Conversations with Jesus

This was one of the first stories I ever wrote. I've written, rewritten, scrapped, rewritten... It was a seemingly endless process. It is a project that is dear to my heart, partly because parts of it are direct experiences. I finally decided to try and get it published and it is in Magic We've Forgotten, an anthology.

A gentle shake on my shoulder roused me from the weird dream I was having. Back then, they were all weird dreams. It was the cocktail of not enough sleep, bitter cold, and rough living that brewed such nightly torments.

“Gringo, it’s time to wake up—” I opened eyes crusted with sleep to look upon the kind, leathery face of the Mexican security guard, Jesus. “—the jefes will be here soon.”

I was instantly awake. Several months before, I had overslept and been caught by one of the building’s execs going out for a smoke. He’d threatened to call the cops. I’d fled. It was several weeks before I came back. I was afraid of getting caught; cops didn’t deal gently with people like me, but this was prime real estate. It was a nook in a business park, protected from the wind and outside the view of security cameras. When you’re homeless, such perfect places are a rare find. It was risky sleeping here, even with Jesus looking out for me, but the chance to stretch out on my back and get some real sleep was too tempting. (I know you probably don’t understand, especially if you’ve never had to try to catch catnaps in a McDonalds while avoiding the watchful eyes of vulturesque managers all too willing to kick you out the minute your eyes close.)

Jesus sat down on a bench that I had moved over, to block me from the view of any random passerby, heavily. I must have looked worried because Jesus waved my concern away with a gesture. I smiled to myself, Jesus didn’t like to be reminded that he was older. “Lupe made us some tamales.” He passed three of the foil-wrapped treasures to me, which I accepted greedily. He watched me, a huge smile splitting his face, as I wolfed down the first one.

I didn’t demolish the tamale just because I was hungry, though I certainly was. Hunger was a constant companion for a homeless man. It was something that you learned to deal with. After a time, it just became another dull pain in an orchestra of dull aches playing inside your head. No, Lupe’s tamales were transcendent. Truly. That woman was a wizard in the kitchen. I looked at the other two tamales, weighing whether I should destroy another one.

Jesus laughed. We had known each other for the better part of a year, and I still found the sound amazing. He was one of the most honestly honest men I had ever had the pleasure of knowing. “Go ahead, amigo. Eat. Lupe cooked you more. Also cooked you rice and frijoles.”

That’s all I needed to hear. I tore the second tamale open. Now that the first was in my belly, I took more time with this one. Savored it. Let the spices play on my tongue. Let the chicken frolic in my mouth. (You think I wax poetic? Well, you’ve never tasted Lupe’s tamales. They were worth some purple prose, believe me.)

As I ate, I regarded the man sitting across from me. He was truly an enigma. I’d never met someone to whom kindness came so easily. It went beyond simple charity. His charity, and by extension Lupe’s charity, was sincere. Most people were charitable for a reason. They wanted to talk to you about Christ. They thought it would improve their image. Their charity shouted at anyone who would listen about how good ‘this person’ is. Not Jesus’. His was quiet. It whispered to you that you weren’t a cause, you were human.

He stumbled across me a couple of weeks after I found the courage to return to the building. When I first saw him, I’ll be honest, I was ready to run. What homeless man wouldn’t when they were found by a security guard? Luckily, I hadn’t. Not really my doing, though. I had become entangled in the ratty, old sleeping bag that I used. I broke down in tears because I thought this was it. Cops were going to be called and the world would know me for the worthless pile of shit I had become.

Something happened at that moment that would forever change the course of my life. Jesus crouched down and helped me untangle myself. I was stunned. I know it was a simple gesture. Live on the streets for a couple of years and see if your belief in basic human kindness survives. He helped free me from my sleeping bag and asked in his halting, broken English if I was hungry.

He said he’d be back and left. I quickly packed up my things, trying to be gone before he returned. Something stopped me. It was something about how Jesus looked. I waited and he came back. It would be the first time I tasted Lupe’s cooking and my first conversation with Jesus. My life would never be the same.

We struck a deal. I would help him with his English and he would make sure I was gone before the white shirts showed up. At first, I expected it all to blow up in my face, but slowly, inexorably, Jesus became one of the most precious things in my life. Ever.

He was one of the few people that I trusted with my homelessness. He never looked down on me. Moreover, he empathized with me. He told me of his days as a migrant worker in California. Of days spent chasing jobs, picking everything from lettuce to oranges. Getting paid next to nothing. Nights living in trucks under bridges when they couldn’t find lodgings. Times he had to walk between towns when there wasn’t room in a truck for him.

With his patient smiles and kind eyes, he slowly tortured my story out of me. He broke it free of the prison I’d put it in. I had, what I thought, was the perfect life. Good job, fast car, trophy girlfriend, killer apartment. I was on the fast track at the company where I was employed. I worked in Big Pharma. I ticked all the right boxes. Did my cleanses, watched out for gluten because I was “allergic,” did yoga classes. It was a dog and pony show. Every kale smoothie I choked down at work was because I wanted to present the right “image.”

Then I got sick. Not normal sick. Really sick. The kind of sick that doesn't fit the image, that makes you a pariah among your corporate peers. I was admitted to the hospital on Christmas Eve. I wouldn't be released for another two months. In that time, no one visited. I was well and truly abandoned by everyone and everything I knew.

I told Jesus in our specially imperfect way how I had spent nights crying into my pillow. How I was scared and lost. I didn’t know what was happening to me. The sickness had taken root in my right leg, causing it to become a mass of boils. Each one was excruciating and when they popped, they would rain yellow-green puss everywhere. The doctors were no help, being as delicate as a sledgehammer. They told me that I was going to die or lose my leg. It was a big chorus of helplessness. Through my story and tears, Jesus never looked down on me once. I was at a loss as to how to deal with this man and his unearthly grace.

After the hospital, I tried to return to my life but it wasn’t the same. That’s to say that I wasn’t the same. I hadn’t lost my leg but I lost something just as important. My confidence. In me. In the fact that my existence mattered. So, I came back an angry, bitter bastard. I couldn’t help it; I was always angry. Angry at my “friends,” angry at the world in general, angry at life. Just angry.

My work suffered for it. I no longer was able to forge those instant connections that had made my rise up the corporate ladder meteoric. I didn’t have it in me. It was fake. The veil had been ripped from my eyes. Soon, I found myself out of a job. Sure, they made it sound pretty and gave me a nice severance package, but I got canned for not toeing the company line. Not that I blame them, looking back.

I tried to find new work. Tried everywhere. At the time, I blamed everyone and everything for my failure to find a job. My sickness. The employers. The truth? I had a chip the size of Texas on my back. Not even McDonalds wanted to hire me. It wasn’t too long before I was selling things to make rent, but very soon I ran out of things to sell. With no money for rent, I found myself out on my ass.

No money, no car, no place to live. My pity train was long and winding. It was a long, hard road to find out that the only one I could blame was myself…and pity won’t get you anywhere.

After I finished my story, I couldn’t meet Jesus’s gaze. I didn’t want to see pity in his eyes but then he said, “Well, gringo, you are alive and you are walking on two legs, so that is good.”

I smiled when I remembered that part, somewhere in between tamale two and three. Smiling had become commonplace, which was strange because two short years ago, I couldn’t imagine ever truly smiling. But with this man, this earthbound angel, I had found a reason to lift the corners of my lips once more. To be honest, it was tremendously assisted by Lupe's cooking. She was truly inspirational in the kitchen. I can’t say that enough.

Jesus smiled at me between bites of his tamale. “Today is the day of interview, no?”

I was in the middle of enjoying my last bite. Eyes closed, slowly chewing. I didn’t want it to end. So, I didn’t even open my eyes, I merely nodded.

“Good, I have something for you.”

I could hear the smile in his voice and it caused my eyes to fly open. Jesus patted his backpack. “You finished? We go, get you ready for interview.”

He got up and I followed suit. I was apprehensive when he led me into the building, but trusted him enough not to say anything. We ended up in a boiler room that contained a small bathroom. Jesus pointed to a shower, shoving soap and shampoo in my hand.

I could never explain the heaven of a shower to someone who doesn’t know dirtiness. I wasn’t talking about being ordinary dirty, I hadn’t done anything but locked myself in the library bathroom and washed up using the sink and soap there for several months. I couldn’t tell you what I smelled like, I was noseblind to it. I knew it was bad. Beyond bad.

When the water first hit me, warm and luxurious, I felt the knots that had tightened my muscles loosen. It felt amazing. The water was a balm that soothed my broken soul. It washed off more than the built-up dirt and dead skin. It sluiced all the worries, the shame, and the dirty looks away for a few precious moments. My skin reddened under my fierce scrubbing. Grime that had lived on me for months broke loose. I never realized what a therapeutic experience showering could be. Removing the layers of shit made one worthy to rejoin the world, if only for a short while. It was like, for a moment, my homelessness had washed itself down the drain with the dead skin, dirt, and bacteria.

I stepped out of the shower a new man. I must have been beaming, I felt so wonderful.

“Feels good, no?” Jesus, who leaned on the other side of a support beam to give me privacy, asked as he held out a towel and some toiletries from around the beam.

I nodded enthusiastically. “You have no idea, my friend.” I buried my face in the towel. I just enjoyed the feel of it for a moment, soft against my skin. The towel was nothing like the ones at the no-tell motels I sometimes stayed at when I could scratch together the money. Those towels scraped across your skin like sandpaper.

I realized I was taking too much time and hurried through brushing my teeth and swiped some deodorant under my arms. For good measure, I used some between my legs knowing it was the worst offender.

He’d left an electric razor and I attempted to weed-whack my beard from mountain man down to five o’clock shadow. When I looked at myself in the mirror, staring back at me was a man I didn’t recognize. I hardly believed it was me.

I went to put on my clothes and found them missing. “Jesus, where are my clothes?”

“Lo siento. I throw them away.”—He presented a bag with new clothes.—“I buy you new clothes. But”—He pulled the bag away and nodded behind me.—“they are for after. Those are for interview.”

I turned around and caught sight of a clothing bag hanging from a pipe. I quickly unzipped it and found a suit jacket, button-up shirt, slacks, undershirt, and underwear. Below it were a new pair of shoes. I stood frozen, overwhelmed by Jesus’s generosity. It was too much. I won’t lie, I was a hair’s breadth from crying.

“¡Apurate! You going to be late, gringo! Come, come, try it on.”

Jesus had me in the suit in short order. He tsked and examined it, looking me over like a drill sergeant. I could feel it binding at the shoulders just a bit, but I didn’t mind. They were the best clothes I had worn in over two years.

“I told her she need to aflojar the shoulders. You so much… how you say?”—He snapped his fingers—“ Wider than our Lupe thinks you are.”

Our Lupe. I had never even considered that. This man, who so graciously shared his food, his companionship, clothes, beyond anything a homeless man could ask for, was going to share with me the love for his wife. In those two simple words, he made me family.

My eyes, which had started to mist, turned to full on waterworks. I couldn't help it. Even after all he had given me, I was always surprised by his generosity. He was kinder than I thought I deserved. Life had taught me that I was not human, I was undeserving of even basic kindness, but this man did not care what life said or had taught me. Jesus didn't do this by telling me; he showed me every day that I was human and deserved every decency that was afforded a human being.

I tentatively reached out my hand and placed it on his shoulder. I was awkward but Jesus merely put his hand on mine, gripping it tight. “Th-Thank you,” I finally managed.

“No, mi amigo, thank you. Miguel would be glad his suit was going to good man.”

Those words about knocked me on my ass. Miguel was Jesus’ son. He’d been beaten to death by the local drug cartel on a trip back to his home in the Chihuahua region of Mexico. I lost it. How could kindness come so easy to someone? I started to blubber and kept thanking Jesus over and over.

Jesus held up a rough and leathery hand. “Hombre, I know life has no been good to you. I know long time ago, life was better. You new man.” Jesus slapped his hand to the palm of the other, in a cutting gesture. “Clean slate. This job, maybe it is no best. It is… how you say? Opportunity. World no care if you are happy or sad. World no make you happy, you make world happy place to live.”

“Jesus, I know. I really do, man. I don't care that it's sweeping floors. I'll be the best damned floor sweeper these people have ever seen,” I said.

“I know you will, gringo. You know how I know? Because,” Jesus said, pointing to my heart, “your corazon. Is big. Lupe tell me, he no eat everything we give him. Big corazon on that one, he share food with more people than he eat, that is why he always mucha hambre.”

I would deny it but he was right. I did share the food he gave me. At the beginning, when I was new to the streets, I was selfish. Two years had taught me that no one survived on their own. I curse the fact that when I had the means it was something that I hadn't yet learned. But then, the pain taught me compassion. No one should ever go hungry. No one should have to endure the heartache and utter sorrow of an empty stomach that stretches for days. So, I ate a little and shared with others I knew had no angel to provide for them. I spread the gift that I was given because I knew that I would like someone to do that for me. I simply said, “I'm not always hungry.”

“No, you just eat like lobo,” Jesus said with a grin, “Now you go, get job, make me and Lupe proud!”

At that moment, I wanted to do nothing but make Jesus and Lupe proud. I may not have been born their child, but this was just as good, if not better. My parents may have made me, but Jesus and Lupe chose me.

So, I went to the job interview and I killed it. I was hired on the spot. The work was nothing special, just menial labor at a restaurant. I didn’t care, it was a job. I started the next day. I set my alarm because I had to be up and ready before Jesus would show up. It was an hour and forty-five minute walk to my new place of employment. I left the suit in its original package with a note thanking Jesus and Lupe once again. It would be two weeks before I would get a day off, and I was chomping at the bit to talk to Jesus.

I was awake a half an hour before Jesus was due to arrive. The time came and passed when he should have shown up for work. I waited in the vain hope that he was just late but the man had never been late in the whole year I had known him. He hadn't ever taken a day off that I could remember. I only left when I’d risk discovery if I stayed. I spent the day bouncing from restaurant to library back to another restaurant, willing the time to move faster than a snail's pace. Finally, night descended and I headed back to the business park. I tracked down one of the night security guards, a guy named Charlie I smoked with sometimes, and inquired about Jesus. He shrugged and said that he had called in Monday and talked to the manager. He hadn't seen him in four days. Worry blossomed in my heart and I spent the night tossing and turning.

It would be another week before I got another day off. It was nerve wracking. I didn’t know what to do with myself. To be honest, I had never cared for anyone in my life enough to worry about them.

It was a relief when my day off finally arrived. Again, I woke up a half an hour earlier than I needed to and waited with open eyes, trying to mentally will Jesus to appear. Apparently, for once, the universe was listening. Jesus arrived.

Jesus walked up to me with the same smile on the same kind face. But I knew him. Something was wrong. His shoulders were stooped, like a weight had been added to them. That smile, while bright, never pierced the veil of sadness in his eyes. Something was definitely wrong.

“What's wrong, Jesus?”

“Oh, no, gringo. Nothing wrong. Just tired. Life took bad turn. It is the way of life and Lupe was very old,” he said the last part mostly to himself.

“Lupe? What is wrong with Lupe?”

Jesus continued on as if I had not spoken, “I am sorry, no food today. No time, very busy. It has been very busy...”

“Jesus, what happened to Lupe?”

Jesus looked up at me and I saw that his eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. He quickly turned his gaze downward. It scared me beyond reason that he couldn’t meet my eyes. “It is part of life, gringo. We live and we die. It was Lupe's time. She died peacefully,” he stumbled over the last word. “I am thankful for that.” He forced those words out, past a lump in his throat.

My world shattered. I had barely known Lupe. I mostly knew her through Jesus, having only met her a few times. I felt like I couldn't breathe, like someone had gut punched me with a semi-truck. I wanted to cry or scream. Or both. If I felt like this, how must Jesus feel? I wondered. To this day, I don’t know how he was so calm.

I did the only thing I could think of doing. I hugged him. I hadn’t ever hugged anyone. Not really. I mean, I gave people guy hugs, the ones where you clap the other guy on the back. Those weren’t real hugs. This hug bubbled up from a deeper well. It started out awkward. Very awkward. But then, he hugged me back. Deep and encompassing. We were two men, gripped in an embrace of shared pain and loss. I lost count of the minutes that passed. In all my life, I don't think I have ever touched someone or been touched as truly as I was in that moment. Even in the depth of the grief he felt, Jesus gave me that. We spent the time we had before the executives arrived in companionable silence.

As I turned to leave, Jesus grabbed me by the shoulder and hugged me again. “I want very much for you to be at the funeral, amigo.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I buried my face in his neck and nodded. I felt the wetness of his collar and realized that I was crying.

It was another week before I saw Jesus again. The day of Lupe’s funeral. He still smiled, even though it was tinged with sadness. I’ll never know how he did it. He and Lupe had been together for somewhere around forty years. I couldn't imagine losing someone that was so fully a part of my life. Of course, I couldn't imagine that because, besides Jesus, I didn't have anyone like that in my life. When we saw each other, we hugged. Not like the other hug but no less important. We had crossed a line, we had become hugging friends.

Jesus drove me back to his small house. I had been there before. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something was different about it. It was like something had sucked the life out of Jesus’ home.

He led me in and showed me the bathroom. I gladly showered but even its balming effect couldn’t pierce the heaviness of the day. Lupe was going to be laid into the ground today. It was a thought that I found hard to wrap my head around. Some days, I still do.

In the adjoining bedroom, I found Miguel’s suit laid out for me on the bed. There was something sobering about going to Lupe’s funeral in her dead son’s suit. I dressed and was surprised that the jacket no longer bound at the shoulder. Lupe must have let it out. The realization almost had me on the ground, sobbing.

I gathered myself, determined to be strong for Jesus. I couldn’t fathom the depth of his grief. I felt on the edge of falling apart. I could never understand how he kept it together. If I was in his shoes, I would have broken down.

The funeral was much as I expected. Jesus had always intimated that they had a large family. So, there were many people. At least a hundred times more people than I expected at my funeral. Jesus stood up in front of the crowd and said some words. He told of his and Lupe’s life together, what kind of woman she had been, and how he couldn’t wait to see her again. I cried during his speech, but to be fair, there really wasn’t a dry eye at the funeral. Lupe was well loved.

Afterward, we headed to Jesus and Lupe’s modest home. The mood shifted from funereal to a much more celebratory atmosphere. I was taken aback at first. I thought everyone was being disrespectful, drinking and carrying on, until I saw Jesus doing the same. I listened and observed, quietly nursing a drink and realized that they were celebrating Lupe’s life. They had left the grieving at the funeral. I joined in and was regaled with more stories of Lupe. By the end, I felt so close to her, it was like I knew her all my life. She was mother, aunt, cousin, neighbor, friend… All around an amazing woman.

I wouldn’t get to catch up with Jesus for almost a month. I had gotten myself a bus pass which allowed me to leave later, but then I only saw Jesus in passing. Since I’d been working for a few weeks now and had been paid, I purchased myself a phone. It wasn't anything impressive, a simple flip-phone instead of a smartphone, but it was my first one in two years. I was quite proud of it. I also purchased Jesus one, as he didn't have one, so that I could check up on him. I knew he had other family and friends, others that were closer to him, but I wanted to know that he was okay.

"Oh, no, gringo, I couldn't," Jesus said, pushing the phone back to me.

"I insist," I said, looking at him pleadingly, "I can't go weeks without hearing from you. I need to know that you are okay."

He searched my eyes and saw the depth of my sincerity. Jesus sighed. He took the phone from me without another word. I had also brought food. A simple breakfast from McDonald's. He ate it with such gratitude that you would have thought I had brought him a steak dinner. I looked sheepishly at him and explained that it was all I could afford right now.

"Gringo, it is true that people give me better food before. But... if I ask man for twenty dollars who has a hundred and he give me twenty, would he been more generous than the man that only has ten but give me five?" Jesus asked.

I was astounded by the grace of a man who could make a simple breakfast from McDonald's seem like it meant so much. I wouldn't see him for a couple of weeks. We talked on the phone though. He invited me over to his house for dinner. I asked for the night off of work.

I hadn’t been back to Jesus' house since the funeral. It was a simple one story, a little bigger than a standard one bedroom apartment. It was well maintained, though. In front of a window at the fore of the house was a riot of color, a floral explosion that was the most beautiful garden I had ever seen. I was no expert, but there was something soothing about it. I looked around the neighborhood and smiled. Jesus’s house was easily the best maintained of the surrounding houses.

I knocked on the door and it was a few moments before he answered. He greeted me with a warm smile and a hug. He waved me into his house and towards a small dining room table. Dinner had been laid out. There were a variety of dishes from refried beans to tamales. I was taken aback by the sheer amount of food he had made for us.

"Jesus, when did you have the time to cook all this?" I asked.

"Oh, mi amigo, I no cook all this." Jesus replied. "This is the food that Lupe left in the freezer. I want to eat it before it goes bad... I cannot let it go bad. I can think of no one better to have sit at our table and share."

I was overwhelmed. I tried to stutter a response but nothing came out. I was amazed to look at all that food and know it was the last things Lupe had touched. That after this meal, there would be no more of Lupe's wonderful tamales. I looked up at Jesus, tears brimming in my eyes.

Before I could even start to protest, Jesus put his hand up. "I know what you going to say. Lupe love you. She no love cooking for you, she love you. If she had more time, she wanted to know you better. This is something she wanted."

I sat down like I was told. I saw that there was an extra place setting and asked, “Are we waiting for someone?”

“I’m sure she here. I no think she miss this dinner. She love to know that we love what she cook.”

I looked at the empty spot and knew Jesus was right. Lupe would never miss this dinner.

We ate. Jesus told me stories of Lupe. Funny ones. Sad ones. Simple ones in between. And, somewhere during it all, I found that I loved Lupe. Not because she cooked for me, I actually loved her. If we had had the time, I would have known her better.

Over the next few months, we would talk mostly over the phone. He invited me over a few more times to share a meal. When I could, I would stop by and bring him food. I was worried he wasn't eating well. One day, I decided to go over to his house unannounced. I hadn't heard from him in several days and I was concerned that he may have been hurt.

I knocked on the door and a strange man answered. My heart sunk in my chest. I just knew that something had happened. I barely stammered out the words, "I'm looking for Jesus."

"I'm sorry, who are you?" the strange man asked.

I took a breath to calm myself and said, "My name is Richard. Richard Meyers." I was surprised that it came out so calm and collected.

"Oh, yes, Richard..." The strange man seemed momentarily at a loss for words. "My name is Jorge Garcia, I represent Mr. Martinez in legal matters. I'm sorry to have to inform you that Mr. Martinez has passed..."

I knew that he continued after the words "Mr. Martinez has passed" but I stopped hearing him. Those words were the most difficult I'd ever had to hear. More difficult than being told I was going to die.. Those elicited fear. These words devastated me. I feared for the future, but more than that, there was now a huge, gaping hole in my life. Jesus was really my only friend. I was scared that I'd never find another.

I must have looked like I was going to pass out or something because the next thing I knew, Jorge was guiding me to the couch in the living room. He had stopped talking realizing that I wasn't paying attention. Time passed but I didn't notice. A glass of water was forced into my hand.

"Mr. Meyers, I know this is difficult, but there are some legal matters that we eventually need to attend to regarding the disposition of Mr. Martinez's estate," Jorge said.

I heard but didn't really care. What did it matter? My friend was dead. Well, maybe that is how Jesus started but he had made me family. I felt closer to him than any actual member of my family. They had abandoned me; Jesus chose me.

"Is it possible to come by my office later in the week, maybe?" Jorge said, as I found myself being led to the door. He was shoving something else in my hand. "Just give my office a call and we can set it up."

I was out the door before I looked down dumbly at what he put in my hand. It was his business card. I stuffed it in my pocket unconsciously. Then I took a walk. I couldn't tell you how long I walked. I know that I usually took a cab to Jesus' house because it was an almost seven hour walk back to where I stay. I knew I didn't take the most direct route back.

The week went by and I was pretty much on autopilot. It wasn't until I was washing clothes at a local laundromat that I remembered Jorge Garcia. I found his business card stuffed in the pocket of my pants. I recalled dimly that he had asked me to call his office regarding some legal matters. I flipped my phone open and thumbed in the number.

I didn't know what I expected, but I didn't expect anyone to answer this late on a Saturday. I was stunned when the phone clicked and a woman said in a pleasant voice, "Law Offices of Jorge Garcia, how may I assist you today?"

"I was told by Mr. Garcia to call in and set up a meeting."

"May I tell him what this is pertaining to?"

I gulped a deep breath and said, "Pertaining to…” I paused. I pressed the cellphone to my forehead for a moment as I gathered myself. “... the death of Jesus Martinez."

There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line. Then the woman asked, "Is this Mr. Richard Meyers?"

"Um, yes."

"My condolences on your recent loss, Mr. Meyers. If you will hold for just a moment, I will get Mr. Garcia on the line," she said. I felt the sympathy in her voice.

I didn't have to wait on hold long before Jorge came on the line. "Mr. Meyers, I am very glad you called. There are some matters regarding Mr. Martinez's estate that need to be taken care of. Would you happen to be available tomorrow at around three?"

"What is this in regards to?" I asked, genuinely confused. What legal matters would I be a party to?

"I'm not at liberty to discuss any specifics over the phone. Unfortunately, Mr. Garcia's wishes in this regard were clear. This must be done in person. So, would three o'clock be a good time for you tomorrow?" Jorge asked.

"Um, yeah, I can make it work."

"Good, then I'll see you tomorrow at three."

The night rushed by, and before I knew it, three o'clock had arrived and I was standing in front of the law office of Jorge Garcia. I steeled myself for what was to come and opened the door. I was greeted by a good-looking, young Hispanic woman. I recognized her voice from the phone. "You may go right in, Mr. Meyers. Mr. Garcia is expecting you."

I nodded in thanks and opened the door to Jorge's office. His office was well appointed but spartan. I appreciated that. No clutter.

Jorge stood up from behind his desk and extended his hand. When we shook hands, I noticed he had a good firm grip. "If it would be okay with you, Mr. Meyers, let's get down to business. I'd like this taken care of before Jesus' funeral in a couple of days," Jorge said bruskly.

"He hasn't been buried yet?" I said incredulously. The words were out of my mouth before I could even think to stop them.

"You didn't know? I'm sorry, I assumed that one of the family contacted you."

"I only met some of his family at Lupe’s funeral..." My eyes automatically cast themselves to the ground. “That is to say, that I only really know them in passing.”

"Oh, well, I'm sure that they would like to meet you and have you speak at the funeral, considering you were such a large part of Jesus' life. I'll give you contact information for his sister after we have taken care of the business at hand," Jorge said.

"I don't even know what the business at hand is."

"Well, actually, Mr. Garcia prepared a video for this eventuality," Jorge answered and turned on a TV behind him. It flickered to life with a frozen picture of Jesus on it. He hit play.

"Ni se lo que estoy haciendo," Jesus said.

Offscreen, Jorge said, "Just tell him what you told me. Explain what you are leaving for him and why."

Jesus turned back to the camera. He was plainly uncomfortable being filmed but he sighed and gathered himself. He said, "Well, gringo, if you are watching this I am dead. I hope I'm looking down on you with my Lupe at my side," he gives a sad smile. "I know you wonder what you doing in Mr. Garcia's office watching video of me. Well, I tell you: I leaving you my house and most of my posesiones. Some of the sentimental things I sending back to my family in Mexico or to my sister in Texas, but everything else is for you.

I know you no understand. You gave Lupe and me purpose after we lose Miguel. We were without purpose before you came along. Lupe barely got out of bed. Then you came into our lives. Suddenly, Lupe was cooking and I was smiling again. It felt good to be wanted and needed again. For that, Lupe and me are so grateful.

You may ask why I no give mi house to mi family. First, you family, gringo. Second, mi family will just sell it. That house deserves to be home and I think you make it a home. Lupe and me spend fifteen good years in that house. It no just wood, gringo, it full of the life Lupe and me had. I hope it full with your life, too."

Jorge could be heard once more offscreen, "Perfecto, Don Jesus."

The video ended with Jesus smiling, practically beaming with pride.

I sat frozen. A house? Jesus' house? The reality hit me a few minutes after the video ended. Jesus left me his house! My eyes flooded with tears at the realization. Jorge came around the table to comfort me and give me a tissue. Once I calmed down, I filled out some paperwork and before I knew it, I was no longer homeless.

I was given the contact information for Jesus' sister. I called immediately. She answered and we talked for almost an hour. The funeral had been postponed because of family traveling from Mexico and she wanted to know if I could speak. I told her I could, though it would be hard to hold back tears. She understood. I told her I didn't speak Spanish and she said that was fine. Not everyone in the family did so there would be someone to translate at the funeral.

Before I knew it, the day of the funeral was here. I stood in front of a crowd of people with the man I owed so much to in a pine box in front of me. I gripped the edge of the pulpit, all words I had prepared fled. Sweat poured from every pore, at least I thought I could feel it soak my shirt at the small of my back. My eyes swept the crowd, looking for a lifeline. Then I saw Jesus’ picture on top of his coffin. I saw that smile…

“Today I stand in front of you to say goodbye to a man.” My eyes scanned the crowd once more, but this time I gathered their eyes with mine. “But standing here before you, I can tell he was much more than a simple man. He was a father, brother, uncle. He was family, even to those of us not lucky enough to be related by blood.” I wiped away a tear that had snuck to the corner of my eye. “I can’t tell you how to say goodbye to such a man, I don’t know how I’m going to say goodbye. All I can tell you…”

Once I started, it was like a dam broke inside of me. The words just tumbled out, at first just a trickle but then like a torrent. I told them what Jesus had done for me and was still doing for me. More than that, I told them what Jesus meant to me. I told them who Jesus was. By the time I was done, there wasn't a dry eye left. Except mine. I explained to them why I wasn't crying. Jesus wouldn't want me to. So I wouldn't cry for Jesus, I would be happy he was with Lupe instead.

“...Jesus told me one day that the world didn’t care if I was happy or sad, that the world wouldn’t make me happy. It was my job to make the world a happy place. So, that’s what I’m going to do. For me. For Jesus. For Lupe. For Miguel. For all of you.”

I took a deep breath and looked out to the crowd. The sea of faces, all focused on me. They were smiling and nodding their collective heads.

Many of his family came up and introduced themselves. Some I had met at Lupe’s funeral, but there were so many more. I couldn't remember how many relations I met, it was a tad bit overwhelming. They all told me how Jesus used to talk about me. Like a proud father. I almost broke down and cried but I remembered my promise. This was Jesus' day.

Almost a year and a half has passed since Jesus' funeral. There isn't a day goes by that I don't miss him. Then there are the days that something happens that makes me feel like he is right here with me. Last week I was at work and I was taking out the trash. I heard a humph from within the dumpster when I threw in the bag. I investigated and found a homeless man. I told him to get out

immediately. He was dirty. Ratty shirt and pants. Shoes that barely covered his feet due to all the holes. I noted it all. And I remembered when it was me.

"You shouldn't hide in the dumpster like that, it is an easy way to get killed. They come by and take the trash at all hours," I said.

He grumbled and started to walk off. I recognized the hatred, the anger at even those who only wished to help. I knew it only too well. I jogged after him, catching him before he left. "Hey, mister, before you go, would you like something to eat? I know it isn't much, but I can offer you a sandwich and some soup."

As I led the man inside to get some food, I smiled. I knew that wherever he was, Jesus was watching and appreciated the full-circle life had taken.

Thank you for reading "Conversations with Jesus." Any comments would be welcome, you can actually message me here. Tips will be appreciated!