One of Us

Remember that Joan Osborne song? 1996 had me looking for God in some of the strangest places. Maybe God was my ex-wife. Maybe God was that guy behind my house mining for gold in the garbage can. Maybe God was that amazing flower by my doorstep or that pepperoni pizza I ate last night or Tom Cruise with all of his freaky Scientology bullshit - God help us all. Frankly, it was an exhausting process - trying to find God while the hardships of that year pounded my puny ass into fine powder. I figured the search was worth it though. How else was I going to figure out who to bitch to?

I was definitely not ready for Kimber and the transcendental tug of war that waged between the sacredness of her pure heart and the profanity of my soul. She said I looked like Lorenzo Lamas and I thought she favored Jesus - cute little hand model surfer chick blonde Jesus. Only that part - the part about Jesus - had yet to surface.

I met her on U2’s Pop Mart tour - where Bono and company closed down the former RFK stadium - having us all sing along to the Monkee’s “Daydream Believer” and making us all believe that a psychedelic lemon had the power to save the world. I would have believed anything at that point when Kimber asked me, “where’s your motorcycle?” in voice drowning in cigarettes and whiskey. That huskiness was au natural - I would later discover. In fact, Kimber was neither a smoker nor a drinker - she was too busy holding Martha Stewart themed tea parties for struggling, unwed mothers. (That and surfing, hand modeling and attending U2 concerts).

She soon asked me to join her in her seat. Not the seat on either side of her - her seat. I pulled my hair back in a pony-tail and obliged her. Just another date in a long stream of dates - and no closer to the Almighty than when I had started this inane journey. Fuck. Me. Fuck. Her. Whatever.

I hadn’t anticipated the angelic enigma about to embrace me. You’ve heard about those people who can read your mind? Who can tell you what feels good to medicate what feels bad? I stood in front of her - facing the stage - and Kimber wrapped her tan arms around my waist - her tiny, athletic body pressed against me. She made me forget the words to “With or Without You” but we sang them together - in between soft, pre-summer kisses whenever I craned my neck back to brush against her face. She whispered in my ears, “You are loved, you are loved”. I heard it again and again. It was the voice of Jesus.

She wanted me to come away with her. To forget my life - my broken life - and follow her. And I wanted to. I did. I felt safe with her. Her body was the warmest place on earth, but she plied me with her soul. It was a time and a place where I considered a life less ordinary. For that’s what it would have been. She was standing there crying on the D.C subway station platform - perfect tears like diamonds. I wanted to change, but not enough. I still don’t really understand it, but I knew that accepting her somehow meant denying me, and I was still a very selfish bastard.

Was it a real choice? An honest-to-God choice? Hell, I don’t know. Maybe God did send his angel that night. (It would have been appropriate). Or maybe he just came down himself. I never heard from Kimber again. And all it goes to show you is that I can be a real stupid shit sometimes.