by R. E. Vance
“Are you kidding?” I said, turning to face her. “What happened?”
“We had a party. Things got out of control. Atlantis was sunk.”
“That’s it?” I said. “A city disappears and you sum it up in three sentences. You got to give me more than that.”
“OK, Jean, I tell you what—you can ask me three questions.”
“Great!”
Medusa lifted a finger. “In exchange for you granting me a request.”
I pulled away, hoping that her request didn’t involve a bottle of wine and satin sheets.
She must have seen my doubt, because she quickly added, “A PG-13 request.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart.” She crossed her heart, her finger accidentally—tantalizingly—tugging one of her straps. “Whoops,” she said, pulling her strap back up.
I gulped. “Fine, done.”
“Great,” she beamed. “What do you want to know?”
“OK—Poseidon sunk Atlantis, you already told me that. Why?”
“Loki,” she said. “The damn trickster said something he shouldn’t have.”
“And?”
“And … nothing. Back then tricksters were always messing with gods, Others and mortals alike. Loki said something he shouldn’t have, Poseidon got angry, threw his typical temper tantrum and sunk Atlantis.”
“Argh,” I said. She was being coy. I gave her a look that said, “You’re holding back on me.”
She smirked. “Poseidon was the groom. He was very drunk, and Loki—well, Loki always knew how to push his buttons.”
“He was the groom? Who was his bride?” I asked.
Medusa’s smile temporarily disappeared before her eyes flickered with a realization. “Ah, ah, ah …” she said, wagging her finger. “And to answer your third question—yes, he was the groom.”
“No—wait a minute—I only asked two questions.”
Medusa held up three fingers. “I believe your first question was, ‘Why did Poseidon sink Atlantis?’ I answered Loki.” She lowered a finger. “Then you asked, ‘And?,’ to which I added pertinent details about Poseidon’s character. As for your last question—you wasted it by asking if Poseidon was the groom, even though I clearly had told you he was already.”
“You’re devious,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest and pretending to pout.
“I am not,” Medusa said, playfully punching my arm with such force that it knocked me over. Man, even playing, man-oh-man she could punch! I’d hate to be in a real fight with her.
“Ow,” I laughed, grabbing my arm.
She giggled in embarrassment and leaned over to offer me a hand. When she did, her purse fell, its contents spilling on the beach. Keys, lip gloss, lip moisturizer, skin moisturizer, nail polish, leather relaxant—presumably for the snakes—a Hello Kitty wallet, phone and …
“What’s this?” I asked as I picked up a small, hand carved, wooden winged horse.
Before I could say or do anything, Marty’s scaly jaws snatched the trinket out of my hand and put it in Medusa’s purse.
“It’s nothing,” Medusa said, snapping her purse shut. She looked across at the sun that was beginning its slow descent beneath the horizon. “It’s getting late, we should go,” she said, her grin returning. “But first … my request.”
I groaned and eyed her suspiciously. “Fine, but I reserve the right to do something equally evil to you.”
“Deal,” she said and stuck out her hand.
I took it. “Very well, then—spill it. What do you want?”
“Invite me to the gala. I know you can have a plus-one, and I’d like to go.”
“Oh,” I chuckled. “So that’s it. All of this was so you could get an invite to the gala?” I might have been offended had I not been the cool guy with connections. I was so rarely the cool guy.
“Did it work?” She batted her eyelids at me.
I thought about how the gala would be another date. Our third date, to be specific. Given the kind of advice she was reading, third dates were the no-holds-barred dates. Medusa and her thirty snakes knew a lot of holds and … Stop it! I growled to myself.
I didn’t want to lead her on any more than I already had. Saying no now would go a long way to ending the crush. OK, Jean, let her down easy. Tell her that you can’t bring anyone. Be kind, but firm. Medusa touched my arm, felt the fabric of my coat that hung on my forearm between her thumb and forefinger. Whatever happens next, Jean, don’t invite her. Medusa looked at me expectantly, her eyes as well as the eyes of all thirty of her snakes staring at me. It wouldn’t be fair, Jean, she doesn’t know human customs. She’ll take this date seriously. Marty got in close, scowling at me as I hesitated.
“Well,” I started. Better now than later, I thought. “It’s pretty full, and …”
“Yes?” Medusa held her breath, her eyes locked on mine. Hell, thirty pairs of snake eyes were locked on me.
I should tell her that now is not a good time. No, what I should really tell her is that there will never be a good time and that we should just be friends. I should point out that going arm-in-arm to the gala would send the wrong message to everyone, including us. Then a polite kiss on the cheek—that should send the right message that I wasn’t interested. You know, let the gorgon down easy with a clear signal that has been documented over and over again by every teenage glossy magazine in existence. Medusa would get the hint, of that much I was sure.
But instead of following my well thought out plan, I ran my hands through my hair and stammered, “Sure … I can get you in.” Crap!
“Yes!” Medusa said with far too much enthusiasm given that I was right in front of her. All thirty of her snakes simultaneously hissed.
“Of course, I’ll be working, but—”
“Don’t worry, Jean. I’m not a demanding date,” she said, giving me a hug. And with that, I had a date. Again.
Oh well, I thought. Maybe I can let her down easy at our wedding.
Hellelujah!
De-Evolution and the Manicure
We watched the sun set, and then I took Medusa home to get ready for the gala and went back to the hotel. Even though my date with Medusa ended with me screwing up, I was in a pretty good mood. Things were, for once, going my way. I had just booked the hotel’s first major gig; the typical Other drama that usually filled my life was at an all-time low; and ever since I took out the god-wannabe who killed the unicorn Joseph, my reputation in Paradise Lot had been at its best. If only Bella were here to see it all—she’d be proud.
Despite the GrandExodus having happened fourteen years ago, the world seemed to be doing alright. It certainly hadn’t descended into the chaotic hell promised by Fox News. In fact, if you really boiled it down, things were pretty much as they were before. Good guys and bad guys and everyone in between. I’ve known evil angels and good devils, murderous pixies and empathetic ghouls. But mostly I’ve met lost Others trying to find their place in the GoneGod world.
Paradise Lot was still a slum for the OnceImmortals, and they were being exploited as cheap labor—but at least they were getting employed. Across the bridge, the mainland-employed Others worked ridiculous hours for minimal pay doing all sorts of menial jobs: pixies cleaned houses, genies scrubbed windows, fairies washed dishes.
And even though they did the jobs no humans wanted, they were still being crapped on for stealing work from the AlwaysMortals. I’ve never seen a human wake up at three a.m. to get on a bus and drive for four hours before reaching farmlands, only to return late that night exhausted and sore. Hecatonchires did that every day, using their fifty arms to pick apples or peaches or whatever crop was too expensive for them to actually buy—while human farmers paid them a fraction of the minimum wage.
Despite all that, I still couldn’t help but feel hope. In only fourteen years, humans had progressed from fighting Others to being wary of them. Wariness is a big step up from distrust and hatred, and a hell of a lot better than fear.
> Being wary isn’t enough to stop commerce, and that was what made me hopeful. Affluent humans had started employing particular Others for more than just being cheap labor or maids. They were starting to see the specific and unusual skills these creatures possessed. Of course, they never dirtied the hem of their pants by actually coming to Paradise Lot to employ these Others. They didn’t need to—not with the Internet.
Minotaurs were particularly good blacksmiths. Fairies loved glitter, and although they’d bling anything you asked them to for free, they were often paid by rich kids to do something special for their phone cases, backpacks or jeans. Leprechauns were accomplished tattoo artists and pixies were incredible seamstresses.
And then there were the dwarves who could dig better than cranes. I never thought I’d see the day when a construction company asked for dwarven help, but it happened. A construction company sent their head guy over to ask for structural advice over some large government bid. By the end of the “consultation,” the engineer hired the whole dwarven crew. I should know—a dwarf’s key negotiation technique is to stare down their opponent. Not a great strategy when dealing with a French engineer. I advocated on their behalf and, although I’m no corporate negotiator, got them a hell of a lot more than the three tons of coal and two tons of gravel they were asking for.
Finally, there were the artists. Elves danced, satyrs piped, kelpies pontificated and cyclops prophesized—each of them slowly becoming YouTube stars one view at a time. Amongst them was CaCa, a former resident of mine who was literally the god of refuse (the really smelly kind). CaCa was an incredible artist. With a bit of help from EightBall, we were able to set up for him a website and a PayPal account. About once a week I addressed a package to some exotic destination. By the sheer volume he was moving, he must’ve been doing well—but, still, he lived in the sewers. Go figure.
All in all, Others were proving their worth, and it felt good to see it all evolving in the right direction. It was just going to take time.
I drove home with an unfamiliar feeling of happiness. I had to admit, at first it was uncomfortable, then I realized what it was and let it wash over me. But as soon as I arrived, the feeling drained away like someone had ripped the bottom off of a bathtub.
Hellelujah! I really, really wished I had never left the hotel in the first place.
↔
My typically empty hotel driveway was filled with Others who gathered to catch a glimpse of the biggest event—to them, at least—since they became mortal. The human fanfare was considerably less with a few local journalists mulling about.
From the gate I could see both sides of the hotel’s turnstile entrance decorated with enough balloons to lift a city bus. Two velvet ropes lined either side of a red carpet, holding back the gawkers that pressed on both sides with their cameras ready. Several gargoyle security guards stood at attention and, despite being made of rock, wore black suits, sunglasses and those funny earpiece things.
I’m not much for crowds so I reversed to the back entrance, expecting that the kitchen entrance would be a quiet way into the hotel. Instead I found a flashing squad car, an angry woman and … Penemue.
GoneGodDamn it!
↔
I’d like to say I was surprised when I saw a squad car with a horse trailer attached to it, but I wasn’t. Generally, when Penemue was up to no good, the police were involved. For a fallen angel who had been kicked out of Heaven and Hell, you’d think he’d have learned how not to get caught.
What did surprise me was the Honda Civic that was also parked in the narrow driveway. A human woman in a suit with ’80s shoulder pads and bright red lipstick was yelling at the angel Penemue and a teenage boy who went by the name “EightBall.”
“They’re the ones who vandalized my shop—who else could it be?” She held up a stack of flyers for the two police officers to see. One of them was Officer Steve, the youngest of the Billy Goats Gruff. (Yes, they’re real. I was just as surprised as the next guy.) He wore a Dick Tracy coat and hat and had a toothpick in his mouth. The cop stereotype he was currently sporting was a step up from the London Fog overcoat and wool hat he used to wear in his Sherlock Holmes phase. As a fairy tale creature, Steve learned from stories. I guess he was working his way up the cop-cliché spectrum. Personally, I could hardly wait for when he got into Miami Vice.
Officer Steve was standing next to another cop whom I didn’t recognize, partly because he was new and partly because he was human.
“Here, look at this!” The woman pulled out a sheet from the stack of flyers and showed it to the human officer. “They did it.”
EightBall raised his hands up in an “I surrender” gesture and said, “I’m just a human,” as if that was all the defense he needed.
The woman spun on the teenage boy and flung several flyers at him. “I sincerely doubt that you are human at all.” Her right hand, now free of flyers, whirled at the tattoos on EightBall’s face. They were his tags and the tell-tale sign of the HuMans, a gang of Other-haters. Think of them as progressive Neo-Nazis who didn’t discriminate against race, religion or ethnicity—as long as you were human. The kid still had all the signs of the gang—his bald head covered with religious symbols like yin yang, the “Wheel of the Dharma,” the Star of David and a vertical infinity sign on his forehead that, coupled with his dark complexion, made his head look like an eight ball. Sort of.
Up until a year ago EightBall had been HuMan’s local chapter leader. Then he met the drunk angel at his side, who—for reasons of his own—helped him see the error of his ways. That said, Penemue was a fallen angel, which meant that, although EightBall had been saved from gang-life, he had not been saved from mischief.
The cop lifted his hands in a calm-down gesture. “Ma’am, without witnesses we can’t just—”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” the woman shot back. “As a member of our race, I thought—”
“ ‘Race’?” the human cop said, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yes, race … as a human I thought you of all people would understand.”
“All I know is that you have one thousand flyers with the wrong logo on them. Sounds like a printer mistake, not vandalism.”
She leaned in close and read the human cop’s name tag. “Like I told you, Officer Conner—when I got the flyers, they were fine. Then that one comes into my shop. And when he leaves, all the flyers had changed.” She pointed an accusing finger at Penemue, who adjusted his tweed vest before yawning.
“Changed?”
“Yes, changed!”
“How?” the human officer asked.
“I don’t know … magic?”
“Ma’am? You do know how magic works for Others. Since the gods left, Others have a finite time on the mortal plane. Every time they use their magic, they spend that time. In other words, they literally shorten their lives. Changing a thousand flyers would have cost the angel,” he looked over at the Gruff, “I don’t know—how long?”
Officer Steve looked at him pensively, pulled out his toothpick and sneered. “For that ace-high stack of flyers, see, I’d guess me a nickel.”
“A nickel?” the human officer asked. “What are we talking? Minutes, days, weeks?”
Officer Steve eyed the flyers. “Days, see …”
“Five days? Five days is a lot of time to spend on a bunch of flyers.”
“Miss Webb,” Penemue chimed in, “if I was going to spend all that time on you, I would have invited you for a drink. Perhaps a little bit more than a drink.” The angel winked.
“Oh hush, demon,” she said, turning to Penemue with Hell’s fury in her eyes. The woman, who was in her early fifties, looked like she should be going to Sunday Mass, not yelling at eight-foot-tall angels. She poked a finger at Penemue’s tweed vest and said, “I know all about you and why you fell. You went against God’s will by teaching us the knowledge of writing—”
“Without which, might I also point out,” Penemue said, “you would not have been able to make th
ose flyers in the first place.”
“Poppycock! Don’t give me that.” She went toe-to-toe with Penemue, but given her height, she only came up to the middle button of his finely pressed shirt. “You have a second chance to atone for your sins. And it’s a second chance that I’m trying to help you people achieve—”
“ ‘People,’ ” the angel Penemue interrupted. He unfurled his wings and stretched them out. From tip to tip they were longer than a bus. “I very much doubt that I am a human. Now this young man, despite the numerous tattoos that litter his face, is indeed a human.” He nodded at EightBall. “A punk, perhaps, but most certainly a member of your homo sapiens race.”
“Now this is exactly what I’m talking about,” she said, turning to the police officer. “Are you going to help or are you going to just stand there?”
The human cop smiled with about as much sincerity as a shark has when apologizing for eating a school of guppies. “I understand, Miss Webb, but I’m not in charge here. He is.” He nodded at Officer Steve, who shifted from four legs to two with such a natural ease that it made me wonder why everyone wasn’t both bi- and quadrupedal at the same time. Pulling out his toothpick with an exaggerated flair, he pointed the wet end at Penemue and EightBall and said, “We know it was you, see! So why don’t you do us all a favor and fess up.”
“You see what I mean,” Miss Webb said to no one in particular. “Officer Conner, you must see how they are unfit to run things.”
That’s when I got out of my car. I was fine with her yelling at them on my property—the GoneGods know they probably deserved it. It was the way the word “they” rolled off her tongue, like Others were less than humans, like it was her charity that allowed them to live on this good green Earth … it boiled my blood. “Look here,” I started. “I don’t know who you think you are—”
Miss Webb shot me a look that would have frozen a tidal wave. “You! Jean-Luc?” She spoke my name like she knew me, but staring at the five-foot-nothing ball of anger, I figured that it was a combination of having heard about me (after all, there were only a handful of humans that lived and worked in Paradise Lot) and her fury in the situation making her put in more familiarity than she had meant. I was wrong about that, just as I was going to be wrong about so much more before this night was over.