Jesus in his BVDs under a straw hat, under the falls yesterday at Eaton Canyon, under a stream of water cascading from up above, kicking back in the shallow pond. You know the place. Jesus doing the float looking at His navel, toes out front, Jesus with friends. John the Baptist, I guess, and Mrs. John, a hippie cutie. The twenty of us hikers at the end of the trail trying hard not to look at the three of them having beers on a late Monday afternoon in a three sided cave. I didn’t know Jesus drank beer. Wine, yes, but beer? Imported, no less. Mrs. John, in a pale yellow shirtdress, vintage, with rusted side zipper, the kind of cotton you can see through, the kind of cotton good for a summer day, the kind, it being almost that time of year, almost summer. John having a smoke with the Mrs.. A stub cigarette passing between them, from John’s mouth, past his tunnel of long waist length hair, a thin wall smoking room, down to the filter, to her sweet unturned face. I am looking around us, my five-year-old son on a giant boulder, see gangbangers have been here, maybe last night, to put their stamp overhead on the cliff behind us, claiming a rock for themselves. Cholo granite I cannot read, what does it say? Writing that some volunteers will need scaffolding to cover up with a pretend rock color, the color of make-up, the canyon full of color, full of fixes, full of reminders, of other visitors, other weekenders, their scatter.
Plastic water bottles, Gatorade, doggie bags, baby diapers. A trail of breadcrumbs to the finale. Jesus, kicking back with friends, me thinking about stuff. Not taking the moment in. Thinking who’s supposed to clean up the canyon now. Jesus. I stifle the itch to reach, reach for the trash, I reach for my camera phone take a picture of Jesus and leave.