James the Greater
by Mike Phillips
“When his disciples James and John saw it, they said, ‘Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?’” —Luke 9:54
I 
was surprised to see his enormous feet dangling toes-down over the arm of the couch, like two miniature sides of beef. He had a habit of rising early and letting himself out after a bender. I considered pulling the sleeping bag away from his close-cropped hair and waking him violently, but then I noticed the rivulet of drool, the only proof that he was still for now among the living, and thought better of it.
As I turned away, some recently displaced piece of furniture materialized in the exact spot where I was about to place my foot. Awoken either by the noise of the collision, the sound from my mouth like steam hissing through a broken radiator, or his irrepressible lust for Schadenfreude, he slightly lifted his head and muttered, “Hey Fuckface, get me a glass of water.”
When I returned from the kitchen, he was halfway sitting up and mostly naked. His furry thighs formed an obtuse angle, the leg-holes of his briefs not hugging his skin quite closely enough near the vortex. He scratched his chest loudly and said, “Man, those guys were assholes last night, huh?”
“You mean the ones you picked a fight with?”
“Guy fuckin’ sat in my seat.”
“It’s a bar, it’s not really your seat, especially if you’re outside for half an hour.”
“Whatever. Fuck that guy.” He paused, then unleashed a thunderous belch that I thought I could feel in the soles of my feet.
I quickly decided to go back to bed. “Make yourself at home,” I told him. I wondered why I always forgave him. Then I thought of something he once told me about loyalty, but I couldn’t remember exactly how he put it.
