I Found Jesus
last night at Starbucks, playing guitar and singing harmony with a girl with crooked teeth and a tattoo cross on her cleavage. Every song was about how hard it is to be so fucking famous and how he’d like to get just one hour of sleep without someone asking to be saved. Between numbers he talked about how he missed that whore, Mary Magdalene, and the special thing she did with her toes, and about how last Easter he gorged himself on malted milk eggs and Peeps until he puked. He killed that room.
After he put away his guitar, got a double latte to go, and nicked a Featured CD off the rack, he stopped at my table and left with my girlfriend. I’d never heard anyone swoon before. The chick with the cross tattoo told me he always dumped them in a day or two, then asked if she could catch a ride. I drove past thirty churches, wondering if I would ever see him again.
This story originally appeared in the journal Night Train, 9/13/10. Night Train was a high quality print journal run by the esteemable Rusty Barnes, which later went online only, which is where this piece appeared. His current endeavor is Fried Chicken and Coffee, an online “blogazine of on-off rants, rural, working class and Appalachian concerns, with occasional crime fiction.”