When my next door neighbor passed away, there was a silver lining with her demise. She was a wonderful woman, sweet as can be, but I’d always wondered about the layout of her home. At the time of her passing, I lived in my house for over twenty years with no plans of moving. My interest was pure curiosity. I suppose it would have been easier to walk over and borrow a cup of sugar when she was alive but that seemed a bit underhanded. I was much more comfortable waiting for her to die so when the property was listed for sale, I could attend the open house.

Our houses were only a few hundred feet away from one another, about the length of each of our driveways. To play my part as an interested buyer, I hopped into my truck and drove next door. Before entering the house, I was greeted by a gentlemen named Chris, the realtor I assumed. A clean cut fellow, he seemed as buttoned-up as the buttoned down shirt he wore, each clasp secured up to his neck. The khakis he wore, his shirt and sneakers, were all white, in stark contrast to his dark skinned complexion. I felt underdressed. My cargo shorts and sneakers well worn, the wrinkled t-shirt depicted Jesus playing poker with the tagline, “Ante, Christ”.

“If you’re here to see the house, you’re too late,” Chris advised, locking the door behind him. “It’s been sold.”

Unwilling to be denied the opportunity to snoop, I asked, “Is it okay if I look around anyway? Deals fall apart all the time.”

“Not this one. It was a cash offer. I’m your new neighbor.”

I looked towards my house then back at Chris, uncertain how he knew we were neighbors. Chris explained that he watched me drive over. With an extended hand, I introduced myself, all the while plotting how to gain entry into the home.

A few weeks later, the cautioned beep of a moving van backing into the driveway alerted me that Chris had returned. Moving day is always a commotion filled event, with doors kept ajar while the truck is unloaded. After scooping up the gift basket purchased from Starbucks, I headed for the door. On the way out, after realizing I was still wearing the same shorts from weeks earlier, I sprayed a generous amount of Country Chic body spray on them. At least I had on a clean shirt.

An army of movers carried boxes and furniture through the neighbor’s front door. If my arrival was timed proper, our footsteps would be synchronized and I’d follow the movers into the house. A few feet from the front porch, Chris emerged, closing the front door behind him. He redirected the movers to use the garage for the time being. Disappointed, I handed him the gift basket and welcomed Chris to the neighborhood.

“I don’t drink coffee but thank you for your generosity.”

“You don’t drink coffee?” I asked.

“No. My body is a temple.”

“There’s already a synagogue in town.” When he didn’t respond to my lame joke, I added, “That was supposed to be funny.”

“Oh, I understood. I’m still waiting for the funny part.”

There was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation. A chilled breeze blew through the neighborhood. Fallen leaves from the Autumn that just ended somersaulted across the lawn.

Chris shuddered and admitted, “I’m not used to this weather yet.”

“I’m wearing shorts and you’re cold?” I asked.

“What’s your secret to staying warm?”

“When you dance with the devil, it’s easy to stay warm.”

A pregnant pause of silence returned.

“So what kind of work d’ya do?” I asked.

“I’m an astrophysicist. I work with gravitational orbits dynamics, studying how orbital bodies resonate and interact with one another.”

“What?” I asked, my eyes glazed over. “Was that English?”

“I work for NASA.”

I wasn’t sure why he didn’t say that the first time. Unable to comprehend his first explanation, I assumed he was bilingual.

A month passed before I saw Chris again. He stopped over, panic stricken, in search of a babysitter.

“I’ll pay you two thousand dollars a day for the next three days,” he offered. “I only have one condition.”

The offer surprised me as I wasn’t aware he had children. If he was willing to pay two grand, maybe he’d pay three. I tossed my greed aside and dismissed the idea. It was another opportunity, perhaps the last, to look inside the house.

“What’s the condition?”

“You have to tithe ten percent to your church.”

I wasn’t sure why he didn’t just offer to pay me less and contribute the difference on his own. Must have been that whole bilingual thing again.

“That’s fine,” I agreed, “but how many kids do you have? What are their names?”

“Just one. He’s a handful. My son’s name is Jesus.”

“Jesus? As in Jesus Christ?”

“How do you know my last name? I never mentioned it to you,” Chris replied, perplexed. “Or are you trying to be funny again?”

“I’m not making fun of your kid’s name, honest. I think it’s admirable that you named him after the Lord.”

“No, you don’t understand. My son is the Lord. That’s why I’m willing to pay so much to keep Him safe.”

A number of thoughts raced through my mind. Was my neighbor crazy or was he telling the truth? If it was the latter, then why choose me to serve as a bodyguard for the Lord? Most important, would I ever get a freakin’ peek inside my neighbor’s house? Uncertain where to start, I asked the first question that came to mind.

“I’m no theologian but if your son is actually Jesus Christ, then shouldn’t your name be Joseph? Or did you kidnap the kid?”

Dismayed, Chris sighed deeply and explained, “Chris is short for Christian. And I work with Gravitational Orbits Dynamics. G.O.D.”