Plastic Jesus

Sean pressed his remote control and switched the TV off. He’d looked forward to this day since the end of last season. And now, as he heard the flutes, drums and drunken vocals blasting the orange tones of ‘the cry was no surrender’ out the windows from two floors up, he wished there had never been a bloody reformation. He wondered aloud, "If only we could all sing from the same song sheet, just once."

Green with envy, and blue with despair, he locked himself in his room and pulled his father’s old balaclava from under the bed and tried it on for the first time in years. As he straightened the face mask in the mirror he caught sight of his dad’s old banjo on top of the wardrobe. After blowing off the worst of the dust, he then wiped the instrument to a near shine with one of his socks from the washing basket.

He plucked a couple of strings and tuned it by ear even though he didn’t know what he was doing. It wasn’t great but as he was alone no-one should’ve noticed. He sat on his bed and sank into a deep depression thinking of loss. He remembered going to the games with his dad, cheering on the team through hail, more hail, rain and snow, never walking alone, until his dad passed away suddenly. He remembered attending mass every Sunday with his mum during her last few months of fighting a losing battle with cancer.

If only he hadn’t kicked his dog so hard during that last old firm defeat, perhaps he’d still have someone to help him through these darkest moments. It’s not that he killed the dog. No, the dog turned on him and kicked him back as well as sinking his teeth into Sean’s groin. His girlfriend took the dog when she left.

A part of Sean wanted to keep on the old balaclava, grab the piece that still lay under the floorboards and pay those upstairs a little visit. But that life was behind him. He fought the good fight now. Just like he fought the demons calling him back to the needle and the pipe. For the first time in his life he was on the right road, albeit not the most profitable one, but he knew the Lord was watching over him.

There was only one thing to do. Accept what obstacles God put in his path and negotiate them with the help of Jesus.

He removed the balaclava and made to straighten his hair back into its usual middle-pattern in the mirror. However, he was taken aback when he saw the reflection of a smiling Paul Newman staring back at him.

“Go on, kid, play it,” said Paul. “Don’t let them beat you. You know where to turn in these situations.”

Sean held up the banjo. “I…I can’t play it. I never put in the hours.”

Paul winked at Sean. “Of course you can, kid. You can do anything when you walk with the Lord.”

Sean smiled back, though tears started to trickle down his cheeks. “I’ll try my best, Paul. But I don’t want to upset anyone.”

“I know, kid. I know. Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”

Sean cleared his throat, hit a few strings and began to get the feel of it. Before long he’d sussed a few chords and something resembling music filled the room.

“What did I tell you, kid?”

“I can’t believe it. I’m really playing a tune. I can recognise the tune. It’s…it’s…”

“Yeah, I know, kid. It’s one of my favourites too. Let me hear you sing it.”

Sean tried to shake his head but Paul raised a finger.

“Have faith, kid. Have faith.”

“Okay, Paul. I’ll try my best. Here goes: I don’t care…if it rains…or freezes…long as I’ve got…my plastic Jesus…sittin’ on…the dashboard of my car. Comes in colours…pink and pleasant…glows in the dark…’cause it’s iridescent…take it with you…when you travel far.”

“You’re doing great, kid. Just great. Let’s hear you pump up the volume now. Sing it like you mean it. Let the angels hear you.”

Sean wiped his snottery nose with his sleeve and sat up straight before raising both the tempo and volume.

“Get yourself a sweet Madonna….dressed in rhinestones sittin’ on a…pedestal…of abalone shell. Goin’ ninety, I ain’t scary…’cause I got the Virgin Mary…assurin’ me that I won’t go to hell.”

As Sean continued to play the few chords progressively louder, Paul joined in with the singing, and the presence of the Lord filled the room with joy until they were both interrupted by a banging on the front door. They tried to ignore it but whoever was at the door wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Sean huffed and laid the banjo down on top of the Henrik Larsson quilt cover before leaving Paul singing a cappella.

Just as Sean was about to open the door it flew
in, almost knocking him to the ground.

Sean jumped back, fists clenched at first but quickly loosening. With hands outstretched, palms facing upwards, he challenged the uninvited guests. “What you doing, brother. Who in the name of the Lord are you?”

Two smartly dressed large men stood towering over him.

“So, ya think ya can take the piss out of Jesus do ya?” said the older of the two men, cracking his knuckles.

“Let’s teach him a Goddamn lesson, Bill,” said the other, trying unsuccessfully to crack his knuckles.

Sean backtracked along the hall, holding his hands out, trying to keep the intruders at arm’s length. “Please, there’s been a misunderstanding. I don’t mean any offence. I love the Lord. You have to believe me. Paul and I were just…”

“Don’t listen to him, Bill. That’s just the devil talking, trying to weasel his way out from what’s coming to him.”

“You’re right, Jed. His soul needs a right good old fashioned cleansing.”

“Please,” said Sean, rushing into his bedroom. “I can explain. Ask Paul. He’ll back up my story.”

Bill and Jed stopped in their tracks when they noticed Paul Newman waving at them from inside the mirror.

“How you doing, guys?”

Jed waved back, but Bill was more hesitant.

“Don’t be fooled, Jed. It’s the work of the devil. Paul Newman’s dead.”

“He definitely looks like Paul Newman.”
“Yeah, I’ll give ya that, but I’m tellin’ ya. It’s not him. I saw Paul Newman getting taken away in the captain’s car after he’d been shot in Cool Hand Luke.”

“But wasn’t that just a film, Bill?”

“Don’t be fooled, Jed. That’s what the devil wants you to believe.”

“Look guys,” said Paul. “Why don’t you sit down and join in with us. We’re only singing a couple of verses in praise of the Lord. We’re all Christians here. Let’s show some love.”

Jed sat down on the bed but jumped straight back up again when Bill saw him.

“Come on Bill,” said Paul. “Give us a chance.
What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Come on Bill,” said Jed, sitting back down again. “My feet are killing me. We’ve been chapping doors all day without getting so much as a have a nice day. Where’s your faith in recognising signs?”

Reluctantly, Bill joined Jed on the Henrik Larsson quilt and Sean picked up the banjo. He was still a bit shaken from the door being kicked in but soon found enough rhythm to get the right tune.

“Okay gentlemen, on the count of three, one…two…three.”

“I don’t care if it rains or freezes, long as I’ve got my plastic Jesus, sittin’ on the dashboard of my car. Comes in colours pink and pleasant, glows in the dark ‘cause it’s iridescent, take it with you when you travel far.”

“You’re all doing fine,” said Paul, keeping time by tapping the inside of the mirror. “Let’s give it some volume. Let the Lord hear us.”

Sean played the old banjo as best he could and everyone belted out the lyrics with the enthusiasm and joy that comes with being a true believer.

“GET YOURSELF A SWEET MADONNA, DRESSED IN RHINESTONES SITTIN’ ON A, PEDESTAL OF ABALONE SHELL. GOIN’ NINETY I AIN’T SCARY, ‘CAUSE I GOT THE VIRGIN MARY, ASSURIN’ ME THAT I WON’T GO TO HELL.”

They repeated those two verses again and again, secure in the knowledge that the Lord was smiling down on them with great pride at having overcome initial misunderstandings.

Sean suddenly stopped playing and looked up to find a gang of thugs standing at the door of his room. One glance was enough to identify the Union Jacks, Red Hand of Ulster and King Billy tattoos adorning everyone’s arms. His second glance identified the swastikas, white pride and National Front slogans. Bill and Jed only noticed the royal blue of the Rangers tops.

“Can I eh…help you, lads?” said Sean. “We’re feeling the Lord strong today. Feel free to join us. We’re all Christians here.”

“Shut up, ya fenian bastard wae yir we’re aw Christian shite. No us, we’re fuckin’ protestants. We’ve heard enough coming fae here. You and yir fuckin’ Virgin Mary lovin’ tattie munchers can fuck off back tae Ireland. But only once we’ve gave ye whit ye deserve.”

“What’s a fenian bastard?” Jed asked Bill.

“Haven’t a clue,” Bill replied.

“Tell them we’re Baptists from America.”

“Hi guys. Pleasure to meet your acquaintance. We’re from the church of…”

It was unfortunate for Bill that he received the first blow to the head, but the fact he became unconscious straight away probably saved him from further punishment.

Jed wasn’t so lucky. He tried to get to his feet several times before they stopped hitting him with their combination of baseball and cricket bats that had never seen a ball.

Sean blessed himself, clutched the banjo to his chest and looked to the mirror for moral support from Paul, but he was gone, replaced by Jesus.

Jesus stood, lone tear edging down his cheek, looking down on Sean, shaking his head and, in an apologetic tone befitting the Messiah of love and peace, said: “I’m sorry, kid. What we got here is…failure to communicate. Some men you just can’t reach.”

Sean turned around in time to recognise the club as a six iron. He closed his eyes and smiled as he thought of the Lord.