Night of the Virgin

TIMBER 2013

Alvarado O’Brien

Jacqueline (Jackie) Doyle and Stephen (Steve) D. Gutierrez (“Alvarado O’Brien) are San Francisco Bay Area writers and professors at California State University, East Bay. 

I.

Hail Mary full of grace, calamity, disgrace, last-minute miracles. Hail Mary as the football hurtles in the impossible pass toward the end zone, the basketball hovers in the air like some goddamn Holy Ghost about to bless the losing team in the closing seconds of play. Blessed art thou among athletes, immigrants, widows, derelicts and drunkards. White Virgin with simpering smile and downcast eyes. Brown Madonna robed in midnight blue and stars. Black Mother holding black baby Jesus, his right hand raised in benediction. Blessed be the fruit of thy womb. Grandmothers fumbling with rosaries, mumbling a prayer for each crystal bead. Skin like yellow parchment. Pray for us now and at the hour of our.

Silver metallic garlands and tiny colored lights festoon the mirror behind the bar. The bartender swipes the counter with a dirty rag and then pulls off his Santa Claus hat. “Last call was twenty minutes ago.”

“Shit.” Stanton says. “We got to go, Lenny.”

“Okay, okay, let me finish.” He downs his beer in one gulp, burps.

“Hey, man. You sure you can drive? C’mon. Give me your keys.” Stanton holds out his hand, palm up.

II.

I’ve seen a lot in my life, but nothing like this, not in a long time anyway. It’s the Virgin Mary standing in line at Kmart, all made up like the one down in Mexico. Must be on her way home from a part in a play or something, pretty little thing, too, all virginal but with the sly eyes of fucking, just like I think the real one had. Because she didn’t get knocked up by no holy spirit but by Joseph himself, he entered her, yup, he did, and she cried to the Lord above, that being God the father who gets all confused with his son later, and asked for help.

He, being kindly, gave her the right excuse. You know the rest. He comes down from heaven, saves us, la de dah.

“Well, Jesus Christ,” I say to myself. She’s holding this baby in her arms, whipped out of somewhere, a plastic doll, rocking it, cradling it like it’s one of her own children, a flesh and blood brat needing looking after. You know she had a brood of them after Jesus, don’t you? Well, she did.

But this one is, well, el primero. You can tell. But a fucking doll!

“Jesus Christ,” I say, again.

She’s looking down on it so fondly, batting her big eyelashes at it, cooing, “Mi hijo, mi hijo, my baby, you’re going to save the world.” She’s twitching too when she’s not gazing lovingly at him.

“Meth bitch,” I’m thinking. I’ve seen them all.

III.

“I can drive.” Lenny staggers off his stool, fumbles with his wallet and slaps a few bucks on the counter.

“Christ on a crutch. You’re kidding, right?”

“No man, I’m cool.” He nods, poker-faced. The bartender unplugs the colored lights.

“Right. Give me the keys.” Stanton reaches into Lenny’s jacket pocket.

“Cut it out!” Lenny assumes a boxing stance, swaying on his feet. “I told you. I’m like. Totally. Okay.”

“You are so not okay,” Stanton snorts. “We’re both wasted.”

“Just chill, man. Let’s go to Kmart and see if they’ve got any of those badass Santa Claus hats. Angie’ll love it. You got to laugh at a dude in a Santa Claus hat.”

IV.

Just about then, I kid you not, the bar spills out into Kmart. The one across the street lets out and the Super Kmart’s open 24/7 just in case one of them meth dealers takes a notion to upgrade his TV to the best available and come on in and plunk down a wad of cash before he can change his mind. I’ve seen it happen too many times to surprise me anymore. And of course I’m thinking, “She ain’t in no play, what the fuck am I thinking?” There’s a community college down the street that runs some this time of year, La Navidad, La Pastorela, whatever. Got dragged to one before the common era by my old lady herself.

Took a class there. Met her. Burned out.

Got me a job doing appliance delivery for Mel’s Appliances, one of the last independents in the area, the greater desert region. You don’t need to know where exactly, do you?

We’re in fucking Nazareth, Bethlehem, Galilee inside the big bazaar tent with the TVs against the wall and her highness herself edging forward at a snail’s pace cooing to this thing that I swear is now slobbering. Either that or she’s licked him between my twirls and swirls looking real nonchalant with my jumbo box of Cracker Jacks pressed to my belly for my own midnight fix and the two men approaching her from the other aisle, entering ours in that space between us, drunker than I been in a long time, saying, “There’s the baby fucking Jesus.” One’s got his arm around the other, and they’re both leaning on each other laughing. They’re carrying two Santa Claus hats and one of those light-up outdoor reindeers, you know the kind I mean.

The loudspeaker crackles. “Attention Kmart shoppers. See aisle 7 for today’s special on Fruit of the Loom boxers and underwear.”

V.

Sweating under the lights, the boxer in the corner lets go of the ropes, jogs in place, shakes his arms loose, then feints, jabs. The Virgen de Guadalupe tattoo on his brown back seems to weep as he drips with perspiration. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores. The gong sounds. The boxer crosses himself with his right hand, large glove clumsy, and dances into the center of the ring.

A Kmart clerk leans on his push broom and watches the match on a large screen TV in the Electronics section.

VI.

“Stanton, take a look here, it’s the Virgin Mary.”

I get to know these guys real quick. They’re drunk enough to spill their innards without noticing the mess. I call them L & S.

“She is looking beautiful, too. Radiant with life.” L scoots up to her, grinning.    “Did Jesus give you that? I mean Joseph.” He points at the baby.

“Lenny, don’t be a fool. It’s a miraculous misconception.” S is sweeping the whole store with his arm, doing his best to keep that reindeer pressed to his side with his free elbow. “I know the story, all the stories. I know how this one ends, Señorita. With everybody dying happily ever after or something. Shit, we’re wasted, Lenny. What’s your baby’s name, Miss?”

“Elvis.”

“The King?”

“The King. I found him in Vegas. He was so alone, wandering the streets. I took him home and he kept crying, saying he wanted to return to earth. I’m a Jehovah’s Witness, you know? We believe in the Second Coming. Everybody gets a second chance. I put Elvis inside me and let him rest and sleep, and when the church bells rang he just popped out. I live on 44th over there by the railroad tracks. They call me Virgencita but I’m not, I’m corrupt, but I can still rock Elvis because it’s going to be a better world, it is.”

“Amen to that,” L’s buddy S says, and he gets down on his knees and holds out a hand to her. She takes it and lifts it to her lips and kisses it.

L’s also down on his knees, looking up at her pleadingly. “That’s the best story I ever heard. I was born the day Elvis died. I think something big is going on here. What do you say, Señor?” He turns to me.

I shrug my shoulders. “It’s a strange world. Don’t let them tell you otherwise.” Then what I do is real simple. I reach in my pocket and pull out a Virgin medal I’ve been carrying like a lucky charm all these years even though I don’t believe in any of this shit.

“If you wear this on the night of the Annunciation you’ll be saved.”

“How come you ain’t wearing it?” L asks the logical question.

The cashier behind the counter is just looking at us, shaking her head.

“Because I been saved so long ago I just need Cracker Jacks.” I shake the box at both of them kneeling on the floor in Kmart like two devout Catholic boys waiting for Communion.

They squirm and sigh. They’re kind of caught in a bind in Kmart on their knees, looking foolish whatever they do next. I guess that’s why the one just starts blessing himself and the other one looks over at him and hiccups and mumbles, “I’ll be damned,” before praying himself over the second announcement of the Fruit of the Loom sale.

Meantime she’s just standing there transfixed, with a little smile.

“They are the fruit of your womb,” I say to her seriously.

She looks down on them both with pity.

VII.

Hail Mary, Cracker Jack mama, Saturday night tattoo special, bodega queen. Pray for us sinners. Oblivious to the scene unfolding by the cash registers, the clerk at the back of the store does a waltz with his push broom.

Resplendent on the big screen, the beaming boxer rotates in a slow circle at the center of the ring, holding a golden belt aloft with both hands. One eye is swollen shut and crusted with blood. His body glistens with sweat. The tattooed Virgin on his back gazes at the roaring crowd, her smile enigmatic. Salve Regina!