Doomed

^{DECEMBER 21, 10:34 A.M. PST} My Flirtation with the Divine

Gentle Tweeter,

Jesus Christ made the best fake boyfriend ever. Wherever my family traveled, at our homes in Trinidad or Toronto or Tunisia, the doorbell would ring, and some aboriginal delivery peon would be at our front step bearing a vast bouquet of roses from Him. Dining at Cipriani or Centrale, my dad would order me the lapin à la sauce moutarde, and I’d wait for it to arrive at the table before regarding my plate in pretend disdain. Recoiling, I’d signal the waiter, saying, “Rabbit? I can’t eat rabbit! If you knew anything about Leviticus Two, you’d know that an edible beast has to chew a cud and have a hoof.”

My father would order the salade Lyonnaise, and I’d send it away because pigs didn’t chew cuds. He’d order the escargot bourguignon, which I’d reject because the Bible book specifically forbids eating snails. “They’re unclean,” I’d insist. “They’re creeping things.”

My mother would put on a serene Xanaxed mask. The buzzwords of her life were tolerance and respect, and she was trapped between them as if crushed in an ideological vise. Keeping her voice calm, she’d ask, “Well, dear, what can you eat—”

But I’d cut her off with a “Wait!” I’d fish a PDA from the pocket of my skort and pretend to find a new message. “It’s Jesus,” I’d interrupt, making my parents wince. “He’s texting me!” Their own dinners cooling, I’d make them bide their time. If either of them said a word of protest I’d shush them as I pretended to read and respond. Without looking up, I’d squeal, loud enough for the assembled diners to overhear, “Christ loves me!” I’d frown at my little PDA screen and say, “Jesus disapproves of the dress you’re wearing, Mom. He says it’s too young for you, and it makes you look slutty….”

My parents? I’d become their worst nightmare. Instead of hoisting the ideological banner they’d so proudly bestowed upon me, instead of accepting the torch of their atheist humanism, I was scrolling through the messages on my phone, telling them, “Jesus says that tofu is evil, and all soy is of the Devil.”

My parents… in the past my parents had put their complete faith in quartz crystals and hyperbaric chambers and the I Ching, so they didn’t have a credible leg left to stand on. Throughout this dinner stalemate the waiter had remained steadfast, standing beside our table, and I now turned to him and asked, “Do you, by any chance, serve locusts and wild honey?” I asked, “Or manna?”

As the waiter opened his mouth to respond, I’d turn back to the PDA in my lap and say, “Hold on! Jesus is Tweeting.”

My father caught the waiter’s eye and said, “Perry?” To his credit, my dad knows the name of every waiter in every five-star restaurant in the world. “Perry, would you give us a moment alone?” As the waiter stepped away, my dad shot my mom a look. Almost imperceptibly his eyebrows arched and his shoulders shrugged. They were trapped. As former Scientologists and former Bahá’is and former EST-holes, they could hardly question me as I merrily keyboarded my devotions to my own choice of belief system.

Resigned, my father lifted his fork and waited for my mother to follow suit.

As they each put a first bite of food into their respective mouths, I announced, “Jesus says I should publicly support the next GOP candidate for president!”

Hearing that, both my parents gasped, inhaling food and choking. Swilling wine, they were still coughing, everyone in the dining room watching them wheeze, as my dad’s phone rang. Breathless, he answered it. “A product survey?” he asked, incredulous. “About what? About the toothpicks I buy?” Almost shouting, he demanded, “Who is this?” Sputtering, he demanded, “How did you get this number?”

And for that, MohawkArcher666, I thank you wholeheartedly.