I almost hit Jesus today. Of course at first he came as a Man. I mean -- I didn't know he was Jesus or think he was Jesus. He was a man riding a beat-up bike on La Cienega, and I was driving my car toward a sick friend's house near the airport. I was bringing her a pastrami sandwich and some french fries, planned to stop and get a grape soda. He had long black curly hair and brown skin. He didn't have a shirt on and his pants were dirty and rolled up, but I think that was so they didn't get caught in the spokes. He darted out in front of my car and it seemed purposeful, not like a death wish but more to get my attention. There are days on the streets in Los Angeles where it seems like you narrowly miss death more times than twice (because haven't we all narrowly missed death at least once?), and today was one of those days. You've got to really concentrate when you drive in Los Angeles, but you can also daydream, and it's easy to get complacent when the cars are backed up and you're moving forward by inches. It's a little like going to mass, when you're kneeling and sitting and standing and saying the prayers but you're also thinking about what you're going to eat when you get home or whether you'd rather be the saint that defied everyone and was burned as a witch or the one who carried Jesus' cross on her back up the hill. Escaping death would include nearly killing someone else accidentally as well, because let's face it. Life as you knew it would be over if you accidentally hit someone with your car. I jammed my brakes and looked straight at him, a curse on my lips, but then he looked at me with his dark brown eyes and I knew it was him. Jesus. I'm not religious, you know. I don't even believe in God the Creator. I say I believe in Love, but that sometimes seems forced. As a Catholic child, I was certain that Jesus would come back dressed like a beggar and fool everyone, but I also fantasized about living in an orphanage on cold English moors, so I'm not reliable that way. This all happened in an instant -- the man on the bike, me slamming the brakes, a curse on my lips that was really Jesus! and it was him. A psychic hit, is what I call it. Because why the hell would I have thought the man was Jesus if he wasn't? Isn't that the way he's coming again? Or is he just out there, biking around with no shirt, his pants rolled up to avoid accidents, making eye contact with the needy.