My Cardboard Balcony

He Named His Daughter Jesus by Belinda Roddie He named his daughter Jesus, and the whole town erupted into hostile retorts and reprimands for being blasphemous. Not like his daughter liked her name at all, anyway, but she didn't have to change  it 'cause the judge changed it for her. People made enough of a fuss that even the government got involved, and thus the girl became "Jheanette," although her father shrieked, "Why can't my daughter be a messiah, too? It's not exclusive!" (He was a drunk with a half-rotted brain by the time he said that to the reporters). Her mom, though, said, "Your name pick was shit. I told you so."

We became national champions that night, throwing chess sets out the windows and watching the knights collide with the castles on the way down, laughing when the queens met in midair and looked like they were kissing in the smoggy light of Los Angeles. We were done with chess after that, the plastic trophy already bent and contorted from Alan stepping on it the night before, stolen beer cans littering the floor of our hotel room as we tossed out board after board, the wooden pieces clattering to the ground below like noisy chunks of carved confetti.