Excerpt: My Jesus Novel

My Jesus Novel
by Gadi Cohen

CHAPTER ONE
THE FIRST TIME WE MET

It’s February 1993 and I’m trying to write a poem on the subway when an old, bearded homeless man parks himself on the seat next to me. They always sit next to me. He smells like broken windows and rain puddles. He’s holding a large, yellow garbage bag. I hope there’s no garbage in it.
“Hello,” he snorts.
I look away.
I’m pretty sure he didn’t send that “hello” my direction. I hope not.
“Plurk,” he burps. “Sorry.”
His big overcoat pushes against my new cotton vest, and the smell from his mouth drifts towards my face as the car turns around a wide turn underneath downtown Manhattan. I cough slightly and watch his eyes droop over his cheeks and his grizzled, wet mouth sloppily opening and closing.
A man passing by with a crispy black business suit sticks a coin in the hobo’s hand.
“Thanks.”
I’m thinking about giving him a dollar or two too. I mean, I’m sitting by this poor man, and I don’t even know how he got to the subway. Where he got the money. I just hope he’s not going to buy any beer if I give him some cash. I know I have to give him something. A token something. Or else I’ll feel guilty. I always feel guilty when I don’t give the homeless man I’m sitting next to on the subway the dollar he deserves.
I reach to my purse.
He’s breathing on my neck. I think he is. Somebody’s cough seeps into the air. The subway stops, then rushes back to its track. People shuffle in front of me with their gray trousers and tourist jeans.
Somebody ate fried chicken for lunch. I’m about to puke.
I don’t want to puke into my purse. I don’t know what to do, and the throw-up is beating against my throat and I’m opening and closing my mouth like I can’t breath, like I got a bone stuck in there, but nobody notices. I’m looking around for some kind of acknowledgement. It probably looks like I’m choking. They still don’t notice.
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