Anne Carson has a book called GLASS, IRONY AND GOD, which has a section called “The Truth About God”, which has a poem called “God’s Christ Theory”, which has a stanza that sez:
This Jesus soon moved to Los Angeles and joined the police force; then the L.A.P.D. transferred him to Minnesota. — I mention these details to further distinguish him from the famous Jesus of Nazareth.
I Bryan Ray was born in Wisconsin, in the same hospital as the filmmaker Orson Welles (we, in fact, resided in neighboring cribs — I remember his infant hand reaching over and holding mine, to comfort me, so that I might stop bawling); then, when just a toddler, I relocated to Minnesota.
Eventually, I, too, joined the police force; at the age of twenty-five; and the abovementioned Officer Jesus from Mexico was assigned to be my partner.
“Wanna take a call, or get a bite to eat?” I asked from the passenger side of our squad car.
“Let’s take a call,” said Officer Jesus from Mexico.
I looked at the hotline telephone and all the lines were blinking, meaning that there were plenty of distress calls yearning to be answered. I pressed the button for Lucky Line Number 7 and said:
“Eagan P.D.; Officer Bryan Ray speaking. How can I help you?”
The voice on the other end said: “I’d like to report a domestic disturbance. Please come quick: There’s obnoxiously loud music with thumping bass leaking from the house across the street. — It also appears that an empty full-sized yellow school bus rammed straight into that house’s bay window and smashed it to pieces.”
“Hmm, I see,” I said, jotting this information into my pocket notebook as fast as possible. “It sounds like you live in a pretty violent neighborhood. There’s perhaps a lot of illegal drug dealing and prostitution transpiring in the vicinity…”
“No, no, no!” said the voice on the line: “I live in a quiet suburb. The event I’m reporting is a disturbing anomaly to us who live here — we’re all rather shaken up about it. — I and my nearest neighbors are huddling in the street outside of the house in question, as we speak. I’m currently using my cellular phone…”
“Oh!” I interrupted, “I think I’ve spotted you all now — we’re just pulling into your neighborhood: Do you see us? we’re the police car with the flashing lights and the blaring siren…”
“Yes! yes! hello! Can you spot me waving to you and shouting ‘Aho-o-o-y, schooner, aho-o-o-o-o-o-y!?’”
“Yes! Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!” I cried into the radiotelephone’s transmitter. “Here, I’ll open my window and wave back to you.”
After my partner Officer Jesus brought our patrol car to a halt, we climbed out of the vehicle’s windows and shook hands with the distress-caller and mingled with the other neighbors who had gathered there in the street, before the scene of the crime. Then we went over to investigate.
“Wow, that distress-caller was NOT joking,” remarked Officer Jesus, as he and I approached the house with the thumping bass music which had been hit by a bus; “it looks like this empty yellow school bus rammed straight into this house’s front bay window. — If the driver had been going any faster, the vehicle would have continued straight into the living room and demolished the furniture! I hope that whoever’s inside has not been injured…”
“What?” I said. “Why? These people who are inside the house are most likely lawbreakers — listen to the awful techno music that they’re blasting so loudly.”
Officer Jesus stopped and listened for a while. “You’re right,” he admitted; “that is seriously distasteful music. Let’s kick the door in and make some arrests.”
So we positioned ourselves on either side of the entryway; and, since, while posing thusly, I happened to be facing in the direction of the bus accident, a detail from the scene of wreckage caught my eye — so I remarked:
“Whoa, that vehicle is not entirely empty as we presumed: Behold, the pilot of the school bus is still sitting there in the driver seat — he’s all mangled and bloody…”
Officer Jesus craned his neck to get a better view; then he said: “The man looks dead. We’ll deal with him later. For now, let’s continue raiding this party — I’m starting to get angry at whoever’s inside, because they insist on playing their stereo at an impolitely high volume.”
“Alright, I’ll kick the door in,” I said. Then, after counting to three very slowly, I launched my police boot directly into the door and broke the slab off its hinges.
“Freeze!” we announced, as Officer Jesus and I stormed into the living room of the suburban household, “We’re the Eagan Police.”
All the partygoers put their hands up.
“What’s going on here?” I shouted. “Who’s in charge?”
A balding man in his mid-forties spoke up and said: “I am the father of the bride. We are having a wedding reception. Sorry about the noise; I promise that it will never happen again. The only reason that we are all drinking heavily and smoking is that marriage is a very special event; therefore we figured that it would be permissible to celebrate.”
“Well, you’re right about that,” I said, still stiffly aiming my gun straight at this man and sincerely itching to pull the trigger, “but your choice of music is atrocious. Bad techno? You could have at least tried to find some DECENT techno. — Festive music exists that does not offend one’s humanity.”
“Please, hear me out,” said the balding man in his mid-forties who seemed to be the party’s spokesperson. “What happened is that we ran out of high-quality wine, so we had to resort to drinking subpar wine. This had an adverse effect upon our choice of soundtrack.”
I glanced at my partner, Officer Jesus, and he returned my glance.
We then lowered our weapons and showed the father of the bride how to turn the cylindrical knob on his stereo system counterclockwise, which decreased the music’s volume to a respectable level. We also sifted thru the household’s collection of compact discs and tossed out all the bad ones. Then my partner showed the partygoers how to make the finest wine by using nothing but tap water.
“Well, that was a profitable call,” I said, as my partner and I climbed back into our patrol cruiser. “I think that everyone involved ended up relatively satisfied.”
“Indeed,” said my partner, Officer Jesus; “it’s always nice when things work out.”
We drove down the road for a while in silence, simply thinking to ourselves about how friendly everyone in that suburban neighborhood was — even the evildoers were amiable.
Then, breaking the silence: “Dear Jesus,” I said, “tell me what it was like, back when you were living in Mexico.”
Officer Jesus frowned for a moment, then he replied “I’d say it was rather enjoyable.”
His answer surprised me; so I said: “Then why’d you move to L.A.?”
Officer Jesus took a moment to think; then he said: “I guess it was because I wanted to.”
“Oh, come on,” I cried; “you need to say more than that.”
“Alright,” said Officer Jesus. “I’ll tell you the truth. I came to Los Angeles because I saw a news segment on television which showed the L.A.P.D. in action — it was impressive — and that inflamed my desire to become an officer of the law.”
I wrinkled my brow and asked: “So why did you move to Minnesota?”
“The Los Angeles Police Department transferred me.”
“So,” I said, “you did not experience any great longing to come here, the way that you felt a calling in your heart to join the L.A.P.D.?”
“Oh, no, no: Don’t get me wrong,” said my partner Jesus, “no, I truly love it here. — I just never would have thought to move to Eagan on my own. But I’ll go wherever the Police Force tells me. I’d proudly take a bullet for our Commissioner. He’s a good egg.”
“He is; he is,” I nodded in agreement.
“Ah, here we are!” Officer Jesus exclaimed, as we both looked up at the sign for the restaurant we had arrived at, which read “Fishes & Loaves”. My partner Jesus yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, and we screeched to a halt in the parking lot.
“Looks like we’re the only customers,” I remarked, as we climbed out of our patrol vehicle’s windows.
“Good,” Officer Jesus quipped: “that means more food for us!”
We entered the French glass double sliding doors, which opened automatically; and a bevy of waitresses greeted us.
“Why are they all wearing bikinis?” I whispered to Officer Jesus.
My partner explained to me that businesspeople can choose to run their establishments however they want: “Unlike art, entrepreneurialism has no rules.”
The waitresses seated us and offered us sensual favors, which we declined (“We took a vow to uphold the Constitution,” I explained; and the women looked confused by my answer, but they kindly respected my prudishness); then we ordered an extra-large pizza with every topping.
“This is good,” I said, after biting into my first slice. “This might be the very best pizza I’ve ever had.”
“I told you,” said Jesus, “this is a sterling place to eat, if you’re in the rural Midwest.”
So, after finishing our meal and tipping the staff generously (the restaurant itself actually closed subsequent to our visit, because we tipped its employees so well that they no longer needed their jobs; for they were not working there by choice but only on account of necessity), we proceeded to our next distress call:
OUR NEXT DISTRESS CALL
“Officer Bryan Ray and Jesus, can you hear me?” said a crackly voice on the citizens band radio.
“Yes, we read you loud and clear,” I announced. “Please state your prayer.”
“Oh! I’m so glad that I finally reached you,” said the crackly voice. “I’ve been trying to call this distress line for AGES, yet no one ever answers.”
“Well you’ve caught our ears now,” I said, “so don’t waste this opportunity. Let us know how we can help you. We’re here to serve and protect. And, you’re in luck: for we’re in a good mood, because we just ate pizza.”
“Ha!” the crackly voice coming over the citizens band radio seemed genuinely to laugh at this straightforward confession of mine. “I’m sure you guys don’t actually eat normal food like us regular folk — you’re on a strict diet of godly cuisine…”
“Pal, get to the point,” I snapped. “Pardon my irritability, but this is not a talk show: the citizens band radio is reserved for distress calls; so please inform us of a crime-in-progress or give someone else a chance to get saved. We have innumerable callers waiting.”
“OK, sorry, sorry,” said the voice, “this is no joke: I’m in dire straits at the moment; I need help: that is the reason I reached out to you.”
“Alright then, sir or madam, what’s your beef?” I made the motion with my hands that means “hurry up and tell me what you’re failing to articulate.”
“OK, here’s the real reason I called. I’m presently attending a bridal party, and, several moments ago, a pair of cops showed up to scold us for playing shitty music; then, as they were leaving, one of the officers taught us how to transform regular water into high-quality wine; but, here’s the rub: nobody who was present when this process was explained can recall what the cop said was the key to the trick. That’s my first complaint…”
“Wait — how many complaints do you have?” I interjected, while exchanging a look of annoyance with Officer Jesus, who was likewise losing his patience.
“There’s only a couple more — they’re short,” said the voice.
“Fine, let’s hear them…” I sighed.
“Alright,” resumed the voice, “so, after the water-wine problem, my next distress-request is that I have a friend who’s a royal official, and he desperately needs his son to be healed. His son works for an oil company. So we’re hoping that you can heal him.”
“Heal him of WHAT!?” I said. “You need to be specific. We’re not mind-readers.”
“Um…” the voice seemed to be sifting thru a sheaf of papers with handwritten notes on them about what to ask the Eagan Police for if they ever answer their distress line, “O! yes, now I remember,” said the voice, “you need to heal him of a disease. He has a disease that his father wishes you would rid him of.”
“A disease. OK,” I said, noting this down in my detective’s pad. “Continue.”
“Alright, then I have another friend who is being robbed at gunpoint presently, and he is being shot, and the bullet is moving towards his spine, and, if it manages to break past the bones of the vertebrae and sever some nerves, it might cause him to remain a paralytic until the day that he dies,” said the crackly voice on the citizens band radio. “He was hoping that you could cure him: Perhaps deflect the bullet and allow him free use of his limbs again.”
“Restore ambulation to a victim of robbery,” I said while writing in my mini-notebook; “OK, got it. Anything else?”
“Yes, yes, I have a few thousand people who have gone hungry. They live in the desert.”
“A few THOUSAND? How many, precisely,” I said. “I repeat, you need to be exact.”
“Five thousand people,” said the voice.
“Alright: ‘Fish & Loaves’,” I scribbled the restaurant’s name down on the paper. Then I addressed the caller on the C.B. radio: “Are we done talking to you yet?”
“Ah, pardon, sir — no: not quite yet. I still have one more request,” said the voice, more crackly than ever.
“OK, one more request,” I rolled my eyes.
“I’m at the beach right now, sun-tanning, and I’m looking out into the ocean blue, where there are many sharks swimming. I can tell this because of all the fins that are protruding from the surface. Now, one of my friends accompanied me here this afternoon, and he decided to attempt the illusion of walking on the water; but he fell into its depths. He’s drowning now: down underneath; his lungs are filling with liquid. — I need you to fish this man back up and help him stride over the top of the sea, until he reaches safe haven. There’s a bamboo raft nearby — if you could get him there, that would be great.”
“Rescue sunken treasure,” I said, writing frantically. “Okie dokie; I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait,” shouted the voice, “I have just one more request…”
“Go ahead,” I said, longsufferingly.
The voice on the distress line now concluded its list of grievances by saying:
“I need you to heal my mother, who was born blind and dumb. And also my father died a few years ago, and I was hoping that you could raise him from the grave, so that he can come back to reality and torment everyone with his boorish personality.”
After these last requests, I looked at my partner, Officer Jesus, and he took his eyes off the road to look at me for a moment; then we both burst into laughter. I replied to the caller over the citizen band radio:
“OK, that was good,” I admitted to the voice, “you fooled us: bravo, encore. We don’t get very many prank calls in this day and age, because the world is so broken that there’s really no time for jesting or joshing… ever. — But I admit that you cheered us up with your minor shenanigans; I enjoyed this bit of mischief: God bless you, my son. But I’m going to hang up now, because we seriously do have endless distress-calls to answer, and this night might never end.”
“Haha!” said the crackly voice on the citizens band radio, “I thank you right back, for maintaining your sense of humor during these hard times, Officer Bryan and Officer Jesus. Tip of the cop-cap to ya!” And the line then clicked and broke off.
I turned sharply to my partner Jesus, after hearing that last remark, and he met my gaze with wide eyes.
“A former member of the Force!” we cried in tandem.
Then we drove around town and answered all the other distress calls and solved every crime on our list. We’d been charged with renewed energy and moral pride after having had the honor to speak at length with a retired police officer. Thus, in each and every situation, we made the right decisions.
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