This one is called Waiting for Jesus, and it's been read by about two other people. I wrote it one cold night after in taking the peculiar mix of gin and coffee. I don't recommend it for taste, but I do for creative writing, and if you ever need to drink something from a mug that tastes like mental breakdown. Come to think of it, the mix of coffee and gin was probably what resulted in the choice of dialect for this short.
I hope you enjoy.
WAITING FOR JESUS
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| Image Courtesy of Abi Jones - www.ajones-design.com |
It wis nine o’clock in the evening, minus four degrees
outside, and my Gran and I were waiting for Jesus to arrive. It’s not like he
wis late for a cocktail party or anything – in fact quite the opposite – I wis
drinking a lukewarm Coke and Gran wis drinking a gin and tonic. Gran lives in
this cushy wee place, a bungalow with crazy patterned curtains and cats on the
mantelpiece and a milkman. It wis Christmas and so the whole place was
illuminated in all the cheesy lights of the rainbow, and a crummy Santa hanging
in the window. She didn’t always live there though – before she lived there ma
parents made her live in this stale old folks home over on Brampton.
I can’t quite remember because I was only a wee bairn at the time, but I
remember me Ma saying she couldn’t look after Gran anymore so she had to be
sent this nice place where other people could look after her and feed her and
that. It wasn’t a nice place – at least, that’s what Gran said. Gran did
everything in her wrinkly power to get out of that place. Like I said, I can’t
remember myself but I’ve heard stories of her spiking the meals with tramadol,
running round in her knickers shouting obscenities, and accusing the help of
being bourgeoisie pigs there to enslave her. Needless to say, she swiftly and
artfully got herself out of there and negotiated a new place to live. Everyone
thought she’d be safer there. Turns out she wasn’t.
About four weeks ago this guy turned up at her front door in
the evening with a mug and a carrier bag full of random shite – there were
stones in his cup and he shook it at her and told her he was Jesus. Now my Gran
ain’t religious or nothing but for some reason or other she keeps a crucifix
hung on her front door. Nobody asks her why, but I reckon this is why this mad
bastard came a knocking telling her he was Jesus – either that or he genuinely
thinks he’s the messiah, either of which seem plausible.
My Gran being the type of person she is she lets this Jesus fellow inside, sits
him down and brews a cup and asks him about the weather and what he’s being
doing recently and whatever else popped in her wee heid. I don’t think it
occurred to her to ask for proof of his piety or any reason why the son of god
would come to the house of a random old bird. In fact no – she probably did
think of that. But it’s these sorts of things that Gran just takes as normal.
When you get to that age I guess you don’t want to question anything in case it
turns out to be normal and people start thinking you’re going senile. The irony
of the case is that instead she let this random guy into her house to stop
people thinking she’s crazy.
That wasn’t the end of it either. The next week on the same
day the same guy turns up at her door, shakes his cup and announces that Jesus
is back for another cup of tea. This time she asks him if he wants a dram of
scotch in it and he says yes. God almighty, I feel mad just telling it back to
yous. Anyway he sits down again and they shoot the shit about whatever springs
to mind, carefully recounting what they’ve both done since their last meeting,
a detail which Gran can’t really recall back to me when she finally tells me
two weeks later about her visitor. In fact no, she tells me Ma, I just happen
to be there.
So by the third week this is coming to be a regular
occurrence and Gran is building up quite the rapport with Jesus. A week later
she tells Ma and once she’s gone back home Ma barks at me to go and keep an eye
on her. I say bark as if it was all her idea, but I was starting to get worried
myself like – you see all those stories about old ladies getting murdered in
their homes on the news and that and it all seems a bit mean them blokes on telly
making these horror stories to keep people in their homes, but as soon as I
heard about this Jesus fella I was scared for me Gran. I love her, and I don’t
want to see her dead on the news.
So that evening, on the Jesus evening, I strolled over to me Gran’s place all
casual like, knocked on her door and told her I was gaunnae hang around so I
could meet this Jesus fella cause if I were acting all shady and protective
like, she wouldnae of gone along with it. My Gran enjoys being an independent
woman who doesn’t need family to protect her, which in retrospect is probably
why she rebelled herself out of the home.
So I sit down and she gets me my Coke and makes herself a
cup and sits down with me and we make small talk about the weather and how I’m
doing finding a job and that – not very well, by the way. So eventually I steer
the conversation towards Jesus and she instantly looks up at the clock on the
mantelpiece. For a moment everything is silent and she’s looking up at it like
a dog that just heard a loud noise. Its pure eerie, like something out of a
horror flick or something. It turns out it’s almost the time he arrives.
A car pulls up outside and all my hairs stand on end and I feel like we should
turn up the heating or drink more of my Coke which has now been warmed by my
hands or anything to get rid of the damn hairs on end. Does he drive? I didn’t
think he drove. I peer out the window. Gran is still being silent. I can see
the car but I can’t see anyone, and suddenly Gran gets out of her seat. I want to
stand up and say no she shouldn’t do whatever it is she’s doing but she’s
carrying on and I can’t move because I feel like I’m in a horror movie and I’m
petrified that I’m about to watch my Gran get bludgeoned to death by a mug full
of stones.
She goes towards the door and I get up to follow her and
just as I turn into the hallway she opens the door. For a moment I stare,
perplexed, looking through the open door, and waiting for my eyes to adjust to
whatever is there. But they don’t. It’s still black and I’m worried, because I
can’t see Jesus. I lean forward, squeeze my peepers all tight like and try to
focus on Jesus. I start to feel pretty stupid because I’m sure he’s not there.
That’s when Gran moves her hand away from the door, welcoming in nothing.
“Y’alright there Jesus?”
-Lewis
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