The Story of Saint Kristy

Gather, all ye faithful, and mark well the story of Saint Kristy of Tarzana, the venerated mystic and miracle worker whose piety and suffering provide inspiration to the destitute and lowly.

Though little is known of her childhood, popular folk tales depict Kristy as a pleasant child with an obedient disposition. She remained carefree, even when tasked with impossible challenges. According to unsubstantiated lore, she amazed local elders by completing both Super Mario Bros. 3 and DuckTales for the original Nintendo Entertainment System, and she drew gasps of wonder from the seekers who came to watch her play hackey sack in California Games. Those who had seen her play soon renounced their families and retreated to lives of contemplation to ponder their brief encounters with such palpable Divine energy.

As a teenager, Kristy is reported to have taken a vow of chastity, promising the Lord that she would forever live apart from the filth and degradation of the male sex. Potential suitors were rebuffed with a scowl that was said to contain all the fury of the Old Testament, as if she could call down fire and brimstone if further provoked. None dared approach her.

Here, the ancient chronicles agree, was a woman so fair and pure that the Blessed Light of God’s Holy Love could be detected burning within her spellbinding hazel eyes. Her smile shone like a radiant harvest moon, and when she sang, birds fell dead from the sky, overpowered by the Beauty of her sacred song.

For many years, she continued in this way, devoting herself to scholarly pursuits and performing acts of service and charity in and around the village of Indians, Pennsylvania, where she had enrolled at the local university. During this time, Kristy lived on a meager diet of Taco Bell and Mountain Dew, in keeping with her life of poverty.

One night, as she immersed herself in study, an angel appeared before her, a vision of dazzling light which frightened her severely.

“Fear not,” said the heavenly messenger, “for the Lord has examined your heart and found it blameless. Blessed are you among college girls, O Kristy! Blessed be your organizational skills and your boundless patience, for they shall be much tested in your future!”

Kristy dropped to her knees in supplication. “Praise be to the Lord of Hosts for calling me to be an elementary school teacher! I shall strive to apply His gifts in my classroom!”

The angel’s light flickered for a moment. “Lo!” said he, “‘tis not your career with which we are currently concerned. Rather, I speak to thee of love, Romantic love! For tomorrow you shall meet your husband.”

“My husband? Pray, say that it is not so! I have foresworn the repugnant, odorous act of carnal knowledge! Many worthy men have I turned away to keep this pledge.”

“So it has been,” replied the angel. “God acknowledges your faith, but His ways are mysterious. You must forsake your vows in order to aid one of His lost sheep. You must carry this burden.”

“How shall I know whom the Lord has chosen for me? What shall be the sign?”

“You shall find him among the lowest of the low, offering food to the Philistines.” Saying no more, the messenger vanished. Kristy spent the rest of the evening in prayer, beseeching her Heavenly Father for guidance.

The next day, she came upon a young man selling popcorn at the campus movie theater, which was crowded with fans of Canadian comedian Tom Green. Clearly, these were Philistines. As Kristy approached this man, she felt the padlock on her chastity belt snap and heard the entire contraption clatter to the floor. 

“Your underwear fell off,” the popcorn man said.

“Praise be to God,” replied Kristy, who pulled him unto her. “He has ordained this coupling.”

They were soon wed, and though Kristy devoted herself to marriage as she had once devoted herself to Taco Bell bean burritos, she could not see how her shining example had impacted the heathen whom she had taken for a husband. He spoke with a foul tongue, scattered his dirty socks through their apartment like a farmer casting seeds onto unwelcome soil, and he made such noise while sleeping that she feared a legion of gaseous demons had possessed him. She began to despair and cried out to the Lord, saying, “Hesr me, O Benevolent Creator, and ease my sorrow! I toil every hour of the day for the improvement of my husband, who is surely as accursed as Nineveh. Must I, like Jonah, spend my days offering comfort to the wicked?”

The Lord heard her anguished wailing and sent sn angel to reassure her.

“Take solace, you who are so beloved by God, for the path you trod is long and rocky, but it shall bear glorious fruit.” This message soothed her, and she vowed to continue as before, but with praise in her heart for the Divine Wisdom revealed to her.

She struggled on for two score years as her husband became increasingly worrisome. His self-abuse was so persistent that the Merciful Lord struck him blind. His words were coarse and sometimes careless, and he believed himself possessed of humor none else could see. As he grew older, he began to dress as a fool, and the people of the town mocked him openly. Kristy devoted herself to her husband and kept him safe and healthy. She raised their children into a maturity her husband achieved only fleetingly.

In her sixty-fifth year, she once more gave in to despair. She had been faithful and dutiful, yet her husband remained devoted to foolishness and frivolity. “My God, my God,” she shouted in anguish. “Why have you forsaken me? Have I not done all that you asked and more? Have I not devoted my life to suffering as you commanded me? You promised Glorious Fruit, but I confess that I can see none. I will continue, if that be Thy will, but am I really following the true path? Forgive my impertinence, but please reassure me that my agony is for Your Higher Purpose.”

From the next room, her husband called out to her. “Honey, I made us some lemonade. The grandkids will be here soon.”

The arrival of lemonade and grandchildren restored Kristy’s commitment to the path placed before her by her God. She grew in faith and love until her dying day, and all who knew her believed in her patience and commitment and many devoted themselves to her practice, marrying fools of their own and devoting themselves to the care of those less sensible.

The Man of Her Dreams (for Kristy)

“Why did you get out of that lifeboat, Kristy?” Jack looked simultaneously terrified and furious. “You were safe, and now you’re in grave danger!” The cold North Atlantic air blew through his dirty blonde bangs. The ship tilted wildly under their feet.

“Where you go, I go,” she replied, throwing her arms around his thin, muscular frame. She remembered being in the car with him. Less than an hour had passed since then, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

“We have to stay out of the water as long as possible,” Jack told her wisely. “It’s our best chance not to drown.”

He took her arm and pulled her toward the ship’s stern, which was rising out of the dark, frigid depths. The iceberg had done such damage to the ship. It looked as though most of the passengers were doomed. The ship’s band played on heroically, soothing the hysterical passengers with orchestral versions of religious songs. Some people hurled themselves from the deck, hoping to swim to one of the lifeboats rowing steadily away from the disaster. Kristy felt certain she and Jack would both die, sucked beneath the ocean’s inky surface when the ship disappeared. Her chest tightened as she imagined her lungs filling with icy saltwater, but Jack had a plan. He was a survivor. She knew she would be okay, as long as she had him.

“When I tell you,” he said, “take a deep breath and swim as hard as you can. We have to get away from the ship!” They watched the water approaching fast as the steel hulk submerged. “Now,” he shouted. Kristy filled her lungs and dove into the sea.

She had never moved her arms and legs with such fervor, such frenzy. She wasn’t sure if she was swimming toward the surface or toward a watery grave. The water was so cold she thought she might faint, but she had to keep swimming. For Jack. For love.

When her head broke the surface, she gulped air hungrily, her lungs eagerly filling with oxygen. She saw Jack about ten meters away. He had found a wooden door amid the floating debris and was struggling with it.

“Kristy,” he shouted. “Climb on so that you can live!” She swam toward him, and he held the door as she pulled herself on with a mighty effort.

“Climb on, Jack,” Kristy said. “There’s room for you.”

“Kristy, it won’t hold us both. You have to live. For me. For our six minutes of joy in the car.”

She considered this, then grabbed Jack by his shirt and pulled him aboard.

“What do you know,” he muttered. “I was wrong.”

“I’m so cold, Jack. Will I ever be warm again?”

“Girl,” he replied, “I can get you all hot and bothered.”

“Jack!” she scolded. “A frozen baby corpse just floated by. I don’t think this is the time.”

“You’re right,” he conceded. “But do you still have that gigantic diamond in your coat pocket?”

“Yes, but what does that matter?”

“Nothing, Kristy. As long as we’ve got each other…we’ve got the world spinning right in our hands.”

He’s a poet, she thought.

“Oh, Jack,” she exclaimed, “I’ll never let you go!”

They were rescued shortly after dawn, two of fewer than a dozen survivors who had gone into the water outside of a lifeboat. They sailed on to New York, where they disembarked unnoticed amidst the chaos of concerned loved ones who had shown up to see if their relatives were among the living.

“Let me hold that diamond, sweetheart,” Jack said to her. 

“The Heart of the Ocean? It really belongs to my former fiancé, the one who tried to frame you and leave you for dead. It has deep sentimental value to me. I might want to hold onto it for 75 years and then toss it into the sea just to flex.”

“It will buy us the life you’ve always wanted,” Jack said, pocketing the diamond and disappearing.

He returned two hours later wearing s dapper tuxedo and driving a sleek convertible. He patted the seat next to him. Remembering the last time they had shared a car ride, Kristy smiled and hopped in literally, not bothering to open the door. They sped off.

Jack explained that he had used the diamond to buy a mansion on Long Islanf and had enough money left over to open a Wall Street firm. “I’m going to call you Duchess,” he said, “And now that I’ve technically sold stolen property, you should probably call me Jordan. Just so the feds don’t get on my trail.”

The home was lavish, even more beautiful than the ship on which she and Jack had met. As she gaped at the luxury surrounding her, Jack did a line of cocaine on the shiny black marble of the kitchen island. 

Kristy was horrified, but before she could say anything, the doorbell rang.

“That must be Donnie and my other Strattenites,” Jack, er, Jordan said. The door flew open and a marching band entered, leading a veritable parade of strippers, prostitution, and well-dressed frat bros into her home.

“Who are all these people,” Kristy asked, suddenly afraid.

“Don’t worry, babe,” Jordan told her. “They work for me. Even the whores. But we can write all of this off as a business expense.”

A short man with curly hair approached, holding out a small glass pipe. “Smoke some crack with me, bro.” The man looked at Kristy. “This chick is hotter than my cousin,” he declared.

Jordan, meanwhile, had gobbled a handful of quaaludes. Kristy could see his eyes start to glaze over. He began to drool. He ran stumbling outside, and she chased after him, confused and frightened. 

In the distance, she could see him climbing a water tower. What was he yelling? It sounded like… Gilbert? What the hell was happening? Where was Jack—loveable, sexy Jack, who only wanted to draw her naked and get it on in a stranger’s automobile? Why was he acting like this?

A crowd gathered beneath the water tower. The sheriff began to yell up at Jack with a bullhorn. Kristy felt like she might collapse from anxiety. She turned and ran, making her way into a wooded park nearby. She ran until the noise of the crowd disappeared and the only sound was the crunching of her feet in the snow.

Wait. When had it snowed?

Suddenly, Jack stepped out from behind some brush. He wore buckskin pants and a buffalo pelt. In his hands was a musket. Where did he find this clothing?

“Don’t worry, Kristy,” he said, approaching her. “I saved you some raw bison liver.” He extended his hand, offering her a half-chewed hunk of bloody meat.

Before she could decline, a bear bounded into view and began to maul Jack/Jordan, gouging his flesh with its claws and tossing him around with its teeth. Just as the bear opened its mouth to tear out his throat, a white cane came down and smacked the beast on the head. She turned to see a blonde blind man coming to the rescue.

The bear looked at the blind man bemusedly and snarled. 

“Go on,” yelled the blind man. “Get!” He tossed a sandwich bag filled with white powder deep into the forest. The bear dropped Jack and scampered after the bag. Kristy ran to the injured love of her life.

“Jack,” she said, “are you hurt badly?” Tears filled her eyes.

“I’m dying,” he said, ”but I probably deserve it.”

“No one deserves to be torn apart by a grizzly,” she said.

“Oh, that’s not it,” Jack said. “Those wounds are superficial. I’m dying of untreated syphilis from all of those prostitutes. Which reminds me, you should probably see a doctor soon.” His eyes closed as he winced from the unbearable pain of his oncoming death. When the discomfort eased, he looked at her again. “Your heart will go on. Give it to this man who saved you from the bear. He may be blind, but his capacity for tenderness far outstrips my own. He will give you the love you deserve, the love I never could. Blerrghhhh…”

With that, he was gone. Kristy raised her eyes to the blind stranger.

“I’m Andrew,” he said.

“Kristy,” said she.

The man held out his hand to help her up. In the process, he poked her in the eye.

“Ow!” she cried.

“Oh, sorry,” he said. He lowered his hand, taking hers and pulling her to her feet. “It’s nice to meet you. I think we should take care of that syphilis before we get to know each other better.”

Her head spinning and her eye throbbing, Kristy nodded. As they strolled arm-in-arm toward the setting sun, she could hear recorder music slowly building.

Every night IN MY DREAMS, I SEE YOU, I FEEL YOU!!!!

Kristy awoke to her phone alarm playing Celine Dion. She looked toward the nightstand, where the alarm blared. As she turned it off, she noticed two odd things.

There was a top spinning right there, next to the framed photo from her honeymoon. And, in the sudden stillness, she could hear the voice of her husband, Andrew in the next room.

“So glad you could help me out. You’re sure she will think it’s only a weird dream?” 

Who was he talking to?

“Oh,” said another man—Jack?!—barely audible. “She’ll be fine. Glad I could help rekindle that romantic spark in your marriage. She’ll love you more than ever.”

“I appreciate it,” Andrew replied. “You’ll get a good Yelp review, I promise!”

Jack laughed genially. “For real, though. Get her checked for syphillis. It is sometimes transmitted when I’m that deep inside someone.”

Kristy heard the front door close and footsteps approach. The top on her nightstand was still spinning. She waited for it to fall.

The End

Distinctions

The 11th day of NaPoWriMo.

no one can say i don’t know
my ass from my elbow
though it’s not polite to eat
with either on the table

while elbows may be sharp
they will never cut the cheese
and nobody cooks ass macaroni
or threatens to kick your elbow

though both exist where bodies bend
only one stirs the imagination
no one brags about tapping that elbow
aside from maybe an orthopedist
with an inflated sense of self

I have fallen on both at different times
and the ass is a much better way to land
that natural padding a definite plus

you can’t kiss your own elbows
or your own ass for that matter
not that you’d want to, really
unless you’re freaky
(I’m not)

so while I cannot distinguish between
shit and Shinola
(having no desire to use either for anything)
I’ve got elbows down
and I know my way around an ass
for whatever it’s worth
which (folksy saying aside)
is next to nothing

WWJD

Day 10 of NaPoWriMo.

On Palm Sunday

Jesus rode into Jerusalem

on an elephant

to help the money-changers boost the economy

so a wall could be built

to keep out Samaritans.

He healed those who could afford care

and threw stones at those

whose sins were societal taboos.

His disciples lived by the sword

and made plenty of others die

while he sipped wine with Pilate

(who washed his hands before

their communal feast).

The Lord hated tax collectors

and sex workers,

preferring the temple elders

for their public proclamations of piety.

Those with doubt were shamed

and exiled

eventually crucified

and Jesus was celebrated

and beloved by the powerful.

He remains an inspiration to

many of our own leaders

two millennia later

modern Pharisees

living by his example

having gained the whole world

while the rest of us are forced

to wait for the kingdom of Heaven.

Not Red Lobster Material

Day 9 of National Poetry Writing Month.

coconut shrimp and cheddar biscuits

doomed crustaceans wrestling in a murky tank

as one weary waitress

works the whole room

beneath dusty prints of fishing villages

no fresh fish or fresh ideas here

and in better days

when this place was bright and busy

I applied to be a server here

hoping to wear an aquatic-print polo

to serve swordfish

for parents on Date Night

Not Red Lobster Material someone said

after they kept me on hold for 20 minutes

when I called to follow-up

on an interview I thought went well

I believed them then but

two decades later

eating badly done salmon

in a restaurant ready to die

being Not Red Lobster Material

feels like a blessing

no shit

Day 8 of NaPoWriMo.

Our dog can’t clean

her own ass

so I’m holding her

like a baby

while my wife wipes

with a wet paper towel

and she

(the dog, not my wife)

squirms and grumbles

as would anyone

(my wife included)

being simultaneously

restrained and rectally refreshed

while belly-up

exposed

hungry for a biscuit

but

we’ve all been there

as babies

and will be there again

when the time reduces us

(even my wife,

even me,

even you)

to a dog-like

beloved responsibility

Shattered Expectations

Day 7 of NaPoWriMo.

break a leg she said

kissing me goodbye

on my way to work

overseeing the sanitation workers’ union

and not six hours later

I’m swinging a pipe into the shin of

a shit from a competing crew

the resulting sound

more layered than a simple crack

a choir of simultaneous splintering

split-second shatters harmonizing

the leaden thud of impact

as bass to the treble of his

duct tape-suppressed shrieks

and when I come home for dinner

she smiles knowingly and

pre-treats the blood spatter on

my Dickies work shirt

before tossing it in the wash

then rubs my shoulders

and says she’s glad

it went well

If I picked the music

Day 6 of National Poetry Writing Month.

If I picked the music

you would never hear

The Beach Boys at the pool

or “We Will Rock You” at the stadium

and no one would ever fuck to “Let’s Get It On” again.

I would dig a little deeper

in my record crate

and comb through my iTunes

until poolgoers grooved to Gregorian chants

and football fans got hyped on Elliot Smith

and orgasms were scored by Napalm Death.

Preschoolers would sing Randy Newman,

(but “Short People” instead of Disney)

and elevators would pipe in experimental Icelandic post-rock

and mariachi music would soundtrack Thanksgiving dinner.

A Tribe Called Quest at the senior center,

Sondheim in the club.

It would be a lot different

if I picked the songs

but eventually my choices would

become standard

and boring,

the expected and accepted shorthand

for those moments

and some free-thinker

would have to start all over again.

Filling Their Baskets

Day 5 of National Poetry Writing Month. The optional prompt for today was to put a mythological creature in a mundane situation.

The Easter Bunny attends

a sex-addiction support group

that meets every Tuesday

in the basement of a Presbyterian church

where he sips acidic instant coffee

and tries to meet the eyes

of the women sharing their stories.

He is not here to be cured

but as a symbol of fertility

seeking to make metaphor reality.

When it’s his turn to speak

he introduces himself as Peter

and spins stories of shameful sensuality

so seductive that someone’s sobriety

will end minutes after this meeting

when he invites her to sit on his lap

in the alley off the church parking lot

and the off-the-wagon woman

will walk away from the encounter

with greater self-loathing

and some marshmallow Peeps

her only souvenirs.

She will never return to these meetings

but he will

the eternal prey turned predatory

floppy ears and fluffy tail

softening the hard edges of his

biological imperative

until he seems snuggly sweet

and full of surprises

like a Cadbury Crème Egg

dosed with Spanish Fly.

Why my daughter hates family dinner

Day 4 of NaPoWriMo.

She says too much burping has undermined family unity; she can’t enjoy a meal without the foghorn sound of a familial belch souring the taste of her food

and she takes no comfort in the hastily muttered Excuse Me which follows like a second gastric eruption, equally thoughtless and involuntary

Who are these ill-bred, unmannered beasts releasing moist exhaust from their guts in between bites of turkey taco?

Is it any wonder she refuses to publicly acknowledge a relational connection between herself and these constantly gurgling embarrassments? Her own body is quiet and well-behaved, a precision-engineered electric scooter surrounded by poorly maintained budget-brand motorcycles with rusted-out tailpipes

She closes her eyes and concentrates on the taste of her dinner, willing all sound to fade away until she can be excused and return to her room where she can release her own gas in private, as God intended.