The Lost and Finding

To him, Jesus Christ was a booted foot disappearing through a street-side door. Each time, he would abandon his bike, dash after it, and stand there pushing the button for someone to buzz him up, and each time to no answer. Since that is how Jesus would have it, he did his best to peddle past that street from then on. The other couriers hung at the coffee shop two blocks away. Their cheap bikes corralled outside the place where the bitter coffee and baristas made them pucker.
“Why don’t you write Him a letter? Get an appointment,” his friend asked.
“We’re frickin couriers. I’m not sending anything post in this town.”
“What about the man who says Hallelujah?”
“What about him?”
“Well, he probably knows Him. Maybe he can get you in.”
He remembered when he first heard the man in the black glasses speak the word. It was in front of the hot chocolate machine in the echoing lobby of One Financial Plaza. “Hallelujah,” he said, and shilled in three quarters for a cup. Another time, he uttered it on the elevator between the 55th and 54th floors of the Bancorp building. He appeared in as many places throughout town as they did. He seemed just as intimate with the towers as they were, and for this they gave him respect—even though his aims remained a mystery.
“Yeah. He can probably hook me up, if I can track him down.”
“But I don’t get why you gotta see Jesus so bad.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“So?”
“So, I’m not too clear on why right now.”
They drank their coffee.
“You know that mural on Washington?” he asked.
“Which one? Sheera Warrior Princess, on Comic World? Or the Love Power wall looking over the freeway? Paint peeled Christ, standing, arms outstretched.”
“To all us sinners,” he said, gazing out the window at his old bike, chained with the others to the same guardrail. “I think that’s why I need to find Him.”
They drank their coffee.
“Yeah. I get you man,” his friend said.