Jesus of Hillcrest and The Hiker from Hell

There is a crazy person in our neighborhood. Actually there are several, some of them are known to us actually, but this one is conspicuous even by the high standards for eccentricity we have laid down here in the People's Republic of Hillcrest.

This man of whom we are referring can be seen about two or three times a week running up and down Van Buren St (which is a good 40 degree angle if you don't know) bearing a large nylon backpack on his shoulders. He is always dressed in the same uniform: one of those hideous gray sweatshirts issued by the United States Army, blue shorts, white socks and white court shoes. We don't know what is in the pack: bricks, books, concrete blocks or the E.R.A of the pitching staff of the Kansas City Royals. Whatever the hell he's got in there it is always filled to the brim with something heavy. And up and down Van Buren he goes, neck veins bulging, eyes popping, muttering and cursing under his heaving breath as he makes his grim way.

He is not the first itinerant nut we have had around here. Why, just last Spring our neighborhood was graced by the cameo appearance of one of the two Jesuses who have briefly walked amongst here in the 72205 zip code in the last 10 years or so. Last year's model looked like he was fresh from an open casting call for a Mel Gibson movie. If you can use the word "fresh" to describe a guy in robes, lugging a cross on his back while adorned with thorns on his head and stage blood on his face, chest and shoulders, that is. Alas, one sharp eyed witness noticed that his cross had casters at its foot, which undoubtedly contributed greatly to ease of operation insofar as taking up one's cross goes. And this adversely impacted upon what little rapport he had hoped to gain with the rabble here in the neighborhood as this discovery turned His rendition of the Via Dolorosa into mere shtick. Which is not the easiest thing to do if you think about it.

His predecessor Jesus I was first seen around here around about the summer of '98 or so. Jesus I was a stripped down (no cross or fake blood) version, and a slightly more malevolent one as well. His ministry consisted mainly of staring at people. One night the teenaged niece of a friend of ours suffered unto Jesus I as he stood staring at the passersby on Kavenaugh from in front of the convenience store.

" What's your name?" Gretchen asked.

" Jesus." he said.

" Where ya from Jesus?

" Fayetteville."

The Trial before Pilate it was not.

It is our understanding that the earthly ministry of Jesus I came to a close when He attempted to address the faithful gathered for noon mass at Our Lady of the Holy Souls. Unfortunately for Him, one of Little Rock's finest was in attendance during his lunch hour and swiftly put the cuffs on him and took him away. He has not been seen in these parts since.

Which brings us back to the Hiker from Hell who makes his Sisyphean journey on a thrice weekly basis past our little house here in the People's Republic. It occurs to us here at TMFW that we all have stuff that we carry with us. Some of us don't exercise as we should. Some of us spend money beyond our means. Some of us eat and drink to excess. Some of us choose our romantic partners badly. (A friend of ours says that you could put her in a room full of Mormons and she would be attracted to the one guy who was a drunk.) Some of us are just unlucky. And so on and so forth.

Do I mean to suggest that the Hiker serves as metaphor for human existence? Or human existence as it obtains in the People's Republic of Hillcrest at least?

Of course not. This cat is smooth running crazy. He serves a metaphor for the limits of psychiatry.

But it is nonetheless true that we all got to carry that weight every day that we are able to get out of our little beds.

Some people just don't make as big of a production of it as do others.