“Yes. That. Or beer. Turn it into ice cold beer and let me drink it.”
“You sound like an alcoholic, Jim.”
“You would know.”
“Drinking is not good for your body. In fact, it’s very hard on your body.”
“Let’s not go down that road.”
“Okay,” he said. “What road would you like to go down?”
“I want a miracle. I want proof that I’m talking to God.”
“One man’s miracle is another man’s reality.”
“Oh, screw that,” I said. “Turn something into something else, and quit giving me shit.”
“And if I performed a miracle for you, that would finally satisfy your curiosity?”
“Yes.”
“No it wouldn’t. You would ask for another miracle, and then another. Always doubting.”
“You’re not going to perform a miracle, are you?”
“No. That is, not in the way that you mean.”
“But you perform other miracles?”
“Every day. Every second.”
“But if you performed a miracle for me now, then I would no longer have to believe, or have to have faith.”
“This is true.”
“I think faith is overrated. Turn something into something else and I will be your biggest follower, I promise.”
“I don’t want a follower. I just want you to listen, to think for yourself and to lead the best life you can. Ultimately, to define who you are and to live by those convictions.”
“And if you performed a miracle for me…”
“Then you will no longer make your own choices.”
“I would blindly do whatever you say,” I said.
“Yes. Exactly.”
“But you are here now, claiming to be God.”
“Like I said, one man’s miracle-”
“Is another man’s reality,” I finished.
We were silent some more. I looked in his half-empty cup. It was still coffee.
Jack closed his eyes, seemed to have fallen asleep, but he did this often, going to wherever God goes.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Very.”
“I’m going to hurt a man,” I said.
“Do what you must.”
“Really?”
“I do not define for you what is right or wrong.”
“Au contraire,” I said. “There’s a whole book out there that defines exactly what we should do.”
“Was that French?” he asked.
“Oh shut up,” I said. “Wait, did I just tell God to shut up?”
“Yes. Would you like for me to shut up?”
“No.”
“Remember, I will not tell you how to lead your life, nor will I tell you what decisions to make, or who or what defines you. These are your choices. Your gifts. The book or books of which you refer, were often inspired by me, but only the parts about love.”
“Love?”
“As in do all things with love.”
“All things?”
“Yes,” he said. “This concept alone would change much of the structure of your planet.”
“There are those who can’t love, or choose not to love.”
“There are those,” said Jack, “who are an unfortunate byproduct of your current state of non-loving.”
“You do realize we are in a McDonald’s?”
“Yes.”
“Am I going crazy?” I asked.
“That is for you to decide.”
“So you really do not care if I hurt another human being?”
“Do you derive pleasure from hurting others, Jim?”
“No. I will be hurting another to protect many more.”
“Are you living and acting and behaving within your own moral standards?”
“Yes.”
“Is this what defines who you are?”
“Yes.”
“And so you are being true to yourself?”
“I guess so, yes.”
“I can find no fault in that.”
“So you approve?” I asked.
“I approve of defining who you are, Jim. There is a difference. And there are many, many people out there who do not have a strict moral code, such as your own.”
“So any moral code would work?”
“Any true moral code, Jim,” said Jack. “Any true code.”
34.
Sanchez and I waited in Sanchez’s unmarked police vehicle in a red zone across the street from the offices of Assemblyman Richard Peterson.
“His name has a nice ring to it,” said Sanchez.
We were in the city of Brea, in a shopping zone that called itself Downtown Brea. The stores were all new, and there was not one but two movie theaters. The apartments above the stores were advertised as artists’ lofts. Once, long ago, I wanted to be an artist, until I realized I wasn’t good enough and didn’t have enough patience.
“There are two ice cream shops,” said Sanchez. “I wonder why.”
“They are across the street from each other,” I said. “Downtown Brea is all about convenience.”
“If you say so.”
“There’s our man.”
It was past 6:30 p.m. and Richard Peterson was just leaving the office. He was leaving with a rather pretty blond in a short red dress. She split one way, walking to a nearby restaurant bar, and blew him a little kiss.
“Maybe she’s the secretary,” I said.
“Bet she takes great dictation.”
Peterson crossed the street purposefully, and headed to the parking structure to our right. We watched him ascend the stairs.
“Takes the stairs. Keeps in shape,” said Sanchez. “You think you can handle him?”
“As long as he doesn’t take them two at a time.”
We waited at the mouth of the structure’s exit, and sure enough a black Escalade with Peterson at the helm came tearing through the structure, heedless of babies or speed bumps.
“I could give him a ticket for reckless driving,” said Sanchez.
“For now just follow him.”
