John the Baptist by Ben Bigelow
John had never considered himself a very interesting person. Not that he thought he was boring,
exactly, but he had noticed that people weren't flocking to be around him. Not like Franco, the Spanish
exchange student who had transferred into his grade last year or Emily, a girl whose popularity seemed
directly tied to the early development of her breasts. Sure, he wanted to be liked and popular and
whatever, but he had accepted a long time ago that he was going to live and die just like everyone else. If
he was lucky, his children’s children’s children would read his name in a family history record while they
were doing a project for school. And that was okay. Nothing wrong with average.
Except... Except that, well, it can be rather boring to be normal. Not like the men in the books his
Sunday school teacher talked about. Those men didn’t seem bored at all. They went around the world and
healed people. They saved lives and made miracles. John volunteered from time to time and generally
tried to help people out, but nothing he’d ever done could be called miraculous.
John didn’t care so much about being in a book or being remembered, but he was getting kind of
tired of spending most of his weekends in his bedroom, reading about other people’s adventures. He
wasn’t hoping for anything unreasonable. Walking on water was out of the question; John didn’t even
really like water. But maybe a trip somewhere. With animals.
* * *
John’s feelings of normalcy were part of what made his current situation so difficult to process.
Looking out his second story window, he saw the longest line of people he’d ever seen in his life. They
stretched all the way down the street until it curved and then continued on until he couldn’t see any
further. News crews were hovering throughout the neighborhood, just in case something new happened.
Many of the people in the line stared back at him, hoping for something to happen just by catching his
eye, as if that many any sense, given what had happened. Bigelow 2
What had happened? He still didn’t understand much. He knew he had been volunteering at the
downtown homeless shelter, helping pass out meals and clean up tables for those not able to do so
themselves. A man in a wheelchair that John thought was a war veteran was finishing up his meal when
John had bumped a glass of water, spilling it into the man’s lap. John apologized profusely, not sure how
best to address the situation (Should he give the man a towel? Should he dry the man’s legs himself?)
when the man’s face drained, turning white to match the butcher paper covering the long tables. His eyes
dropped, first staring at his legs, then at John and back again. John thought that the man may be mute, but
just as he was about to run to the kitchen to grab some dry towels, the man grabbed the armrests of his
chair and stood, shakily at first, but he stood. His eyes were opened as wide as they could be, two giant
marbles locked onto the impossible situation he found himself in. John fell speechless, his apologies
trailing off into a mumble of unfinished sentences. The man’s friends, if they were his friends, stopped
eating and sat staring, just as dumbfounded as the man. The rest of the room, now recognizing what was
happening, grew silent.
For what seemed like hours, but was likely only seconds, the tension and confusion held the room
in torpor before erupting into absolute chaos. The crippled man began yelling praises at the top of his
lungs, dancing about the crowded tables with his friends in tow, often tripping and falling like a foal first
learning to walk, leaving John to stare, still unsure of what was happening. Everyone seemed excited, if a
bit confused, until the man had made his rounds and ended up standing back before John, who stood
where he had been left, grounded in place. Tears welled in the rough man’s eyes and he grabbed John,
embracing him and crying for a bit before whispering a single, short sentence. “Thank you.”
Someone had been recording video on their cell phone at the shelter that evening, hoping to make
an amatuer documentary about the difficulty facing the homeless population. What they ended up with
was a clip that instantly soared to the most viewed spot on more than one popular video sharing site. He
looked the video up himself, a few days ago, hoping to see something that would give him insight into
what was going on. He left quickly after seeing the comments people were posting. Not believing in
himself was one thing; having people tear apart his personality, sexuality and anything else they could Bigelow 3
come up with in graphic detail was entirely different.
Once the local news station had their hands on the footage, and confirmation from the homeless
man’s social worker confirming his disability, the shelter became the most popular spot in the city. A
priest that had been at the shelter with John that evening cautiously confirmed what he had seen to those
who asked, trying to avoid making a fool of himself or his church. The whole situation screamed
adolescent prank, after all, even John thought so. He kept waiting for a camera crew to jump out and yell
“Gotcha!” confirming that this was all a hidden camera prank. The more time that passed, the more
unlikely that possibility seemed.
Much of the rest of the night was a blur, with news teams and cheering and interviews and crying
and unanswerable questions. His parents arrived within an hour or so to save him from the pandemonium.
During a mostly silent car ride, his mother asked him what happened. John recounted the night to the best
of his ability, and when he finished his father said, “Well I’ll be,” and let the conversation die. Before
going to bed he told his parents that he hadn’t really done anything, that it was an accident and he
couldn’t explain. They had nodded and said yes, that was ok. There was still love in their eyes, that night.
Concern, to be sure, but love as well.
The first day after The Miracle (as Rick Rogers, co-anchor of Local 7 News had coined it),
people had shown some restraint. The phone rang incessantly, which John thought was understandable.
He wouldn’t have called himself, if he were an outsider, but he understood why other people would.
Something strange had happened and they didn’t understand that he was just John, the uninspired
adolescent who hadn’t really done anything at all. Eventually his parents took the phone off the hook,
tired after a long day of answering as many questions as they could, which, to the city’s disappointment,
was very few.
Day two brought crowds. John was still surprised that so many people could show up in one
place. He couldn’t see his yard or the driveway or even the road in front of his house. By this time, his
parents were no longer smiling or patiently answering questions. Instead, they were on the telephone
saying things like “police escort” and “total invasion of privacy.” It wasn’t until a man that looked like he Bigelow 4
hadn’t slept in weeks tried to break through the front door that the police sent an officer to their home.
By the third day, after much convincing and a lot of emotional bribery on John’s part, his parents
finally gave in and allowed some of the people gathered to see him inside the house. They permitted one,
small group at a time and only under the strict supervision of the now rotating squad of police officers. It
was kind of fun, that third day. Most people just wanted to have him hold their hands or touch their
foreheads. Many of them wanted him to try to reproduce the event. He spilt so much water that he started
to feel guilty for being wasteful. But the people were asking him to and he couldn’t bring himself to deny
them their wishes. They were very kind and praised John for his newfound “gift”. And beside that, he got
to meet a lot of interesting people. Most were interesting in the good way. Many gave him gifts. He
declined them at first, but most people would drop them in his house and refuse to take them. Eventually
he stopped protesting.
Days four and five were much of the same. John fought the urge to play with his visitors’
emotions. He had the idea that he could start asking for bizarre and elaborate gifts as a sort of sacrifice to
jump start his power. Things like baby tiger cubs or mice trained to navigate complex mazes. To test their
reaction to this sort of thing, he tried casually mentioning that he thought he had felt something, a slight
sensation, when he had drank a cup of juice the day before, but he was all out of juice and what a shame
that was. It wasn’t forty five minutes before hundreds of bottles of juice were being dropped off at his
house. There were a few people, after his parents had gone outside and told the ad-hoc mob to stop
delivering any more, that decided throwing the juice directly into his window was the only way to meet
his request. The ridiculousness of the power these people were giving to him was overwhelmed by guilt
after some of the people throwing juice were tackled by his police brigade. For a moment it seemed as
though the crowd was on the verge of rioting, unsure if the police were helping or hurting their prophet.
By the weekend, John was beginning to worry. People were saying things about him that he was
sure weren’t true, and the intensity in their eyes was beginning to disturb him. At first he’d just passed the
words off as kind gestures, but he was starting to see that many people genuinely believed them.
Desperately believed them. He’d noticed a look on his father’s face when he came downstairs for lunch at Bigelow 5
the end of that first week, a look that told him more than words. It wasn’t like everyone else, not a plea
for safety or healing or salvation. It was fear. Fear of what, John couldn’t figure out, but fear just the
same.
A knock at the door pulled John from his thoughts. He’d not been sleeping well the past few days,
and dark circles lined his eyes. Water bottles and empty glasses were stacked around the room, a reminder
of the circumstance John now found himself in. “Yes?” John answered after staring at his bedroom door
for a few moments.
“Mr. Baptist,” a voice muffled by the door called, “we’re switching out officers. Pinelli and I are
heading back to the station and Jones and Flores are taking over.” He’d asked them to stop calling him
that, the Baptist. It was another term coined by Local 7 News, a name for the ordinary teenager turned
wonder of the world. John the Baptist. The officers would slip up, calling him his unofficial title and
eventually he stopped correcting them, feeling awkward reprimanding any adult, let alone those that
clearly stood above him in power.
He didn’t particularly like the name, but it was better than some. Others were calling him the
Savior. Messiah. Jesus, even. That last one was less common, only repeated by the most zealous of his
“followers”. Those that fit into that category tended to be escorted away as quickly and as quietly as
possible, which was not particularly easy, considering they were in the middle of a neighborhood
peppered with like minded individuals. He heard their screams, begging for salvation, retribution, or
forgiveness. It was all very confusing, if somewhat flattering. John figured that if some people wanted to
see something in him that didn’t exist, who was he to judge?
He hadn’t responded yet, but John knew the officer still stood just outside, waiting for
confirmation. He didn’t give it. The discomfort from ignoring them was easier to deal with than the
feeling of perversion John felt at having these men and women look to him for anything, even something
as small as affirmation. Eventually John heard the heavy steps of booted feet as the officer made his way
down the hall and descended the stairs.
John turned from the window and walked to his bed. Knocking some of the bottles from the Bigelow 6
sheets, he lay down and closed his eyes. He pictured the man who’d been healed stumbling about in his
uncoordinated dance. He saw the man who’d tried to break into his home, his dirty face and rotting teeth
twisted into a howl of anger and pain. He saw his parents, shaking their heads in disbelief at yet another
day of insanity. Eventually he drifted off to a restless sleep.
* * *
John’s radio alarm clock clicked on at the same time it did every morning, six o’clock, to the
same station it had been set to for years. This early in the morning, the typical broadcast was a solo act, a
man who offered vapid, sarcastic commentary on the political landscape, the business world and anything
else that seemed easy to exploit. Once per month they focused on incredible conspiracy theories, so
complex that they became impossible to disprove and therefore, to the host and assumedly the audience,
as close to truth as is possible. Today, he was talking about John. He heard his name followed by terms
like faker and con-artist. The host accused him of preying on the misfortune of others, exploiting those in
need. He called the video footage amatuer and clearly doctored. The host claimed he could tell “because
of the pixels.” The whole thing would have been laughable if John didn’t agree with the core of what the
man was saying. John wasn’t special. He didn’t have any powers. He hadn’t faked it, of course, but that
didn’t change the fact that the one thing that had made him famous wasn’t anything he’d done at all.
As he stared at the ceiling, John thought back on the previous week. How had he ended up here,
barely a week after the incident, considering asking people to bring him tigers just to see if they’d do it?
The thought was ridiculous. The shame that he felt at his exploitation of these people was overpowering.
He felt nauseated and embarrassed. He had to send them away. He had to admit what he’d been telling
himself all along: “I am not special.”
Standing, John walked to the window and drew the shades. Light stung his eyes and blinded him
temporarily. The crowds came into view slowly as his eyes adjusted and his vision returned. When they
noticed him standing there, many turned and stared at him, some smiling in admiration, others bowing Bigelow 7
their heads in reverence. Shaking his head, John turned and walked to his bedroom door, leaving to find
his parents.
He found them both in the kitchen, sitting at the small kitchen table in silence. “Hey,” John said
as he entered the room. John’s mother looked wearily at him, then at his father, and the returned her tired
gaze to the untouched coffee in her hands. John looked to his father who sat staring absently at the kitchen
wall. “Hey,” he said louder. His father blinked a few times, then turned his head slowly, his blank
expression never changing.
“John, your mother and I have been talking,” his father began.
“I know, I wanted to talk to you to. I want to-”
“Wait,” his father cut in. “We’ve been talking and we’ve decided that you’re going to stay with
your grandmother. This whole prank situation has gotten out of hand, and it will be better if you have
some time away from all of this.”
John was speechless. His father was all but accusing him of being a fraud and on top of that, was
sending him to the most boring place he’d ever been. Was this some type of sick joke, an attempt to
lighten the situation? No, he could tell by his father’s unchanging expression that this wasn’t anything or
the sort. They were serious! They thought he was!.. They were going to!..
“No!” John shouted in spite of himself. “I hate it there! And what do you mean, ‘this whole prank
situation’? You think I faked this? You think I would do that? I told you everything that happened that
night. I’ve never lied to you about anything. I can’t believe you would-”
Again his father cut him off, this time meeting John’s tone and amplifying it as he continued.
“We’re not idiots, John. You think you’re the first kid to do something stupid to get attention? I don’t
know why you’d take it this far and I’ll be damned if I can figure out how you got that man and his
caseworker in on it, but God damn it, this is enough! You’re little juice trick was the last straw. We’re not
letting this go any further and we’re not letting you make a fool of this family any longer. We’re leaving
in an hour, so pack some clothes.”
“NO!” John yelled louder, this time turning and starting to run toward the front door. He fought Bigelow 8
back the tears welling in his eyes, but they started falling regardless. He heard his mother start cry and his
father yelling something as he ripped the door open and crossed the threshold, leaving his sanctuary of the
previous week to join the masses gathered out front. The people outside were overjoyed to see him
entering their ranks for the first time, then worried at his state.
“What’s wrong?” they asked with genuine concern. “Baptist, are you ok?” “What’s happened,
what would you have us do?” They made way for him as he continued through the crowd, his pace
slowed by the sluggish reaction of a group this size.
“John!” his father yelled behind him. “Stop this right now! This is enough! You’ve taken this too
far and it needs to end today.”
John stopped, a small circle forming around him. He turned and saw his father walking toward,
having to fight a little with the crowd who appeared unsure if they wanted to let this man through. When
his father reached him, John could see the veins in his temple pulsing, his eyes red with anger. John was
afraid of what would happen, afraid he had pushed too far.
“Come with me, right now.”
“No,” John replied, quiet and timid.
“That wasn’t a request.”
“I don’t care,” John replied, his voice gaining volume and confidence. “These people see me for
who I am, that I’m special and they treat me that way. I don’t want to leave. I’m not going to leave. You
can’t force me to go.”
His father’s eyes looked as though they were about to explode from his head. John had never
talked to his father this way, had never really asserted himself to anyone. His heart pounded in his throat
and he felt faint and energized at the same time. As they stared at each other, time seemed to stand still
for an instant, like back in the the homeless shelter.
John’s father reached out and tried to grab John by the shoulder, but he dodged to his side,
slinking into the crowd and out of reach. “Get out of my way,” his father said, his anger causing his voice
to crack and shudder. “What are you doing, didn’t you hear me, get-” He was cut short as a tall, well built Bigelow 9
man came up behind him and put an arm around his kneck, placing him in a headlock and forcing him to
his knees.
“What is wrong with you, this is assault,” his father gasped, struggling to speak with his throat
partially closed under the pressure. “Let me go. I need to take my son and get out of here.” The man
holding him looked at John, then forced him lower to the ground. His father made a strangled, raspy
attempt at a yell as two additional men took his arms to prevent him from overpowering the first man.
“No,” John said to them. “Don’t hurt him. I’m not going with him, but don’t hurt him.” The man
loosened his hold around his father’s neck, and air rushed in as his father took a deep breath, unhindered
by the other man’s crushing grip. He stared at John, a look somewhere between disgust and confusion
painted across his face.
John could see the police officer’s stationed at his house coming outside now. He heard them
asking what was going on and where was John and his father. John turned and started walking further into
the crowd, leaving his father breathing heavily behind him, unable to follow but unwilling to fight any
longer.
Just as he was leaving earshot, he paused and turned his head to the side as he heard his father
yell after him, “You don’t know what you’re doing, John. This is stupid. You think these people care
about you? You think they won’t drop you once they figure out what’s happened? They will. But don’t
bother coming back home. You’re not welcome, you hear? You’re not welcome.”
John returned his head forward and walked away.
