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Chapter 8
“Bob, did you ever stop to think that Jesus, perhaps the most influential and controversial man who ever sucked in oxygen, went missing for eighteen years? Of course, I can’t personally attest to it, but I’ve been told the Bible makes no mention of his life from his childhood to the age of thirty or so… Why do you suppose that is?”
We’d just left Dave Cook’s Sporting Goods, where I’d added close to $400 on my MasterCard, having purchased enough fishing equipment to satisfy my father’s insatiable need for state of the art lures. Of course, when we got to Lake John, he’d cast one or two times, not catch a fish, and immediately change to a worm or salmon eggs, leaving me with ten or fifteen snell-hooked appurtenances still in their blister packs. Lake John was a full three-hour drive from Denver, so his question was welcome.
“The search for historical Jesus… that’s a change. I can’t remember ever having a discussion with you about such subjects. Found religion in heaven, did we?”
“Who said I was in heaven? For all you know, I may be a jackrabbit in Arizona… Mind if I smoke?”
A rhetorical question, if ever there were one. He’d already punched the button on the cigarette lighter. At least he wasn’t lighting a match this time. “Like I could stop you… Dad, have you noticed that we have about three conversations going on at the same time? Honestly, I don’t think we had three conversations in the last twenty years. Every question begets another question… what does that say about us?”
“Yea, the shrinks call it avoidance, I think.” He didn’t look at me, but his tone was all business.
“God, you have been busy the last year. I’m impressed!”
Now, he saluted me with his cigarette as he spoke. “I appreciate the respect, but you don’t have to address me as God. I'd have settled for Your holiness”. Then he chuckled as I shook my head. I think he enjoyed my exasperation. “Bob, I asked you the question about Jesus, because I wanted you to think about something… You see, even the rich and famous have mysteries associated with them. Who’s to say that Jesus wasn’t running numbers for the Roman mob? Hell, I’ve been dead for over a year, and no angels have presented themselves, asking me if there’s anything in particular I’d like to know about anyone. Maybe nothing was written about Jesus because no one felt it was important enough to comment on.”
All this time, he thought I didn’t care. I felt my eyes well with tears. “I’m… sorry, Dad.”
Dad pointed out the window. “There’s a 7-11 on the right. I’m just about out of cig’s… would you mind buying me another pack, for old time’s sake?”
I pulled in next to a Mustang convertible with the top down. An attractive woman sat in the passenger seat making eye contact with Dad. I considered asking him which particular brand he wanted, but, with her body language and my father’s grin, I knew my question would fall on deaf ears. To hell with it, you’ll smoke whatever I buy and like it.
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