From “Jar with a Man Leaning on a Crutch” by an unknown artist (early 16th century)
MESSIAH OF THE MUD
The ritual looked abrupt. The bald man appeared from nowhere, rolling up on a silver bicycle with the dents and scratches of previous owners. The man was probably too small for it. He’d balance himself with the tip of his toes and strained to keep the bike between his legs.
Mr. Bike was an oddity. He was almost certainly homeless, and dirty, but his face was always clean. He carried nothing except the layers of shirts on his back, a plastic Solo cup, and an unknown, muddy liquid. Green droplets rose to the top of his jug, glittering under plastic that used to pour SunnyD.
Nothing about Mr. Bike looked interesting until he found a kindred spirit roaming outside. Most of the unhoused people he met shooed him away. Some may have been territorial, but Mr. Bike was not a welcoming presence. He rarely spoke, and often withdrew from his bike with his red cup already half-filled. His persistence was physical, as were the rejections he faced. He was most vocal when the green drink was spilled. A woman once shoved Mr. Bike for getting too close, and he dove to prevent the drink from soaking into the ground. The liquid returned with a fistful of dirt.
The plastic itself wasn’t sacred, but he maintained it. If the lip chipped, he quickly filed it against any nearby concrete, or even the street’s asphalt. This was a demand of the ritual.
If Mr. Bike felt a purpose beyond total evangelism, it was unclear. If he had an ideology with which to indoctrinate others, it was unknown. He wanted to approach the outcasts, and he wanted them to drink with the same blind devotion he felt. On the rare occasion that someone did drink, Mr. Bike pressed the cup to their lips with a steep tilt. It never left his hand, and he stayed until their face was in the cup, and every drop went down.
He never waited for the ritual’s inevitable consequence. He didn’t watch the victims vomit everything that was inside their stomachs, until they only gagged acid and blood. All of them wailed in terror as they failed to eject what was inside their bodies. They ripped the inside of their cheeks trying to stretch their mouths open, or pulled down on their jaws until bone cracked. None of that was Mr. Bike’s concern. His only job was to get them to drink. ◆
R.E. Duenas is an author from San Francisco, California.
