David's Inferno by David Blistein Page B

like good biking to me. A few blocks ahead I notice a young man talking with an elderly woman. Jehovah’s Witness … no question. My first impulse is, of course, to turn in the other direction. But the lady looks so helpless. So I keep walking toward them, watching the drama unfold. She cleverly shakes him off by suddenly turning a corner just as he’s about to step off a curb. He hesitates, briefly tripped up by this act of God, whose ways we will never fully understand, until he looks up and sees me—a miracle if he’s ever seen one.
    By now, I’ve surrendered any resistance I have left to whatever the universe has decided to throw at me. As he talks, I nod my head and respond with genuine enthusiasm (what happens in a parallel reality, stays in a parallel reality): “Jesus? Sure I’ve heard of him. Amazing guy. Son of God? No question. Really? Jesus says that? Sounds like good news to me. Huh? Of course I love him. What’s not to love? The money changers? Great story. He sure showed them. And the thing with the fishes?… it doesn’t get any better than that. Yeah. I know. Me too. Yes. Absolutely … of course. Thank you.I’ll definitely read that brochure. And that one. And, sure, that one. Yes, that one, too. Thank you. Thank you so much. Yes, I’ll take a good look. I’m so glad we met. Thank you.”
    Satisfied he’s filled his convert quota for the day, he gives me a big smile and walks away. I turn around and say out loud, quite clearly, so my intention cannot possibly be misunderstood, “Okay Jesus, start the f-ing car.”
    As I walk down the hill, I invoke the names of several other saints, perfect masters, gods incarnate, and shamans of my acquaintance. I create a universe in which the entire notion of my van not starting doesn’t exist. It’d be like anti-matter or something.
    I get back to the Turkey Hill Convenience Store, put my backpack on the ground next to the van. Dig calmly around until I find the spare key again. Open the door, get in, toss the backpack on the passenger seat, put the key in the ignition and turn it. No deep breaths or anything. Just turn the key.
    God damn if it doesn’t start.

    Having successfully called upon the intercession of Jesus, Buddha, Isaiah, Dale Carnegie, and Okomfo Anokye (a seventeenth-century shaman) to perform the minor miracle of starting my car, I figured it was only a matter of time before they realized I had bigger fish to fry—and would really welcome their help.
    A few weeks after my road trip, I decided to dig up a rock that had been harassing my lawn tractor for years. I approached this borderline boulder with a long iron pry bar, pickaxe, two boards, two shovels, two hands, and equal parts determination and wariness. Slowly, methodically, I began to work my way around it, stopping every few minutes to re-evaluate its emerging size, contour, and depth. Each time, it returned my gaze rather sheepishly. As if it would like to help but, having been stuck there for the last 10,000 years, didn’t have the slightest idea how to begin.
    Naturally, the rock was bigger and heavier than I’d imagined.A lot bigger and a lot heavier. But I kept at it, slowly working the edges, finding a ray of hope every time I was able to release one of the many smaller rocks that were wedged up against it; rocks that I could then use as fulcrums to release others. Eventually, I began to get a little wiggle room. Something the rock seemed to kind of enjoy.
    I enjoyed it too. A rare balance of body and mind. First one straining, then the other. Instead of one taking charge and beating the other one to a pulp.
    Once I got some serious purchase on the rock, I started sliding boards underneath. More purchase. More leverage. More boards. Slowly—to our mutual surprise—the rock began to rise from the earth. And kept rising. Except that, every once in a while, no matter how