Jésus appeared in the girls’ dorm room at half past four in the morning, looking a little disorientated.
“Where is my bed?” he kept asking. “I lost my fucking bed.”
He wasn’t really Jésus of course. We just called him Jésus (pronounced the Mexican way) cause bar the stigmata he was a dead ringer for Christ. The same long brown hair. The same three week old, nicely trimmed beard. The same lanky figure. The nickname had stuck ever since we set foot in a Hispanic pub filled with Catholics that whispered ‘Jésus’ to eachother, every single one of them, as our friend walked by.
The girls in the dorm had never met him before though, so backlit by the hallway lights there really was something surreal about the Messiah standing in their room, opening his arms in despair and talking in a slow, preachy voice about desperately needing a place to crash.
They were so flabbergasted – and still too sleepy to think straight – they failed to come up with a reply. Luckily this wasn’t quite necessary, because it didn’t take long for Jésus to leave the room again, still looking for his bed.
We finally found him the following morning, curled up in the open trunk of his car, still pretty drunk, wearing nothing but his Modeselektor T-shirt.
For us that seemed like an epic night out. For him it was business as usual.
He was Jésus after all.
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