I can hear the sharpening knives again. Ssshhhk ssshhhk ssshhhk… My brakes are failing, and this time, I’m not going to get them fixed. I’ll let the rotors grind to dust. You see, I make the final loan payment in a week, and upon reception of the title I’m gonna march into a car dealership armed with poor credit and a winning smile and trade that death trap for something with halfway decent gas mileage. I figure if I zero in upon a dealership with flagging sales, desperate salesmen in plaid sport coats, and an inventory afflicted with widespread hail damage, I’ll have a shot of convincing them I can pay the monthlies. Otherwise, I’ve be enjoying several long train rides everyday. Not to mention the seven mile walk between the nearest depot and work.

It’s not just the brakes. The transmission is clunking again, the fuel injectors are clogged and encrusted, the radiator is smeared with patch goop, and several dents from my angry foot are all competing to make my car the noisiest, ugliest vehicle on the highways.

I was despairing for my driving safety a few evenings ago when I exited 290 at the UIC medical district. As I sat at the Roosevelt traffic light, deeply immersed in my self-pity party, I heard a shout from the sidewalk. I killed the radio and sought the source of the holler.

A young black man in stylish duds and a pink golf hat stood propped up on an elderly walker. He was looking at me.

“Hey!” he shouted.

“Hey!” I shouted back.

“He loves you, man!”

I did not answer this. I suspected Christ. I was right.

“He loves us all! He blesses us all! He loves you, man!”

He pumped his fist in the air like Kirk Gibson, except he obviously wasn’t running around the bases after hitting a World Series home run. (though he could have fucked up knees like Kirk did, who knows with that geriatric body propper)

The poor fucker was exalted by Christ’s divine lightbulb of joy. Jesus was burning in his skull like a big happy bonfire, immolating any doubts and pains that should’ve racked him like a concentrated earthquake. He was so joyous that he decided I would make a good convert. Using his crutch device, he hobbled towards my vehicle as I ‘prayed’ for the light to turn green. His deity won, and soon his head was looming in my open window.

“Have you accepted Him as your lord and savior, young sir?”

The light went green. To accelerate would be murder. My window frame would decapitate him.

“Go away.”

“Take this young man, save yourself.”

A pamphlet. Okay. Nothing could top the green Jews for Jesus pamphlet I got downtown last month that used talking vegetable comics as religious allegory, but maybe there’d be chuckle or two within. I took it.

“Bye now. Jesus may be great, but Pepto-Bismol is what I need right now.”

“Please, for your eternal soul, accept him in your heart! Avoid the lake of fire!”

Uh-oh. He’s a fire and brimstone type. My sympathy evaporated, my heart went cold, and I resented his interruption of my voyage. I wanted him to get away from my car so I could continue without risking manslaughter charges.

“Look. Pal. If Jesus gave a tin shit on a hot roof about you, he’d be down here fixing your gout or whatever the fuck is wrong with you. He’s probably up there in heaven, eating popcorn, watching you on Heaven TV, giggling at you gimping around in traffic. I can almost hear him: ‘Look at this one Dad! He can barely walk and he’s wobbling in front of cars. All for my sake!’ Keep your brainwashing horseshit pamphlet. Go babble about judgement day to someone else. Go molest people at bus stops. They don’t have massive steel cars to run over your empty fucking head.”

He backed off, and on my merry sinner way I went.

The crippled missionary must’ve had a drastic downturn of faith during the following days. I’m not sure if my harsh denunciation contributed to his relapse, but I saw him on the news last night.

He was shot in the head, dead. What I never knew from our brief encounter was this: the proselytizer was a crackhead. When we met, he wasn’t shaking, drooling, or sweating. He even spoke in mostly complete sentences. I never would’ve guessed.

But in the two days since, his weakness overtook his Christlove, and back he went to the tiny metal dick. Maybe the whole sermon was a sham and he was trying to get my car antenna so he could load it with steel wool to burn some rocks.

He couldn’t carry his crack in his hands and grasp his walker at the same time, so when he went to score, he used his mouth as a shopping cart. Pockets? Hello!

He was found gunned down with a mouth full of unsmoked crack. Poor bastard. Finally, I felt remorseful. There's no need to be nasty to crazies, even when they bother me. Next time I'll just answer yes to the lord and savior question.

I hope Jesus was watching. If not, I’m sure he can catch it in reruns or syndication.

The Chicago Sun-Times Article

11:55 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm