I thought it was only me and thousands of other working people, but it turns out that Jesus hates commuting too. How do I know? Well, he appeared to me on the NJ Transit bus the other day.
He was a tall African American with chiseled features, wearing jeans, a button down white shirt and Birkenstocks.
Before sitting next to me, he removed the soiled coffee cup and food wrappers wedged in beside his seat.
“How can you stand this?” He said.
“I don’t know, Jesus. I guess we just get used to it.”
“And the mildew and dust?” He said, coughing.
“The same. If you don’t mind me asking, Jesus, why are you in New Jersey?”
“Trying to convince Governor Christie from running for president. Not sure I succeeded.”
We sat outside the “teardrop” NJ Turnpike toll plaza for almost thirty minutes. It was 9:00.
“I have to be somewhere at 9:30,” He said.
“So do most of us,” I said. “Can you fix it?”
“This is beyond my powers,” He said, shaking his dreadlocks.
I thought to myself, If that’s the case, then we are royally fucked. I didn’t think Jesus would approve of profanity.
“God bless you,” I said.
He looked at me quizzically.
“Oh, sorry,” I said.
“Are you late for work every day?” Jesus said.
“Not every day, maybe every other day.”
“How do you accomplish anything ?”
“It’s a challenge.”
Jesus started to sweat.
“Hey, Jesus, do you want to listen to Pandora or read the paper? It’ll pass the time.”
“What’s Pandora?” He said.
“It’s a radio station on the iPhone.” I pulled out my phone to show Him.
“Oh, cool. Sure.”
He was rocking out to the Five Blind Boys of Alabama singing “I’ll Fly Away.”
It was 9:26 when we arrived at Port Authority Bus Terminal.
“Where are you headed, Jesus?”
“I’ve got to be at the Brooklyn Bridge to stop someone from doing something stupid.”
“You won’t make it, Jesus.”
“Shit! I mean, shoot,” He said.
“It’s okay, Jesus. Commuting’ll do that to you.”
“I don’t know how you stand it, Erica. I hate commuting.”
We shook hands before exiting the bus; then Jesus flew down a flight of stairs.