Big John and The Baby Jesus
Feb 15. 2007
ig John, who lived above me in apartment 3-F, trudged up the stairs at just after
midnight. He always trudged when he was tired. And he was. It had been a long night
of stealing baby Jesuses.
John was not big in any way, shape or form (at least none that I had seen). He was
rather short, actually, and weighed in at just under 120 pounds. But because he had a
sense of humor that ran to just this side of odd, he always introduced himself as “Big
John.” Upon that introduction, people would look at his lack of size and laugh. He liked to
make people laugh. It made him feel wanted.
It was a couple of days before Christmas; a time when everyone wants to feel
wanted, even if it’s just for laughs.
It had been a big night. Big John had stolen every baby Jesus from every manger
scene that he could find. He herded them into the back of his hatchback Corolla and had
driven the herd home to his ranch, apartment 3-F.
He was happy.
He enjoyed stealing and collecting.
He loved the humor of multiplicity. When those yellow “Baby on Board” signs first
became popular, Big John, who had no children, bought dozens and decorated the inside of
his Corolla’s windows. He called it his “suburban smoked glass” effect. For a time, it got
laughs and he felt wanted. He had painted the kitchen of his apartment in flat black paint
and then covered the wall space with stickers of jumping bass, the kind you see stuck on
the sides of the bass boats and travel trailers of retired men who fish. For a shorter time,
they also received laughs. Big John felt wanted. He had in his apartment four gum
machines and a sixteen-foot portable electric billboard with a full set of black plastic
letters. I never found out how he had gotten it up the steps.
He always worked alone.
He knocked on my door at just before one in the morning and offering a beer,
invited me upstairs.
He wanted to show me something.
Each of the baby Jesuses was arranged on a separate piece of furniture. Two were
watching TV. Four were seated on pillows at the dining room table. They each had a hand
of playing cards placed in front of them with stacks of pennies and nickels at the ready.
John then lead me to the bathroom, where the seventh baby Jesus was seated (sort of) on
the toilet.
I laughed until I stopped.
Big John felt wanted.
I laughed awhile longer and then went back to my apartment.
As I was drifting to sleep I heard other guests arriving to witness Big John’s latest
creation. I heard laughter as I fell into a long winter’s nap and I smiled, thinking that Big
John was wanted.
And he was.
Literally.
Whatever chromosome or gene or corpuscle or whatever it is that makes
somebody a comedian, Big John had two. Whatever chromosome or gene or corpuscle it is
that makes you think about the consequences of your actions, Big John had none.
The police are lacking in any of the chromosomes, genes or corpuscles that makes
somebody laugh at a room full of poker-playing baby Jesuses. At least, not when they’re
on duty. When they’re on the clock, cops rarely laugh. They just do what they have to do,
whether it be apprehending a murder suspect, saving a life or finding out who the hell
stole all the baby Jesuses from all the manger scenes a week before Christmas.
B
Who knew that the Christ Lutheran Church on Fourth Avenue had surveillance
cameras? One would suspect the Catholics, who have long had a tradition of spying into
peoples’ lives; but the Lutherans?
After the baby Jesuses had been replaced, including the one smoking the cigar,
after Big John had made most of the men at the station house laugh, thus making himself
feel wanted, my phone rang.
This was generally the down side to being a friend of Big John’s. He was always
inventing new shows for us all to laugh at. These shows were always by invitation only. He
never charged admission.
But later, in some shape or form, we would be asked to pay.
“Hey, man, it’s Big John!” said the voice on the phone. “Can you run down to the
bank and get some cash. I’ll pay you back when I get out.”
And that’s the phrase I always think of when I think about Big John, wherever he
is. I think about the baby Jesuses playing poker, the kitchen bass, the great pumpkin
caper, his Chinese lantern period, and that one phrase which solidifies all memories of
John.
I’ll pay you back when I get out.
Merry Christmas, Big John.
You were one funny neighbor.
