‘Jesus is my homeboy,’ I insisted, tap-dancing through the crowd the way a seamstress threads a needle. I bet my shoulders against the drunkards for another view of the prophet Brad. ‘He has the stigmata,’ I wailed, pointing to the sores that scourged the prophet’s palms and wept quietly in the creases of his elbows. From his cardboard enclave Brad watched, beatific, munching day old Mexican alms from a takeaway container. A half witty hand written sign propped against his feet read; Consider a Contribution: Consider Yourself Saved. The Prophet’s silence said it all. I wailed, ‘Hey Zeus.’

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