The Bodyguard ("Ties" story #86)

TIES
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is very careful about her twist ties, especially the ones she gets off her bread sacks. She has to be because they are red. She doesn’t wear clothes that color or have any red-tainted furniture. To do so would be wrong. It would make Jesus pout, be unhappy, and would churn His stomach just like cigars do. Her lipstick may look red to some, but it isn’t. Not really. She’s very conscientious about this. She doesn’t want to offend. She has several dresses that also may seem almost red—but again, when you look closely, they are not. It is important to her to look closely at such things and to keep perspective. Red is a color she would probably enjoy having around, but she knows her place in the grand scheme of the cosmos and that Jesus should always have the last say in such things as furniture and lipsticks. This is why, to please Him, as soon as she takes the red twist ties off her bread sacks, she immediately hurls the vile abominators into the trash. When she does, she makes sure her back is not to Jesus on His cross. She wants Him to see how much vigor she puts into the action.

Once, right after she’d done so, the phone rang. She knew who it was. She could smell the cigar through the phone even before she picked it up and she shot a quick, worried look over at Jesus. The cigar had an old smell, as old as the Bible. She told the cigar she couldn’t talk. She told it she was busy. Not to get angry. Could she call back? As she’d whispered these words she’d had her back to Jesus and her voice as low as it could go. Why did her Savior have to be such a jerk? After she was off the phone, she’d smiled at Him and said she needed to pick up something at the store. Then she’d dashed outside and hurried down the three blocks to the Minute Mart where there was a pay phone.

Wouldn’t you know it, the booth was red! She couldn’t enter it. She knew how that would look and what people would think. But she also knew the loud car spitting its oil everywhere would come fast if she didn’t call back. So she went nearer to the phone and its irrefutable redness. It had been painted by hand. She could tell because of the lush brushstrokes. Whoever had done it had been very thorough, passionate, and dilligent about the work. It was perfect. It had clarity. She had her face up against its glass, only inches away when she realized she was trembling--that being even this close was dangerous, that some of its pigment might somehow come off and extend through the air.