Build-Your-Own Jesus
By George Halitzka
I did a cash register double-take: $298.07. “Are you sure that’s right?” I stammered. “Do you take Visa?”
“It’s everywhere you want it to be,” smiled the manager, holding out an expectant hand.
My daughter and I were in one of those “Build-Your-Own Bear” stores, where kids choose the features of their stuffed animals and watch them fabricated before their eyes. She was about to leave with a new friend dubbed “Honey Bear.” Her father was handing over half his plasma TV fund. Who knew “realistic bear eyes” cost twenty bucks a piece?
“Your ad says ‘starting at $29.95,’” I accused the manager.
“Well, it’s a funny thing about a Build-Your-Own Bear,” he said with a greasy smile. “It keeps growing till it costs you everything.”
“I forgot!” screeched my little darling, gazing at a display. “Honey Bear needs sunglasses!”
“Honey Bear’s gonna squint.” I quickly dragged her towards the door.
“Come again!” called the manager.
“When my rich uncle dies.”
I was feeling light-headed. I found a bench and looked around for something to get my mind off Visa—watching my daughter coo to a $300 pile of fiber-fill wasn’t helping. And that’s when I noticed the two girls coming towards us.
They were definitely sisters, I decided, but the most notable thing about them wasn’t the family resemblance. They were arguing and shoving and sneering at each other, right in the middle of the mall.
“Mom, she pushed me!” whined one of the girls.
“Heather started it!”
“Look; I have a bruise!”
The mother whirled on her little delinquents and spat, “Stop it, you two! Jesus is watching!”
The girls barely glanced heavenward before Mom turned her back and they resumed the battle royale. Mom whirled again. “I said STOP IT!” She pointed to the sky. “Remember—Jesus!”
I wasn’t the only one eyeing their family bliss. The Build-Your-Own Bear manager was watching from behind his overstuffed cash register; now he sidled up beside Mom. “Excuse me, Ma’am ... are you sure?”
The poor woman looked confused. “What?”
“Mom, look!” said the girl named Heather. “It’s Build-Your-Own Bear! Melissa Plank has one with his own limo.”
“Are you sure Jesus is watching?”
“Well, he sees everything ... ” Mom stammered.
“Maybe that’s up to you,” said the manager. “Presenting our newest product ... Build-Your-Own Jesus!”
From thin air, he conjured a brochure with a flannelgraph picture of Jesus on the cover. I almost laughed out loud. Was he serious?
Serious as a three-hundred-dollar Visa bill.
“That’s so cool!” breathed Heather, snatching the brochure. “I don’t know anybody with her own Jesus!”
“Every God-fearing American should own one.”
Heather’s sister assumed her best puppy-dog expression. “Can we get a Jesus? Pretty please with sugar on top? And a cherry?”
“Starting at $29.95 ... ” said the manager.
“Well ... why not?” said Mom.
Without so much as a thank you, the girls rushed straight into the lion’s den. The manager whipped out two unstuffed Jesus-doll cases.
“Can I make mine soft and cuddly?” asked Heather.
“Any way you like your Jesus is okay with me!” he said. “What color hair?”
“Mine’s gonna be blonde,” said Heather, “with blue eyes. Just like the real Jesus.”
“You mean just like Fred Beasley,” said her sister. “Heather and Freddy, sittin’ in a tree—”
“Shut up! You’re such a baby!”
“K-I-S-S-I-N-G—”
“Mom, make her stop!” Heather yelled.
“Maybe Heather’s gonna marry Jesus!” said her sister.
“She could find worse boyfriends,” said Mom placidly.
“Can mine have the extra-big eyes?” wheedled Heather, conveniently changing the subject. “So I know he feels sorry when I get grounded?”
“He doesn’t feel sorry if you deserve it,” said Mom.
“He’s my Jesus!”
“Noses, ladies?” asked the Manager.
“The littlest one,” said the sister. “He’s not sticking it in my business.”
“Now mouths are all we need,” said the Manager. “We have the smiling Liberal Jesus ... the stern Catholic Jesus ... the suffering Evangelical Jesus—”
“Not suffering!” avowed Heather. “My Jesus isn’t hanging on any dirty old cross.”
“Good. I’m not washing blood off him,” said Mom.
“Any clothes today?”
“I want the gold robe!” said the sister.
“The Pharisee Special! An excellent choice. I’ll put your new friends in the Bear-O-Matic, and they’ll be ready in no time.”
The girls immediately resumed their shoving match, but something seemed to be bothering Mom. Something was bothering me, too, but I think it was the empty feeling in my hip pocket. Finally, Mom spoke timidly to the manager.
“Sir ... do you sell a lot of these?”
“Everyone needs their own personal savior.”
“Of course; but ... are pastors buying?”
“Reverend Smucker at First Church just ordered a clear one. Nearly invisible.”
“That’s good,” said Mom, sounding relieved. The manager nodded. “It’s just ... I tell my girls Jesus is God.”
“Any way you like your Jesus is okay with me,” he said absentmindedly.
The Bear-O-Matic beeped and the manager whipped out two overstuffed personal saviors. The girls immediately grabbed them from his hands.
“My Jesus is better than yours,” said Heather.
“Nuh-uh! Mine is going to heaven, and he won’t take you,” threw back her sister.
“Mine’s a prophet! He sees you taking my turn at dishes.”
The manager interrupted as his fingers danced over the cash register keys. “That’ll be $451.32. Paper or plastic?” He held out his hand expectantly.
Mom’s jaw dropped. “What? I don’t have that kind of money!”
I felt her pain, but I knew what was coming next. In fact, while my daughter methodically tore off one of Honey Bear’s $20 realistic eyes, I mouthed the words along with the manager:
“Well, it’s a funny thing about a Build-Your-Own Jesus,” he said. “It keeps growing till it costs you everything.”
It cost Mom almost five hundred bucks. Maybe a few other things, too.
Follow this link to view a drama script
based on "Build-Your-Own Jesus."
This article is satirical fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by George Halitzka. All rights reserved.