Peter Schmader

Jesus’ Tears at the Corner of Piety and Desire

I stood at the food truck parked along the curb on St. Claude between Piety and Desire. It was dark and the street light shone on the group of us waiting there. The woman at the window looked like she was in her early twenties. She had one brown eye that moved and one milky faded-blue eye that didn’t. She leaned out and I could see rubber bands held handfuls of hair round her head, each handful tipped with a plastic butterfly clip in a primary color, like in a basic box of Crayola crayons. “I’m closed now,” she told the people behind me. “He’s my last.” Then she reached out and gave me the barbecued pork chop I’d asked for. She had wrapped it in a slice of white bread. “I’ve seen you,” she said, the milky, faded-blue eye staring at me and the other floating all round my face like it was scanning me, “and you taste Jesus’ tears in your sins, don’t you?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard her. “I’m sorry?” I said. She said again, “I’ve seen you, and you can taste Jesus’ tears in your sins.” I didn’t mean to, but I said, “I’m working on it.”