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The vagabond put something on the bar. It was the size and shape of a birdcage and covered with a cloth.
“A whiskey for me,” the vagabond said, “And a lemon soda for my friend.”
The bartender said, “What friend?”
The vagabond removed the cloth. Beneath it was a large Mason jar. Inside the jar was a man in his early thirties with unkempt hair and kind eyes. He was dressed in a simple short tunic and sandals. The man was perhaps eighteen inches tall.
The bartender said, “What’s his name?”
“This is Jesus Christ.”
The bartender studied the jar. “How does he breathe?”
“Through his nose.”
“I mean, inside that jar.”
“There’s air holes in the lid. See?”
Colored lights were strung above the bar. Reindeer and snowflakes were stenciled on the mirror with some kind of white stuff.
The bartender poured a whiskey. He said, “No lemon soda. How about a ginger ale?”
“Ginger ale’s fine.”
The bartender served the drinks. Jesus said, “Today’s my birthday.” He smiled. “Actually, tomorrow.”
The bartender said, “On the house. Happy birthday.”
“To tell you the truth,” Jesus said, “I was born in March. But everybody celebrates my birthday in December; it’s a tradition. It’s nice to be remembered, whatever the time of year.”
A woman came from the far end of the bar and sat down alongside the vagabond. She peered into the jar.
The woman said, “Where’d you get this guy?”
“Won him at a carnival.”
“Is he really Jesus Christ? You know—the Jesus Christ?”
“Who would lie about that?” the vagabond said. “Especially on Christmas Eve.” He drank his whiskey.
From the jukebox came the familiar opening strains of “The Christmas Song”:
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
Jack Frost nipping at your nose
“Written in July during a heatwave,” Jesus said. “Some things, you just gotta suspend disbelief.”
About David Sherman
David Sherman lives in New York. He took up writing during the pandemic lockdown. It was either that or renovate his apartment. David’s writing is getting better. His apartment is getting worse.
