Jiminy Cricket & the Jumper Man

And the moon over Houston, it was full.

Or else the moon over Houston, it was almost full, anyway. Nearly there. Trying hard. Close enough to full to where an untrained eye could not tell this unfull moon from a full one.

Close enough to full to where my eye counted as an untrained eye and could not tell.

Because when it came to moons being full, all they ever were to me was a mental flag to wonder about whether I was late this month.

There was no real reason for me to wonder about whether I was late this month. If I was late this month, it could only mean that I was menopausal … or else that I was suffering from a physical ailment of some sort … or else that – praise the Lord! – the much ballyhooed and long-overdue Messiah had at last seen fit to return and was using Yours Truly as his maternal vehicle this time round.

I was in the process of mentioning my Messianic theory to my priest friend as the two of us climbed onto my motorbike. We were in a 12^th floor open air parking garage under the almost full Houston moon and I was putting on my helmet, telling a fantastic joke about aborting the new Christ in the womb.

And that’s when the screaming started. The screaming started and it interrupted my perfectly good blasphemy.

The screaming that started, it wasn’t from my priest friend. The screaming was from somewhere across the parking garage. Either way, though, the end result was the same: It ruined my perfectly good blasphemy. I can’t even remember the joke now. All I remember is that it was fantastic.

My priest friend got back off my motorbike. And then my priest friend, he looked towards the screaming. He said, “I think that man is saying he’s going to jump!”  And he said, “Come on, Adri! We’ve gotta go talk to him!”

I rolled my eyes. “I’d love to, Father, but you see, I’m legally barred from coming within 50 yards of a suicidal person.” I shrugged. “Damn federal law. Blame Congress, not me.”

You see, I joked, but I also exhaled loudly, because it was already too late. It was already too late and I knew it was already too late. I took my helmet back off, because by that time it was too damn late to leave. We were in this ugly jumper situation to the end.

And I lit a cigar and I followed my priest friend across the parking garage.  I figured maybe he could call up some angels to catch the poor jumper bastard as he fell.

I was pulling out my cell phone to call the cops when I heard the softer second voice: “A man smart as you figgers out there is no God, and yet he still don’ see there is no Love? Dat’s the greater delusion. Love! You still chasing rainbows! Love is just another Lie cooked up to control you … To nail you down … To waste your life away.”

Then the softer second voice said, “If you still believe in Love at YOUR age? Might as well go ahead and be done with it! Do it! Jump, child, jump!”

I heard the softer second voice coming from out of a dark corner. A dark corner, railed off from the rest of the garage. A dark hole chock full of pipes and meters. Pipes and meters and the aforementioned voice.

So my priest friend went towards the would-be jumper and I went towards the dark hole with the voice. Of course I did.

The voice from the darkness turned towards me. Addressed me. I couldn’t see the vocalist, but the voice – it was androgynous and slow and black and malevolent – now it addressed me.  

“And look what we got here!” it said. “Red sweeping in to save the day with her friend the professional celibate! Look at you! Only 2, maybe 3 years away from the end of your beauty … No ring on your finger … Hangin’ out with a professional celibate!”

The voice said, “You might as well follow that other fellow right off the side of this here building! Let folks remember how you are now, before you get all old and lose that thing you got going for you!”

I shone my key ring flashlight into the darkness.

It looked like a raisin wearing a tuxedo. It was not even 5 feet tall and all alone and it was wearing a full tuxedo. A tiny, wrinkled little black person of dubious gender and advanced age … Leaning on a crutch … Straightening out its red bow tie … Looking offended by my sudden introduction of a beam of light into its dark hole.

I lit another cigar and handed it over into the darkness. “You’ve got Little Jimmy Scott disease, don’t you?” I marveled, peering in. “Kallmann Syndrome?”

I said, “It’s easy for them to cure that now, you know…”

I was vaguely aware that behind me, Jesus had won again. The jumper was knees-down on the pavement with my priest friend. Crying and praying. Praying and crying. Thanking Jesus for another full moon over Houston. Or another almost full moon, anyway. Thanking Jesus for a moon close enough to full to where an untrained eye could not tell this unfull moon from a full one.

Back in the dark hole, my raisiny Jiminy Cricket was looking more offended by the second. “Kallmann Syndrome? Oh, now I see. You a doctor. ‘Splains the thousand dollar leather jacket and the BMW bicycle. Now that nearly makes up for still having no man at your age, don’ it?”

It said, “Could you tell me, Doctor Red, why I might wish to be CURED? So I can

 be normal? So I can be like you? Oh, cure me, Doctor! Cure me so I can be just like you.”

While it spoke, I shone the light around to get a sense of what it was I was dealing with. It was standing up, but its left leg didn’t look quite right. Too short … and the angle was all wrong somehow. Which I guess explained the crutch. The tux … no idea where the tux fit in with all of this.

“You are a strange, dark, twisted little man, aren’t you, Jiminy?” I asked when it was done squawking. “Do you live in here?”

Jiminy jabbed at his chest with crooked stick fingers. “I live in HERE, and that is the biggest cosmic joke ever was, is, or shall be! But I know people, Doctor Red. I can look at a man – any man! – and tell you everything there is to know ‘bout that man! Take you, Doctor Red. I can look in your eyes and see [DIALOGUE CENSORED BY SANITARIUM MANAGEMENT]…”

I sucked at my cigar and I paced back and forth and my brain, it whirled and whirled. I sucked at my cigar and I paced back and forth and finally I turned towards the darkness and I said, “Do you want a job, Jiminy?”

Silence. Then: “What would my title be, Doctor Red? If I were to accept your offer of employment, what would my title be?”

Me: “The New Harry.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “You’d get to destroy lives.”

Long silence as Jiminy stood in his dark parking lot hovel, weighing over his obviously abundant life options. “The New Harry! I like that. Doctor Red, you may consider me to be your New Harry!”

The deal complete, the night won, the moon as full as it was going to get for now, I handed my business card and some cash into the darkness. “There’s my address and some cash for a taxi. Be there at 8 am sharp on Monday.”

As I was walking away and back to my bike, I added, “Wear the tux.”

The moon over Houston, it was almost full. Most people don’t realize that the real weirdos? They come out before the full moon. When the moon is only almost full. Not full, but close to being full. Nearly there. Trying hard.

Let me tell you, though: You have to look in some pretty strange places to assemble a Dream Team.