Pancakes
Jesus sat in the booth opposite mine at Denny’s, slowly pouring syrup over a tower of pancakes topped with butter. When he was done, he rotated the plate clockwise, then counterclockwise, only small angles each way, until the orientation was just perfect, with a brief nod completing the ritual. Then he cut out a wedge, tall and slim, and smiled at the skewered syrupy stack like it was the most delightful thing he’d ever seen. By the time he finally placed the forkful in his mouth, closing his eyes and letting out a moan as his molars ground the food, I was at the edge of my seat, vibrating with weird tension.
“Do you like pancakes?” he asked, eyes still closed as he worked through the last bits of his mouthful.
I wasn’t sure who he was talking to, so I said nothing.
He opened his eyes and shot me a look. “Yes, you, staring at me.”
“Me?” Hand flew to my chest. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Yes, you were. So, do you like pancakes?”
I shrugged. “Sure. I mean, who doesn’t? I was thinking of maybe ordering some.”
“No need,” he said. “Come over here. Share mine.” He opened his arm to the side and motioned me over.
“That’s very generous,” I said, “but I don’t know you. And I don’t want to impose.”
“You do know me. Come. Sit with me. I can tell you need the company.”
I sighed to better sell the pretense that this was a huge inconvenience, then moved my jacket and half-eaten eggs over to Jesus’s booth, and sat across from him.
“Has anyone ever told you you look like Jesus?” I asked.
“Yes. All the time, actually.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Not at all. I am Jesus.”
I sat back and crossed my arms. “You mean your name is Jesus? Like on your birth certificate?”
He looked up from his pancakes. “You could say that.”
“What does that mean? It’s not on your birth certificate?”
“Not really.”
“So is it a nickname, then? Or a stage name, like Cher?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Cher?”
“You don’t know Cher? OK, maybe you’re too young for that. How about Madonna? You must’ve heard of Madonna.”
There was a flash of pain across his face. “You are mocking me.”
“What? I’m not.”
“Of course I know Madonna. She was my mother and she died a long time ago.”
“I don’t think Madonna’s dead.” I pulled out my phone. “She’s not. Look!” I turned over the screen to him and showed him Madonna’s Wiki page. “She’s alive and kicking. And she has a bunch of kids. None of them look like you, though.”
“That is not my mother,” he said.
“Oh, so Madonna’s not your mother now?”
“Madonna is my mother,” he said through clenched teeth. “But that person is not.”
“OK, fine.” I put my hands up, realizing I’d irritated him. “Hell if I know what you’re saying, but you were nice enough to offer me company, so maybe we should talk about something else.”
He tilted his head to the side. “Why do people invoke hell so much?”
I chuckled. “You’re a weird dude, Jesus. You know that, right?
He shrugged, looking down at his plate. “People keep saying that. I do not know how to be anything I am not.”
“That’s some zen shit, man.”
“Zen…shit,” he repeated, seeming very confused.
I leaned forward, resting my crossed arms on the table, and inspected him for a moment. He really was something else.
I gestured toward his plate. “You’re not making much progress on your pancakes. Don’t you like them?”
“I do,” he said. “But I am here for you. It is more important that you like them.”
“I can order my own. You don’t have to share yours.”
“No,” he raised his voice. “I must share with you.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why is that so important?”
“Because no one ever gives you anything.”
What the fuck?
“Seriously, dude. You don’t even know me.” I tried not to raise my voice, but it trembled with frustration. “And you’re already keeping me company. This is the most I’ve talked to anyone in weeks. I really don’t need to eat your food, too.”
“You do,” he said, his soft eyes meeting mine. “You are starving. And starving people should always be fed.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Because I’d already eaten, yet he still wasn’t wrong.
Because I felt starved. I felt ravenous.
He picked up his utensils and focused on slicing another thin wedge from his stack. As he worked, I noticed circular scars on both his palms, each the size of a nickel. The skin was tough, shiny and puckered.
“Open your mouth,” he said, offering me a dripping forkful.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and opened wide.
Maura Yzmore writes and opes somewhere in the Midwest. Her short fiction can be found in Flash Fiction Online, Bending Genres, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. Find out more at https://maurayzmore.com, @MauraYzmore on Twitter, or @maurayzmore.bsky.social on Bluesky.
