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[continued from page 1]
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I have been using the word Jesus a lot more often than necessary. I get stuck on a word and use it until it’s dead in my mind. Christ. I did Christ a few months ago. Christ this and Christ that. For awhile I was saying Hells Bells. I said it out loud to my boyfriend and he was like, “Oh my god, what did you say? My mom says that.”
I said, “Maybe I got it from her.”
I don’t know what a King Cake is, but it smells like a Cinnabon store. It’s purple, green, and yellow and maybe that’s red. People are taking small slices and putting their cakes on their napkins and then filing out and chatting with each other about being fat and going on a sugar high and neglecting themselves.
One of my co-workers, a guy I know through the office rumor mill as a guy who likes hard drugs, but who I just know as Dave who sits near me and plays good music from his computer and rolls his eyes during staff meetings, says something about the baby Jesus.
“What about the baby Jesus? Is he here with us right now?” I ask.
“There’s a plastic baby baked into this cake. If you find it, it gives you good luck,” Dave says, “and it’s supposed to be Jesus.”
“Jesus is in this cake?”
Dave shrugs and cuts a piece off for himself.
A girl says, “It’s actually not Jesus. Jesus doesn’t go into a King Cake. It doesn’t have to be a baby, either. It can be anything. It can be a miniature rendering of Donald Trump. There’s no rule that says it’s a baby. Or that it’s Jesus.”
Dave puts a big piece of King Cake in his mouth. He chews. Swallows. “I always heard it was Jesus.”
The girl rolls her eyes. She cuts a piece and walks away.
Dave examines the rest of his cake. “No Jesus,” he says. He moves his tongue around in his mouth. “Not there either.”
“What’s the good luck? If you get the baby Jesus in your mouth and you don’t choke on it then you’re cool?” I ask.
I cut myself a piece. It reminds me of day-old coffee cake that isn’t good to eat, but I’ll eat it anyway. It reminds me of college. I peek into my slice, but there is no baby.
So then it’s just me and Dave and we’re eating our cake. He nods, like it’s so good he can’t stand it. I don’t think it’s all that good, and I want some milk. There is a knife next to the cake and it’s covered in frosting. I get a clean one from above the sink where the office manager keeps our fine plastic cutlery.
Probably you are not supposed to cheat and stab the cake with a knife until you find the baby. I guess you’re supposed to let it give birth to the baby on your plate. Dave watches me poke and prod, and then he picks up the dirty knife and starts to poke and prod. He leans forward on his elbows and gives it a half-assed effort.
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