree and with the paintbrush in His hand and the canvas on His knees, Jesus does His best to imitate the sun’s artwork, (re-)painting the sunset on the canvas.
“Coo-coo.”
“Yeah,” Jesus agrees to the heavenly voice, “I need more red”. He dips the brush into the red color of the palette that lies on the green grass. “That should be enough, right?”
“Coo-coo,” sings the dark-gray pigeon with green-purple iridescence that stands next to the palette. The bird watches over Jesus’ painting like an art instructor descended from the heavens.
“Yeah,” Jesus responds, “makes sense. And how about—”
FLAP! FLAP!
The pigeon flies away—without saying goodbye! In her place are a pair of brown, waxed Louis Vuitton shoes.
Guneet, Jesus mutters. Who else would show off their fancy wardrobe by wearing them to work? In an adventure park! As an operator! Jesus gazes up at the dark blue jeans and, as guessed right, He finds Guneet in his signature look—short beard, thick mustache, and the dark blue turban. Being around 35 years old, he is a kind of elder brother figure to most of the operators in the park. He always acts like that anyway; as if he carries a thousand years of wisdom in his turban.
Without saying a word, Guneet sits on the ground next to Jesus, his squinted eyes locked on the painting, and wraps his left arm around Jesus’ shoulder.
Jesus smiles and turns back to His painting. Holding the brush lightly, He gently gazes the red color on the horizon.
“Hmm,” Guneet says, stroking his beard as he peers at the painting.
Jesus takes the brush off the canvas, thinking that perhaps there is too much red. He keeps looking at Guneet, expecting an explanation, but gets no more reaction from him.
“Hmm,” Guneet says again, scratching his upper lip through the thick mustache. The pigeon had a richer vocabulary than Guneet.
Jesus sighs, tries to ignore Guneet’s sound effects, and goes back to gazing the red brush on the horizon, back and forth.
“Who’s that little fella on the cross?” Guneet asks, finally breaking his holy fast of silence.
“That would be Jesus,” says Jesus.
“Hah. It looks kind of like you. A lot actually.”
“Yes! I’m Jesus,” He says, confused about Guneet’s confusion. Lowering the brush, He turns to Guneet.
“Hah,” Guneet says, playing with his beard. “What’s the painting about?”
Jesus dips the brush into the red color of the palette again. “It’s an old painting that I’m trying again. The ending, I’m not quite satisfied with. I want to—”
“Are you scared?” Guneet asks out of nowhere.
As he dips the brush from left to right, Jesus takes a deep breath. “Always,” He says, looking up. “Of what?”
“What got into you, man? You aren’t the same person since last week. It wasn’t your fault, you know.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“What could you have done? A miracle?”
“I could’ve forgiven him.”
“He was a French asshole.”
“No, he… Yeah, he was. But I could’ve forgiven him.” Tears prick at the corner of His eyes.
“And he would be alive?”
“Perhaps. If I had tightened the straps myself—”
“What happened up there? Did Paul—”
“I don’t know,” Jesus says, looking away at the blood-painted glow near the horizon. “But something did happen to me. I can see things now.”
“You surely can ramble, I mean talk now,” Guneet sneers. “I’ll give you that.”
Jesus lets out a forced, feeble chuckle, His gaze still on the horizon devouring the sun. “So-o-o,”—He gulps—“like Omar, you also think I’m crazy.”
“I hope Omar hasn’t scared you too much?”
“I guess he did a bit, to be honest,” Jesus responds, dropping His head.
“Omar is a good boy—most of the time at least. Sometimes, however, he can be a mixed bag. I mean…depending… Ah, who am I kidding? He’s crazy.”
“Sometimes,” Jesus says, His voice tight, and then swallows against the lump in His throat. “I think perhaps I should just shut up, you know, try to be normal—”
“No,” Guneet snaps, “never.” As he turns to Jesus, he continues with a lower but firm voice, “Look. Why do you think I wear this damn turban all the time?”
Jesus shrugs. “Isn’t it a sin in Sikhism to show your hair?”
“It was 90 degrees this noon. 90 degrees for God’s sake.”
“Well, if you believe it is a sin then—”
“Do you really think I believe in that shit? That hiding my hair would make me a better person?”
“Well—”
“It’s not about beliefs. It’s about freedom,” Guneet says with emphasis, raising his fisted hand. “Punjabis have gone through so much shit to keep their faith against the tyranny of Hindus, and after them, Muslims. They had to sacrifice with their blood to earn their freedom, to practice silly rituals that they literally made up. This is to honor their sacrifice.” Guneet says, gesturing to his turban. “Who the hell are they to tell Punjabis what to believe and what not to believe? Listen, if you really care about the bullshit you’re making up—”
“Forgiveness is not—”
“then the hell with whoever doesn’t. Don’t chicken out just because bullies like Omar are not happy with your way. Fight for your way. Fight for your freedom. It’s worth it, no matter the consequences.”
Guneet does not believe in Jesus, but he does believe in the right to believe differently. He is right. Why should Jesus reject what He vividly feels in His heart because it does not conform with the popular stories the others tell—each contradicting the other by the way?
“Thanks, friend,” Jesus says, His heart reassured by the moral support of one who does not even believe in Jesus. By a friend.
“Always. And shave that pathetic beard, will you?” Guneet says jokingly.
“You have a beard!” Jesus chuckles.
“Mine comes with the turban,” Guneet says and bursts into laughter.
With no resistance, Jesus gives in to the much-needed humor. Laughing out loud, they exchange an arm-wrestle handshake.
Before it hands the earth over to darkness, the setting sun peeks from behind the mountains at the shining synergy between the two friends.