Jogja Jesus

I first met Jesus in Beacon Hill Park when I was seventeen. I was sitting on my favourite rock, staring across the ocean at Seattle, when a tall, lean bearded man, barefooted and dressed in white cotton shirt and white linen pants held up by a rope approached me. Looking at his blue eyes and long dark hair I thought he looked exactly like Jesus in all the Sunday school picture books so I wasn't completely surprised when he extended his hand and said, "My name is Jesus."

I was a mildly astonished, however, when he added, "You must fuck me and make me cum."

I made it very clear that there were certain things even the son of god could not make me do, but I got to know Jesus quite well over the months I lived in Victoria and, aside from being a barking mad beach bum, the ladies loved him.

When I moved back home there was another Jesus. This one I dubbed Jesus because he looked like the Jesus in the Sunday school pictures if that Jesus had lived to be fifty and developed a drinking habit. If this Jesus drank, he did it discretely, he never swayed or slurred but his face was worn, his shoulders slumped and he smelled of dumpsters and mold. He wandered the neighbourhood in dirty, ill fitting clothes and rarely had shoes, even in winter. He lived across the street from my apartment, next to the brothel, and I grudgingly gave him cigarettes and spare change when he asked. The few times I ran into him at the laundromat I gave him extra quarters for the dryer and once I bought him a coffee but still he never told me his story or even his real name.

But Jogja Jesus has pushed me over the edge. I am admittedly exhausted, the heat is admittedly taking it's toll, and I don't enjoy shopping even under optimal conditions so he's not entirely to blame. Still, when I ask him if he has this batik in a different size and he shuffles back in his barefeet with an even bigger shirt, and holds it up in front of me like I prize, I am sorry I bothered. When I shake my head  and turn to leave he grabs my arm and begins pulling random items off the rack trying to convince me to stay.

I don't look at any of the clothes he points to but at him with his long graying hair, close cut beard and olive skin. He is how I imagine the Sunday school Jesus should have looked in the pictures considering his Middle Eastern heritage, rather than the waspy man in blue robes the picture bibles portrayed. He gestures animatedly at his racks of clothes but I shake my head and turn to join the crowds moving through the market.

He follows me. "What you like? I will get. What you want?"

I ignore him and step into a shop in order to lose him. There is nothing in this market I want. Nothing I like. In my agitated state it is all more stuff to weigh me down and that is all. When I leave the shop empty handed Jogja Jesus is waiting for me holding up a blue batik shirt with a giant cloth flower sewn to the neckline. He thrusts it in front of my face.


"Tidak," I say pushing it, and him away, and moving down the street. But he follows me, calling after me so the crowd slows and stops to stare. I duck into another shop. I walk up and down the three aisles until I'm dizzy but am certain he must be gone. When I step out into the street there is no sign of him so I wander the street eying the jewelery and key chains, batik wallets and slippers arrayed on display. As I reach to examine a gemstone on the table I feel a hand on my shoulder. Startled I make a half turn, hands already curled into fists, and there is Jogja Jesus with a traditional orange and brown batik tunic.

"Augh," I say and once again I try to lose him in the crowd but just when I think I'm safe he shuffles in front of me proffering a decidedly masculine shirt in an XXL.
 
"Really?" I say, exasperated. "Really? What am I, going to grow into that?" I know he doesn't know enough English to understand but my new tactic is to engage him until he gets more frustrated than me.

"For you, 60,000 rupiah," he says trying to push the shirt into my hands but I don't reach for it and it falls to the ground.

"60,000?" I repeat, when he's straightened again from bending to retrieve the shirt. He nods eagerly.

"You must be completely insane. Not only is it a man's shirt that wouldn't fit me but now it's dirty and you want me to pay you 60,000 rupiah. Not happening," and I turn to leave.

"Okay, okay 70,000," he says.

This is the way most bargaining goes in Indonesia and I've yet to determine why merchants think that offering you an even higher price is going to get them closer to making a sale. I laugh and wave goodbye without turning back. I duck into another store but again he is standing waiting for me to re-emerge.

"80,000," he says still holding the hideous XXL man shirt. I stare at him trying to decide which of the weapons I bought in Borobrudur, the bow and arrows or the dart blower, I would most like to use him for as target practice.

After twenty minutes I decide on a pair of pants I am willing to settle for because I need pants, not because I particularly like them but Adik, who has found me again, will not let me buy them.

"They are too expensive and not good," she says taking them from me and putting them back in the pile.

"For you," says a voice behind me, "only 60,000." Jogja Jesus is proffering yet another green batik shirt that looks exactly like thousands of others in the market.

I look from Adik to Jesus then back to Adik.

I measure my voice and dole it out in a calm, even tone that declares my anger more clearly than a shout ever could. "We need to leave. Now. Before I punch someone in the face."

We hire a pedicab. I leave the market empty handed and Jogja Jesus standing in the middle of the street staring after us.