Debris & Detritus

by Robin D. Owens

  “Well, no, but I know the apartments in this area are all over the businesses.” He scanned the numbers above the stores as he walked. “So, we’re looking for an ‘A’ or a ‘B’ or an ‘and a half’ or something like that.”

  “This is bullshit,” said the older man. “We should have called first.”

  “He won’t talk to us on the phone, you know that.”

  “He might.”

  “He wouldn’t!”

  “You don’t know that!”

  And so it went, for almost the length of the block. Finally, the blond homeless man stopped in front of a floral delivery shop called Pan’s Garden.

  “See?” said the younger man, pointing. “3249, here, and right there—” he shifted his attention to the left of the floral shop to an innocuous-looking door “—is 3249 A.”

  “Or B,” said the older man. “Or ‘and a half.’”

  “Right,” said the younger man. He walked up to the door and tried the knob. “It’s locked.”

  “Huh,” said the older man. “That’s weird. It’s almost as if, you know, he doesn’t want visitors to just walk up to his apartment and bang on the door. So strange.”

  “Will you shut up and come give me a hand?”

  “This is a bad idea,” said the older man. He touched the doorknob, and it suddenly sprouted a patina of green age and separated into two parts. The knob on the other side of the door hit the welcome mat and bounced once. The other half with the shaft slid out from the hole in the door and the younger man caught it. The door seemed to buckle and warp slightly, and then it swung inward on now-rusty hinges.

  The younger man scooped up the other half of the doorknob assembly and said, “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “It’s all I’ve been saying to you,” said the older man. “You only hear what you want to hear.”

  “Well, it’s too late to back out, now.” He started up the steps. “You coming?”

  The older man sighed and started climbing. “Yeah, yeah. But when this blows up on us, I am going to say ‘I told you so.’”

  “I know you will.”

  Gary Meade sat in his tastefully uncluttered study, on the piano bench, and stared at the handwritten sheets of musical notation. He could read it with his eyes, and he could hear it in his head, but something was not coming together. He wadded up the last page and tossed it in the trash can, to join the other failed attempts. His coffee cup steamed on top of the piano, untouched. It was the fourth cup this morning. He rarely drank more than two cups when he was working. Caffeine made him jumpy, and when he got jumpy, his strings all started playing pizzicato instead of allegro, and that just didn’t work, unless you were writing for Bugs Bunny cartoons. Carl Stalling he was not.

  So, what, then, was that irregular beat that was running through his score? He could hear it when he sang the woodwinds part. It was driving him crazy, and he went back to the beginning of the movement and started over, and son-of-a-bitch, there it was again. No, wait. It wasn’t in the music. Someone was knocking on the door.

  That got his attention. What the hell? How could anyone knock on his door without first ringing the bell downstairs? This was why he had an intercom installed. He got up, took a sip of his coffee, and approached the door as if it was alive.

  “Who is it?” he called out.

  “Ganymede? Is that you?”

  Gary slumped. Of course. Of-bloody-course. Olympians. They were the only ones who called him Ganymede. Even members of the underground supernatural community in San Cibola known as “the Neighborhood” called him Gary Meade. Even if they knew who he used to be.

  “Who is it?” he said, again, only now his trepidation was replaced with anger and resolve.

  “Um . . . I don’t know if you remember us . . . ”

  Us? Who the hell was an “us” these days? The dozen and a half remaining Olympians made a point of not congregating because of their tendency to revert to form. Old habits died hard. Curiosity got the better of him, and Gary Meade opened his door and stared.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The younger, blond haired homeless person spoke up. “Oh, hey, there you are. Hi . . . ”

  “The name is Gary Meade, now, okay?”

  “Right, Gary,” the blond said. “Well, I don’t know if you recall but we’re . . . ”

  “Debris and Detritus,” said the older, brown haired homeless man.

  “Oh, shit. Yes. Of course. How could I forget?”

  Detritus said, “Clearly, you must have forgotten. Otherwise, you would have already extended to us the hospitality of Olympus that is our right, so long as we still draw a breath.”

  Gary Meade sighed and swung himself to one side. He hadn’t forgotten. Rather, he’d hoped they didn’t know about the Compact. “Come on in.”

  “Thank you,” said Debris, the blond. He handed the doorknob to Gary as he moved past.

  “That was not our fault,” said Detritus.

  “Right. Well,” said Gary, “Look, I’m in the middle of something very important, so why don’t you tell me how you tracked me—you know, on second thought, I don’t want to know. Just tell me what you want.”

  Debris and Detritus stood in the living room, openly swiveling their heads around, taking in the apartment. “Nice,” said Detritus. “A little Spartan for my tastes, but nice.”

  Debris said, “It needs some color.”

  “And more bric-a-brac.”

  “Hey!” Gary snarled. “I’m right here, boys, and you’re using your outside voices.”

  Debris smiled and bobbed his head. “Sorry. No offense meant. We’re just used to people not paying any attention to us.”

  “You currently have my undivided attention. I’m giving you two minutes and then I’m kicking you out of my house, Compact or no Compact. I do not—repeat—do not—need this today.” Gary put his hands on his hips. “Go.”

  Debris opened his mouth to speak, but Detritus beat him to it. “We want a Comeback.”

  Gary let out a short, sharp braying laugh. “What? You two? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Why not us?” Debris looked wounded.

  “Because, guys, unless you’re one of the big names, you don’t get a Comeback, and more importantly, you don’t get to decide for yourself.”

  “Look, I know we’re not Hercules or Cupid, but you’ve made a life for yourself,” said Debris. “Others have, too, right? We’re just sick and tired of walking the Earth.”

  “Frankly, I’m surprised to even see you,” said Gary. “I had no idea you were still hanging around.”

  “We got a big boost from that show, ‘Hoarders,’” said Detritus.

  Gary nodded. “Okay, I can see that. But the fact remains . . . ”

  “Come on, ’Bris,” said Detritus. “Fuck this guy. He’s not going to help us. I told you he wouldn’t. He probably doesn’t even know Daedalus.”

  They turned to go, but Gary stamped his foot. “Excuse me, but I do so know Daedalus.”

  “I stand corrected,” said Detritus. “We didn’t mean to intrude. We’ll just be on our way. Sorry about the knob.” He pushed Debris out ahead of him and turned to face Gary. “By the way, that piece you’re working on would sound better in E-minor.” He closed the door, leaving Gary staring at the space the pair had just occupied, suddenly running the music through his head. Eight bars in, he knew Detritus was right.

  Gary ran out the door and caught them on the sidewalk, arguing. “How did you do that?”

  Detritus reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. “You threw it away, didn’t you?”

  Gary took the wad of paper from Detritus. He looked at the trash in his hand, and then at the pair. Someone walked by and gave Debris a dollar. “What do you want with Daedalus?” Gary asked.

  “We think he can help us,” said Detritus.

  “Actually, we have a brilliant idea,” said Debris.

  “It’s pretty good,” said Detritu
s. He smiled, showing crooked teeth.

  “Gods and Monsters, what is it, for shit’s sake?” Gary stamped his foot again.

  Daedalus wasn’t called Daedalus anymore. He hadn’t been Daedalus in a long time. Currently, he was going by Parker, and he lived and worked in a large, modern skyscraper that he designed. San Cibola was his home, had been for nearly sixty years, though he didn’t seem to age appreciably. He wore his shoulder-length hair pulled back into a short pony tail, and his beard was neatly trimmed. His short-sleeved shirt was open at the collar, tucked into his jeans. It was more casual than business casual, but he was the boss and could dress however he wanted.

  The two men sitting in his office on the other side of his desk had tried their best, but they still looked like they’d gone ten rounds with the Keystone Cops. Every time the older one straightened his tie, it would slowly, deliberately loosen and list sideways, to the right. Every time. The younger one wasn’t wearing a tie, but his turtleneck was slowly, visibly becoming more dirty and disheveled. It made it hard to concentrate on what they were saying.

  “I’m sorry,” said Parker. “Could you please repeat that?”

  Detritus scowled. Debris nodded and said, “Okay, we think that if more people are reminded of us—you—us, that is to say, I mean . . . we’re wanting out of this job. We’ve had enough.”

  Parker coughed. “What makes you think I can help you?”

  “You’re an architect, aren’t you?” Detritus said. “We need to be set up as interior decorators. That way, we can bring back the old Classical Aesthetic. The more they get used to seeing Olympian design, the more power we all get back.”

  “And once we have enough power, we can get a Comeback.”

  Parker started to voice his objections, but despite himself, he was fascinated. “As what, exactly?”

  Debris leaned forward, all smiles. “Well, we’ve been thinking that maybe we could step in and take over some of the Muses. Rework a few of the out-of-date ones, update them. That sort of thing.”

  There was so much wrong with what Debris said, Parker didn’t know where to start. “You know it doesn’t work like that, right? I mean, you don’t get to pick what you end up doing. It just happens. Sometimes it takes years. Over a long-ass period of time, right?”

  Debris looked at Detritus and hit him on the arm. “See? I told you it would work!”

  “We don’t have a decade, you dumb-ass!” Detritus hit Debris back, and there was a brief scuffle as they attempted to out-frog each other. Parker watched for a few seconds and then said, “Hey, boys?”

  They dropped their fists and looked at him.

  “Do you have any experience as interior decorators? Any at all?”

  Debris said, “No, but honestly, how hard can it be?”

  Parker looked down at his desk for a second to keep from laughing. “Well, it’s harder than you think. People go to college to learn how to do it.”

  Debris was undeterred. “I’ve been watching HGTV for a year, now. Trust me, I can stage a room.”

  “Well, you’ve got the lingo down, I’ll give you that.” Parker folded his arms in front of him. “But seriously, now. You’re Debris and Detritus. You are the gods of trash and rubble.”

  “I’m trash, he’s rubble,” said Detritus.

  “Whatever. You can’t possibly think that you’re going to have any aptitude for this work.”

  Debris’ voice went up an octave. “Give us some credit! We’re not just pulling this idea out of a hat! We’ve given this a lot of thought!”

  Detritus added, “We’re going to rebuild Olympus, one living room at a time. All of that is up here,” he said, tapping his forehead. “I can recall every square inch of that place.”

  Parker sat back in his chair. “No offense, but if you’re so familiar with the old digs, how come I’ve got no recollection of ever seeing you there?”

  Detritus started to say something, but Debris cut him off. “We came after you . . . left. Sir.”

  Parker nodded, understanding splashing across his face. “Romans.”

  Detritus spoke around Debris’ obvious physical attempts to silence him. “And just what the hell is wrong with being Roman?”

  “Nothing, not a thing,” said Parker, his hands up in conversational surrender. “It’s just that . . . your, ah, version of Olympus may not be quite the one that I remember.”

  Detritus started to stand up, and Parker got a very clear flash of the homeless man climbing across the desk to slug him. To stave that off, he said, “Okay, I guess we can give it a try. But no promises. And if it doesn’t work out, we’ll go our separate ways. Our Compact at an end. Our business concluded. This is your one shot. Understand?”

  Detritus straightened his tie and sat down, mollified. Debris smiled. “You won’t regret it,” he said.

  “We’ll just see about that.”

  Gary Meade stepped out of the cab. “Wait for me,” he said to the portly driver. His phone was ringing inside his pocket. He ignored it. He knew who it was. It was Parker. Again.

  He walked up along the carefully-manicured walk that neatly bifurcated the lush green lawn. As Eden Park mansions go, this was one of the newer models, built in the late 1940s, a tastefully ugly blend of art deco and mid-century modern sensibilities, managing to typify and excuse the best and the worst qualities of both styles. Clearly, this was the least desirable house on the street, priced at one-point-seventy-five million dollars. A starter mansion for any number of nouveau riche Neighbors, new to San Cibola and desperate to acclimate themselves.

  It should have been a perfect assignment for the two of them, but, as Gary Meade walked up the brick steps and into the house, he knew that for anyone else, they would have made it work. Not these two. Not Debris and Detritus.

  “Hello?” he said loudly, stepping into the arched entranceway. “Guys? It’s Gary.”

  “We’re back here,” Debris called out.

  Gary walked through the trashy-looking sitting room and into the equally trashy-looking dining room, where Debris and Detritus were currently standing, ready to come to blows. Debris was dressed in tattered blue jeans and wearing a light blue T-shirt that said 2D Design & Decorating across the chest. Detritus wore a knit shirt with the same logo embroidered on the right side of his chest. The clothes were brand new, but both of them looked like they had slept in a dumpster.

  “What’s happening?” asked Gary.

  “Did Parker call you?” Detritus accused.

  “Yes, he did, you lunatics. He called me because your client, who he recommended you to, is freaking out.”

  “Jove’s Thunderbolts, ’Bris!” Detritus snarled. “You’re going to screw this up for us! I told you to let me take the lead.”

  “For the thousandth time, we cannot paint the entire fucking house Dumptruck Gray!”

  “And we cannot paint this room Snot Yellow, either,” Detritus said. “I know you think it’s Lemon Yellow, but it’s not. Here.” He swung around sharply, a paint swatch in hand, and thrust it at Gary. “Tell him.”

  Gary took the paint swatch and looked at it. He hated yellow. None of the colors on the battered and bedraggled cardboard strip appealed to him, but this wasn’t his house, either. “Honestly, I can’t tell you one way or the other what to do. But you need to get started, because you’re about to lose another client.”

  They both looked at him. “Get started?” Debris said. “What do you mean, ‘get started’? We’re nearly finished.”

  “What?” Gary was flabbergasted. “How is that possible?”

  “Look,” said Detritus, leading him back into the sitting room. “See? Just stop for a second and take it all in.”

  “It’s very subtle,” said Debris.

  Gary looked. The sitting room, the first formal room in the house, was a shambles; four mismatched bookshelves crammed to the gills with dishes and platters, decanters and goblets, all tucked in behind a pair of sideboards that had been intentionally distressed to the poi
nt of looking ready for the dump. A late Victorian fainting couch was positioned at oblique angles to two faded wingback chairs, each one a different color from the other, and none of them in harmony. Underneath all of the furniture was a rug made from vintage angora, snow white, giving the impression of a giant skinned Persian cat laid out like a hunter’s trophy. A mid-century coffee table cut from a slab of diseased driftwood and polished to a glassy sheen held it all down somehow.

  It was the worst, most God-awful room Gary had seen in decades.

  “I think it may be too subtle,” said Gary, searching for a way to better express his displeasure.

  “You don’t see it? The bar, the glasses, the decanters . . . ?” Debris looked shocked. “You really don’t see it.”

  “No, I don’t see it. Walk me through it.”

  Debris took a step into the room and threw his arms out wide. “It’s the Sun Room from Mount Olympus!”

  Gary blinked and for an instant, he got a flash, like a half-remembered dream, of a grand salon with light streaming in from Apollo’s chariot as it moved through the sky, and all of the Gods of Olympus were gathered around, drinking Ambrosia from the golden pitchers and decanters at the white marble bar, and Zeus lounging on his bed, attended to by a small throng of servants who passed morsels of food on golden platters under his nose as he told embarrassing, filthy jokes that everyone laughed at, as Dionysius raised his glass and called for more wine . . .

  And it was gone, replaced by the rude shapes of the hand-me-down furniture and strange color combinations. It was all in the same place, technically, but it was a lot like looking at someone trying to duplicate the Mona Lisa with an Etch-a-Sketch. Gary couldn’t help it; he snickered. It was a tiny sound, involuntary, but it cut deeply into Debris. This had clearly been his idea.

  “Oh, shit. Shit shit shit shit shit! It happened again, didn’t it?”

  Gary shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. But . . . yes. It did.”

  Detritus put his hand on Debris’ shoulder. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up. We’ll just rebrand again. We’ll call it ‘shabby chic.’”

  Gary shook his head again. “This isn’t an issue of rebranding. You’re not chic enough to be chic, and you’re way past shabby to be considered shabby. This is . . . ”