Little Mikey Jesus

Joe and Bonnie Tierny made Little Mikey go to bed at ten o’clock Saturday nights so he could get a good night’s sleep before Sunday school in the morning. Tommy, the oldest could get away with staying out late in Joe and Bonnie went out on a date. This meant they would bring back a bottle of wine or brandy and make love, or else fall asleep trying. A couple times the front door got stuck so Tommy had to kick it, which woke Joe from his hard-earned sleep.
“I can see you’re in fine shape,” sneered Joe, who couldn’t actually see much of his son in the dark room. He smelled the smoke in Tommy clothes, but felt too guilty to make it an issue. A father shouldn’t be drunk around his children, Joe thought.
Though he escaped punishment the encounter activated Tommy’s latent paranoia. He decided to make an arrangement with his tight-lipped younger brother who looked up to him like a god walking among mortals.
“You go to sleep Saturday nights that early?” Tommy asked Mikey.
“I go to my room, but…”
“But you don’t go to sleep.”
Mikey looked at the floor and fidgeted. He wanted to say he did something cool and risky. “I stay awake and read mostly, but sometimes I wait until I hear Dad snoring and sneak out.”
“Through the back door?” asked Tommy. Mikey shook his head affirmatively.
“Pretty slick, Little Mikey. But I got a better idea. How ’bout this…”
Tommy told Mikey that one of his friends, Paul, found a bunch of rope and a couple hooks in his father’s barn. With this they could make a rope ladder that Mikey could hang out of his window. “That way you can come and go as you please and I can get in without waking up the old man. Deal?”
They shook on it and agreed to hide it above the panel in Tommy’s room. “It’s very important that we keep it there, okay? If they find out about this, it’s curtains for the both of us.”
Little Mikey felt more grown-up now that he and his older brother had a secret between them. He felt cooler in school too even though he hadn’t made any new friends because of it. No one beat him up or clowned on him terribly. Perhaps he would have appreciated that more that the utter indifference of his peers.
He never cried about it, though, until he thought about his brother Quinn who died when he was Tommy’s age in a car crash. Quinn would always tell Mikey “Don’t worry about them, Little Mikey [it was Quinn that added the “Little”] because one day it won’t even matter. Besides, I like you just fine.” Then he would rub his head and pat his back. Mikey thought Quinn was the best big brother ever until he died. In a way, Little Mikey never quite recovered. Even after most of the sadness faded, life seemed a little further away for him, like he was watching everything on a movie screen
Now he was fourteen and still not “cool.” No chance of ever being “cool,” thought Mikey. Tommy knew it too, but he treated his little brother the same. He realized how much he depended on Quinn, but couldn’t step into his shoes for Little Mikey. How can I, he asked himself, when I’m not him? Then he made the rope ladder in September of his senior year.
Mikey looked forward to going to bed early Saturday nights. Most nights Tommy would bring back a couple beers. A few times Mikey climbed out of the window so they could smoke a joint in the neighborhood playground. Even if Tommy didn’t bring anything they always exchanged more than a greeting.
Once in the park, Tommy asked “How’s eighth grade working out for you, Little Mikey?”
He hadn’t thought about it, so he was surprised to hear himself say, “Pretty shitty.”
Tommy raised an eyebrow, trying to stay lighthearted, and asked “Anybody you need me to kill?”
Mikey felt his larynx tighten and his eyes moisten. He hated himself for crying in front of Tommy.
“You can tell me, bro. What is it?”
Mikey stifled his tears and said, “I don’t know, man, I just get along with the people in my class.”
“You mean you fight with them?”
“Not really. I don’t really talk to anyone at all.” Mikey let one loud sob escape, sucking in the next with a gasp. He shook his head.
“It’s okay, Little Mikey,” said Tommy.
“No, it’s not okay. When Quinn died, that was the worst thing ever. There’s no reason to cry anymore, ever.”
“But I’m still here, bro. And you you got Dan and Sean, don’t you?” asked Tommy, now concerned.
“Yeah, but they’re not always around and that’s just two people in the whole school. If they both miss school, I’m all by myself.” Mikey almost cried, but hit himself in the head.
“Holy shit, Mikey, stop that!” Tommy almost shouted. “Let me tell you something about high school. And listen close ’cause it the truth. All the popularity, the clicks, who’s-going-out-with-who, who scored the winning touchdown….it’s all bullshit.” Tommy shook his head affirmatively with adult-like assurance.
“But, Tommy, you’re on the football team. So was Quinn. You kick ass.”
“Yeah, it’s fun and all that, but when I go away, who knows me or that I made 100 rushing yards in eight games? No one. You got two good friends who stuck with you through the hard times, that’s fucking great. That means you’re as good as anyone else. Just remember not to take anything for granted. Stay righteous but not self-righteous and you’ll do fine. Let’s go.”
They rose and took the long way back to their house. “Let’s look at some fucking Christmas lights,” said Tommy somewhat bitterly.
“Look at this shit. It’s barely December and these people have their front lawns lit up like their running a fucking airstrip!” said Tommy.
“Or a miniature golf course.” They both laughed as they approached Mrs. Lancaster’s elaborate nativity scene. The life-sized replicas of the virgin, Joseph, the wise men, a cow, two goats, and a duck glowed by the light of the Eastern Star as they gawked at the placid white Baby Jesus. It was a sight to behold with reverence or jealousy if you attempted to compete for the good Lord’s favor with Christmas lights. Both brothers shook their heads in disgust.
“Dad would say it’s a waste of lights, if he weren’t a Catholic.” said Mikey.
“Quinn would call it a fucking lie,” said Tommy.
“What do you mean?” asked Mikey, who remembered seeing Quinn sing the hymns at mass. He told Tommy so.
“That doesn’t mean shit, little brother. Quinn was smart enough to know better.” They paused in front of the Mrs. Lancaster’s glowing masterpiece. “Tell me this, Little Mikey: Where do they say Jesus lived?”
“In Israel,” said Mikey.
“Palestine, actually. Anyway, why the hell does every stained glass picture and nativity Baby Jesus look like he was born in Wales or fucking Germany?”
“Because Mrs. Lancaster is a racist?”
“True enough,” said Tommy. “Or is it because the whole shit is racist and Jesus probably never existed?”
Mikey had never thought about those things. “You’re killing my buzz,” he said.
“Sorry. It just pisses me off that we have to go look at pictures of the phony white Jesus to get any breakfast tomorrow.” They continued their walk through the neighborhood late into the evening.
“Twelve,” said Tommy as they turned onto Harrison Street.
“Twelve what?”
“Twelve little white lies wrapped in flickering multi-colored lights. I wish someone would do everyone a favor and kidnap all the Baby Jesuses and leave run-away notes saying: ‘Gone back to England. - J.C.’ That would be righteous.”
This tidbit of gum-flapping Mikey filed in his memory under the tab Things to Consider and forgot about it.

The week before the school broke for Christmas, a group of seniors planned a blowout in a barn. Outside of the Prom, it was considered one of the biggest parties of the year. Like the other seniors lucky enough to be invited, Tommy looked forward to it with excitement he could hardly contain. In fact, it spilled into his weeknights so badly that on the Wednesday night before the party, he “just had to get away” as he put it later.
“Be ready to get the ladder for me Little Mikey,” said Tommy. Mikey said that he would even though he usually went to sleep early on Wednesday nights. There was nothing for him to look forward to besides sleep.
He tried to stay awake by drawing while listening to loud music, but without a way to get out into the fresh air, he had no way of staying awake. He didn’t want to abuse the advantages of the ladder for fear of discovery and the consequences he would have to face from his brother. Soon, he fell into a deep sleep and had strange dreams about hiking in the desert with a group of people he had never seen.
Funny that he could dream about a pyramid made of mirrors and talking snakes but couldn’t have imagined that his father could suddenly develop prostate problems that disrupted his sleep. At the same time, the new bathroom adjoining his parents bathroom was only hours from completion. Had the contractors made it to the hardware store before closing time last Saturday or Mr. Tierny eaten better, worked out, consumed more lycopene in his twenties perhaps he could have avoided climbing the stairs the Wednesday before Christmas break. Little Mikey wasn’t that fortune.
Little Mikey awoke with his cheek burning from the hot metal lamp on his desktop. The clock said 2:35 a.m. “Shit,” he whispered loudly and smacked himself on the skull. Slowly, he crept over the loose floorboards in the corridor to Tommy’s room, deftly dodging the ones that creaked. But in the room, Tommy’s folded metal chair was stuck. Mikey grunted softly, careful to apply enough force while avoiding a loud noise. He failed. The chair bumped the floor which his parents shared as their bedroom ceiling.
Mikey sat in the chair a full five minutes almost perfectly still except that his heartbeat shook him slightly. If found in the chair, he thought, he could lie and say that he was stealing something from Tommy’s room. He listened hard, but heard nothing.
Little did he know, his father was already up and gazing blankly into the refrigerator. The sound of the refrigerator door closing could have alerted Mikey if he had not been lifting the ceiling tile at the same time. He reached into the by-now-familiar darkness only to find a quarter-inch of dust. Then he felt around another panel. Nothing. Then he shifted the chair to reach the panel opposite the usual hiding space. Aha! He felt the edge of rope but couldn’t reach it with standing on a extra books. All the while, reasons for the missing rope raced through his mind, drowning out the sound of his father’s footsteps up the stairs and the opening of the new walk-in closet just before the bathroom door.
As Mr. Tierny strained to squeeze a few cubic centimeters past his angry prostate, Mikey was stacking the thickest books in Tommy’s room onto the folding aluminum chair, newly painted three days ago. Mikey successfully grabbed the rope with his head and shoulders above the ceiling, but lost his balance when he bent his knees. Heavy books and metal and a body crashed so loudly that Mr. Tierny sprayed Mrs. Tierny’s decorative towels with almost half of the total urine he could squeeze out.
Mikey started to cry, not for the gash in his forehead or his father’s cursing, but because he had failed his brother. “That’s it, young man. You are grounded until Christmas and so is that sneak ass brother of yours!”
He cried and pleaded with his father not to punish Tommy. “It was all my idea! He doesn’t even know about the ladder!”
His father wasn’t believing it. Joe proceeded to tell a story about being young and full of “piss and vinegar.” Fudging on his folks to chase skirt and sip brews at the bluff where the kids went to neck. From now on he would have to keep a closer eye on the boys and you boys take for granted and when I was your age and now how were we to trust you. This meant almost nine months of lock down for Tommy who – in Mikey’s mind – meant an estrangement from his last living reminder of Quinn. Tommy would resent his clumsiness and not complicate his evenings out with anymore late-night excursions with the reason for his captivity.
Indeed, relations with his brother chilled noticeably afterwards. In the school days off before Christmas, the two only exchanged greetings in passing around the house until Christmas Eve. Everything Little Mikey saw – the twinkling lights, smiling Santa Clauses, the repetitive music about cheer and presents and flying reindeer and buy more shit – made him sick to live another second. He started to wonder if this was the worst thing that could have happened, losing his only living brother to his own stupidity.
After Christmas Eve dinner Joe and Bonnie broke out their secret stash of expensive liquors. Even the boys got a tiny taste. Mr. and Mrs. Tierny got a bigger taste. Joe even sang Mariah Carey’s radio staple at 10:30 p.m.
Instead of sugar plums, visions throwing himself through the dry wall danced in his head. “I’m going for a walk,” said Mikey. He slipped to his room, already in ninja mode. In a trunk he found two enormous duffle bags that he had received for gifts two Christmases in a row. Over thermal underwear he wore black sweatpants, black hoodie and ski mask.
On two streets, he could snag twelve plastic infant Jesuses or Jesi – he didn’t know which. At the end of Garfield street he could make a dash through the woods that he knew by heart to the intersection or Arthur and Van Buren, his street.
He took off at a trot that he maintained throughout the his campaign of poetic terrorism. At each vacant manger he left a note that read, “Went back to Sweden. Never coming back. Love and Skittles, The Fake Jesus.”
Sprinting down the hill the last one hundred yards of Garfield Street, Mikey slipped on a patch of black ice and slid almost to the intersection. He sprung to his feet, dodged a car and sprang into the darkness. With his knowledge of the woods, no one could have caught him, but he didn’t even think about anyone giving chase.
At home, Mikey slipped his stolen cargo above the tiles of the ceiling in his room. In the morning, he fiegned sick to skip mass. When the family came home, a police car pulled in behind them.
“Is their any way we can help you officer on this Christmas morning,” said Mrs. Tierny through a hangover.
“We real sorry to have to bother you on Christmas Day, Mrs and Mr Tierny. Do you know where your boys were last night?”
“Sure, Tommy was her with us and Little Mikey, he….eh…” Mikey could see that his father wanted to lie.
“Didn’t you take a walk around the neighborhood last night, honey?” interrupted Bonnie.
“So what if I did?” said Mikey defiantly.
The officer drew a long breath. “It’s just that someone else took a walk too and decided to do al little mischief last night. Seems that all the Little Baby Jesi or Jesuses….”
“Jesuses.” said Bonnie.
“Thank you, madam – were stolen from the neighborhood. Yep, twelve in all taken and I have hear that a Mrs. Lancaster saw a person fitting your boys description…”
“Tommy!” shouted Joe.
“No, the other one, eh…”
“Micheal!” shouted Bonnie.
“Anyways, someone who looked kinda like him was seen slidin’ down the hill with tow big bags….”
Mikey didn’t stay in the room long enough to hear anything else. When Joe yelled at him to “show your face this instant!” he ran down the stairs and into the diningroom while finding the plugs to the strands of Christmas lights that he had wrapped around the torsos of the plastic saviors.
In two deft movements he unplugged the appliances in the outlet, plugged in the lights and extracted the illuminated lawn decorations from the duffle bags. Officer Timson dodged a baby Jesus. Officer Randal wasn’t as fortunate. Joe and Bonnie reasoned with im that the boy was clearly out of his mind and hormonal and probably listening to that rap music. No assault charges were filed.
With no lights on in the kitchen or from the sun, the Tierney’s kitchen looked like either a crazy miniature golf hole or an installment piece by Andy Warhol, depending on which son you asked.
“Ground me, punish me, beat me all you want, but leave him the fuck alone!” screamed Mikey.
“Little Mikey!” gasped Mr and Mrs Tierny at the same time. Tommy laughed hysterically and clapped.
For the rest of the school year, Joe and Bonnie continued their Saturday night ritual. Tommy lived his life undisturbed by any authority figure, with or without a badge. Little Mikey performed one hundred hours of community service. That summer the boys found a way onto the roof of their house where Tommy recited Dylan Thomas and Allen Ginsberg if Little Mikey requested a performance. Tommy’s friends began calling Micheal Tierny “Little Mikey Jesus.” The name stuck.

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