Free Halfway Home by Paul Monette Page B

on Saturday nights. The straight ones like their hookers to do the dominatrix thing, with cattle prods. Really, when you come to think of it, isn't crucifixion just another turn of the screw?"
    "I don't have to listen to this shit!"
    Ah. About halfway up the bleachers a lanky man is standing. The woman beside him is pulling his arm, telling him to shush. But he's in his own spotlight now, and there's only one way to go.
    "I'm a Christian," he seethes at me. "And you're a sick fuck."
    "Thank you for sharing," I purr in reply, as he clumps down the steps, the woman huddling behind him in his wake. "Blessed are the Rock 'n' Rollers, for they shall see Elvis."
    But he won't be drawn in any further. He storms across the skirt of the stage, past a flinching Mona, and heads out through the main entrance. His girl makes sure the door doesn't slam behind them. Everyone else has watched them go as if it was all part of the act, which of course it was.
    "Just like my brother Aaron, flies right off the handle. Of course it's been very hard on Aaron, bunking all those years with the Son of God. See, Aaron was non-Immaculate. We were always a little out of sync, because he'd be playing baseball and I'd be doing miracles. But you know what's weirder than that? He had a lot more trouble with me being gay than being God. He was the butchest kid in Nazareth, but something about it really threatened him."
    This is all new, and I don't know where it's going. I never did a brother riff before. What's curious is, I'm not really thinking of Brian, not consciously. I'm actually in character. I've crossed that invisible line, and the man I call Aaron is right there in my mind. He's swarthy with lush brown hair and a beard, dressed in a caftan just like mine, the gleam of a Palestinian terrorist in his eye. Gorgeous. A real warrior.
    "And he's a much better carpenter too, so he's the one took over the shop. Which was fine with me because, honey, I can hardly hold a screwdriver straight." I sigh and examine my nails, pouty as a princess. "He still lives in Nazareth, building condos. Married, coupla kids. And when people ask if he has any brothers and sisters, he says he was an only child." I shrug. I can tell the natives are restless, as if they know I'm off the track, and besides, I'm not even shocking them anymore. "I don't blame him really. He didn't want his name linked with the founder of a homo church. Too bad he can't have a Second Coming, because it would blow him away to see how it's taken off. Success he can get behind."
    My tape comes softly up again, the Mormon Choir singing "Amazing Grace." By this point I am supposed to be into the Last Supper, strutting around and rubbing my privates—flashing them on a good night—and taunting them with "This is my body—eat!" Somehow I have lost the momentum, or else I'm just too weak tonight to pull out all the stops. I turn and shuffle back to the platform, picking up my toolkit and hoisting the cross to my shoulder again.
    I start moving across the stage, dragging the cross after me. I've let the energy drop, which bothers me in purely theatrical terms. I usually go off with a bang, telling them about my Jesus game show, my intro into cable. I stop and give them a melancholy smile. They've really been pretty attentive, and I can feel they'd like another little spin, doesn't have to be a bang. So I reach down in, not sure what I'm going to come up with.
    "You know what's funny? When I first got it on with Judas, he reminded me of Aaron. I don't know, something about that furry Jewish chest—chunky shoulders—little bit of a gut. Plus that love Buick of his, with a nice big mushroom head. It's like I was getting fucked by my own brother. You know?"
    Nope, they don't know about this part at all, not a clue. I can feel them hunkering down in their seats again. They're expecting another simulated orgasm, me sitting on Aaron's pole. But that's my last surprise, to turn it all upside down, just like