Debris & Detritus

by Robin D. Owens

  “Wha—” Detritus found himself physically lifted out of his chair and guided out of the nursing home by his brother. Once they were shielded by a pair of palm trees on the sidewalk, he turned on Debris. “What. The. Tartarus? I know she’s a stick-in-the-mud, but I could have talked her into it if you hadn’t interrupted.”

  “Oh, balls. I saw her cross, too. She’s a wannabe nun who thinks it’s her job to keep old people quiet and medicated until they pop their clogs,” Debris said patiently. “That being said, did you notice what was on her bookshelves?”

  “Uh, no,” Detritus said, throwing up his hands. “Kinda busy trying to do a job for our client?”

  The handsome god shook his head in mock disapproval. “I love you, brother mine, but you really need to learn how to multi-task. Her bookshelves are loaded with romance novels. I saw everything from Sweet Savage Love to The Siren. Miss Montgomery is clearly a smoldering stick figure of repressed sexual desire. If we find an appropriate outlet for that, she’ll be too busy enjoying herself to notice her inmates going on a field trip.”

  “Oh, no.” Detritus shuddered. “I like Miz Maggie, but I am not throwing myself on that grenade for her.”

  “Like she’d have you. Besides, I wasn’t talking about you, doofus.” Debris pulled out a sleek iPhone and tapped in a number, holding it to his ear. “Hi, Cupid? It’s Debris. Oh, fabulous as usual. Look, could you send one of your cherubs to my location? We’re working with It’s Divine on a project, and we have a frustrated virgin named Delilah Montgomery who really needs a big Hollywood-style romance right now.” He listened for a moment. “Great! Yes, see you at the Saturnalia party. Kisses!”

  He cut the call, smirking at his brother. “Handled.”

  Detritus rolled his eyes. “Whatever. So, what are we going to do about our crowd-shy DJ?”

  Debris’ smirk grew even more annoying. “I have an idea. But we need to stop at a mirror outlet first.”

  Reese’s thick eyebrows approached his hairline. “Wow. That’s, uh . . . ”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is brilliant,” Debris said smugly. In the corner, a phone-perusing Detritus made a rude noise. “Ignore my brother—he’s a twatwaffle when he’s hungry.”

  “I know what you can go eat,” Detritus muttered.

  Unfazed, Debris walked around the panels of tall one-way mirrors that had been set up around Reese’s turntables with the reflective sides turned inwards. “People can see you, but you can’t see them,” he explained. “All you can see is your own handsome face as you work. If anyone asks, you can say it’s an isolation chamber that allows you to work with the music without being distracted by outside interference. Not only is it technically true, but it makes you sound like an artiste.”

  Arturo wandered in, still in his orderly whites. “Gotta say, babe, it looks kinda cool. Give it a try?”

  The lumbersexual shrugged and slid through a gap in the mirrors, donning his earphones as Debris picked up a waiting mirror and slid it into the gap. Soon, more of that amazing music was pounding through the apartment. Arturo started dancing, and Debris did an impromptu little Hustle around his annoyed twin in celebration.

  The music stopped and Reese slid off his headphones. “I think this is gonna work,” he called, enthusiastic now. “So where am I playing?”

  “Tonight, it’s a place called Club Hosanna,” Debris informed him. “Tomorrow, sweetie, it’s the world.”

  After two quick calls to a moving company to transport Reese’s equipment and isolation booth to the club and a bus company to supply a minibus for Miz Maggie’s friends, the gods headed back to the nursing home, confident that they would find Der Commandant in the arms of her new cherub-arranged inamorato and the home’s residents free to boogie. “Now we just have to tell Miz Maggie to round up the usual suspects and have them meet us outside tonight,” Debris said as they materialized in front of Shady Oaks. “Then we whisk them off to the club, and Bob’s your . . . ”

  He trailed off as he spotted a giggling septugenarian tottering across the lawn, followed by an octogenarian with a Zimmer frame and a lusty grin. On the corner of the building, an orderly and what appeared to be one of the home’s cooks were in a passionate embrace, tearing at each other’s clothes while they enthusiastically swapped spit. The fact that the orderly was a hair over five feet tall and the cook was not only taller than him but old enough to be his mother didn’t seem to bother either of them. From inside the home, more sighs and moans were drifting out to the sidewalk.

  Debris said a very bad word in ancient Greek. “What did that cherub do?”

  As if summoned, a pink cloud puffed into existence next to them, and a boggled-looking cherub limped out of it, golden bow dragging on the ground. “Oh. Uh, hi?”

  “Hi, yourself,” Debris said in a dangerous tone, looming over the shorter demigod. “What’s going on here?”

  The cherub gave the nursing home a hopeless glance. “The boss said I was supposed to come here and give—” he fished a sticky note out of his quiver and peered at it “—a Delilah Montgomery a big romance. I found a good match for her with a local neighbor—nice guy, young widower, kinda goofy but sweet—and shot them. Or tried to, anyway.”

  Detritus smothered a laugh as Debris planted furious fists on his hips. “What do you mean, anyway?”

  “They kept missing!” the cherub wailed. “I swear to Zeus, that lady moves like the dickens! I’d aim for her, and whoosh, she’d jink off and the arrow would hit someone else. I must’ve hit at least eight people by accident. Do you have any idea what the boss is going to do to me?”

  “Send you to work for Tinder?” Detritus snarked.

  Debris stared daggers at his brother. “So, you didn’t fix her up with the neighbor?” he demanded.

  “No,” the cherub moaned. “Which sucks, because they really would make a great couple. But I can’t get her to fall in love with him if I can’t hit her with an arrow!”

  Detritus glanced at his Rolex. They had three hours to get everyone rounded up and over to the club. “All right, junior. You go on standby. The A-Team will take it from here.”

  The dejected cherub slunk back into his cloud while Debris folded his arms in divine irritation. “And who, pray tell, is the A-Team?”

  “Us, silly.” Detritus popped his tongue. “Well, us with some help. The arrows are probably sliding off her for the same reason my mojo didn’t work, which gives a big middle finger up to love conquering all. So we call in the big guns in her pantheon.” He pulled out his iPhone and scrolled through the Favorites list, stopping when he got to the Ms. He double-tapped a name, grinning when he heard an urbane voice answer.

  “Yeah, hi, it’s Detritus,” he said cheerily. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. Yes, I have seen the show. That Brit actor they have playing you is absolutely adorable, isn’t he?” He winked at his waiting brother. “Anyway, we’re in south Florida right now, and we’ve got kind of a sticky situation here with a believer in your pantheon. Very prim, very proper, and very much in our way. I was wondering, ‘Seducer’ is still one of your titles, right?”

  Two hours later, the gods hung back behind the now-familiar set of palm trees as a tall, blond man dressed in a black suit so minimalist it was stunning and holding a matching Bible escorted a smitten Miss Montgomery off the nursing home premises. “I’m so glad you had the time to talk to me. You have no idea how it gladdens my heart to speak to good Christians about our missionary work in rural communities,” the man said in warm tones. “So few people take an interest in what happens to souls these days.”

  He glanced over at the hidden gods. A passerby might have been startled by the red flash in his eyes. You two owe me big-time for this. I’m not really big on good deeds.

  Name your price, Detritus sent back. Just take her out and show her a nice time. And leave her soul right where you found it, mister.

  Oh, please. That’s so fourteenth century. And I want my throne room redecorated.
/>   Done.

  Fine. White teeth gleaming in a charming smile that was just a shade wolfish, the Morningstar escorted the nursing home supervisor away from her vocation.

  Debris and Detritus grinned at each other. “Showtime.”

  After separating the assorted cherub-struck couples (one particularly determined pair required a hose), persuading everyone to get cleaned up and dressed in their nicest attire, and juggling a last-minute cadre of orderlies and cooks who decided that in the absence of Miss Montgomery, they wanted to go dancing at a club, too, everyone from the Shady Oaks Nursing Home had been successfully delivered to Club Hosanna. The bouncer was somewhat taken aback by the shuffling line of senior citizens queuing up at the door, but a quick word with the manager and a quicker tip of a Benjamin had him smiling and ushering the folks into the building. Reese and his isolation booth had already been set up at the DJ space, and he was playing some slower tracks that felt like a musical welcome.

  Miz Maggie, with her gleaming silver hair freshly set and wearing a silky black pantsuit that sparkled in the club’s dancing spotlights, held onto Debris and Detritus’s arms as they showed her around. “Oh, this is exactly what I wanted,” she breathed, watching as a few tentative couples hit the floor to Reese’s slowed-down mix. “I can’t thank you enough, boys. You worked wonders here.”

  “It’s what we do,” Debris said modestly, summoning a flummoxed bartender who came over with three flutes of champagne. He handed them around, raising his to the old woman. “Happy birthday, Miz Maggie, and may you get everything you wished for tonight.”

  An odd expression crossed her face, a cross between regret and hope. “Did you tell Reese about that one song I wanted?”

  “Yup, and he has it cued up. It’s ready to go whenever you want.”

  “Not just yet. But . . . good.” A corner of her mouth curled up as her mood changed, and she drained her champagne. “Well, then. How about you two tall, handsome men take a lady out for a spin on the dance floor?”

  The night turned into one of the oddest but most enjoyable parties either of the gods had attended in a long time. The doorman had started selectively letting younger partiers into the club; to say they were a bit taken aback by the senior attendees was an understatement. But the occasional side eye and grumble disappeared when trays of free shots began making the rounds of the club. “Courtesy of the birthday girl,” every waiter said, nodding back at Miz Maggie, who was now ensconced in the best booth in the house. A gaggle of cute guys that spanned an age gap from barely legal to barely breathing were also wedged into the red leather banquette with her, competing with each other to make her laugh. She was clearly having the time of her life.

  Reese edged up the music tempo, but enough of the more mobile Shady Oaks residents kept up the pace on the dance floor, while others camped out in booths or showed eager young south Floridians how to do dances like the Bump and Bus Stop. Debris and Detritus were careful to keep circling around the club and keep an eye on things, defusing any potential hotspots or disagreements and keeping the vibe bright.

  By the time the management wheeled out a huge, magnificent birthday cake covered in sparkler candles and everyone in the club sang “Happy Birthday” to Miz Maggie, the gods were busy congratulating themselves on a job well done. It wasn’t until the cake had been blown out and pieces distributed to the laughing, happy attendees that Debris noticed Maggie raise a hand to her chest, a look of discomfort on her face.

  She took a few steps away from the cake then grimaced and collapsed. Debris darted through the crowds to her side, beaten only by Arturo, who was already kneeling next to her, turning her over. “Miz Maggie, what’s wrong?” the orderly shouted over the music.

  She tried to smile but shook her head. Her hand curled into a fist, pressing harder against her chest in a clear sign of cardiac distress. “Someone call 911,” Arturo bellowed. “We need an ambulance!”

  Debris was abruptly aware of Detritus appearing at his side. “Oh, no,” the other god said sadly. “I was afraid of that. Can we do something?”

  Debris shook his head. Mortals had such short little lives, and if it was Maggie’s time, then there wasn’t anything they could do about it. But there was something niggling at him, something hovering on the edge of his awareness—

  —something with wings—

  “Excuse me.” A tall, dark-haired man in old-fashioned solid green fatigues nudged them to one side, bending down and scooping Miz Maggie into his arms. “Not yet, Mags,” he said with a smile. “You still owe me a dance.”

  “Dude, she’s not dancing!” Arturo said, scrambling to his feet. “She needs to get to a hospital!”

  “No,” the man said, his tone kind but firm. “She owes me a dance, and I intend to collect.”

  The old woman blinked, focusing on the man. One trembling hand rose, coming to rest on his cheek. “It took you long enough,” she said, her voice wobbly.

  “I’m sorry. I had to wait until—well, you know.”

  And suddenly, Debris understood everything. He turned and scrambled through the crowd to Reese’s DJ booth, yanking open the mirror “door.” When Reese slid off his headphones he shouted, “I need you to play the song now!”

  “But—”

  “Now!” Debris screamed.

  Reese cringed but did as instructed. The throbbing tones of house music abruptly ended, replaced by the lovely soaring sound of an old-school studio orchestra that segued into the smooth tones of Billy Preston.

  The dark-haired man in the fatigues carried Miz Maggie out onto the floor. He eased her onto her feet, keeping his arms around her until she could stand on her own. The rhythm of the music caught them, and the two slowly moved into the classic steps of a waltz. As the spangled lights of the disco ball passed over the couple, the years fell away from the Army nurse, figuratively at first and then literally. Grey hair turned blond, wrinkles smoothed away, and tentative movement regained strength and surety as Miz Maggie and her suitor twirled around the dance floor. By the middle of the song, the old lady had been replaced by a vibrant woman in her mid-30s, dressed in Army fatigues that matched her paramour’s. The two gazed at each other as if nothing else existed in the world.

  The entire atmosphere of the club had changed as well, becoming an unabashed haven of joy. Arturo slipped past Debris into the isolation booth, sliding behind Reese and wrapping his arms around the other man. Resting his chin on Reese’s shoulder, they watched Miz Maggie twirl around the dance floor in the arms of her lover.

  Near the end of the song, shadowy wings erupted from the back of Miz Maggie’s suitor, wrapping both of them in feathers of obsidian and jet. When the music ended, the lights went out for a second, but both humans and gods could feel the magic rolling through the building, fulfilling a decades-old promise.

  When the light came back on again, the couple was gone.

  As the crowd started chattering excitedly, Detritus joined his brother. “Called it,” he said smugly. “Angel of death. They’re so dramatic.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Debris chided, bumping Detritus’s shoulder with his own. “Just be happy for them.”

  “I am. Think her body will show up in her bed tomorrow?”

  “Most likely. Shouldn’t surprise anyone—she was eighty, after all. And if anyone makes a fuss, we can try some mojo—” He felt his phone buzz in his jacket. Pulling it out, he read the text on the screen and chortled. “Oh, dear. It’s Luce. Remember the neighbor that incompetent cherub was trying to hit? He saw Luce out with Delilah and threw a punch at him. Apparently, Der Commandant’s arid little heart grew three sizes at the thought of two men fighting over her, and she and the goofy neighbor are eloping to Vegas. Luce says we need to redecorate his bedroom as well, to cover ‘wear and tear.’”

  “Meh. Whatever.” Detritus reached out and pulled a pair of perfect margaritas out of the air, handing one to his twin. “Here’s to another successful job, brother mine.”

  Debris clinked his
salted rim against Detritus’s. “Gods, we’re good.”

  About the Story

  * * *

  Five Facts About This Story:

  1. I was invited to contribute to this antho because I write erotic romance about Greek Gods as Nicola Cameron. Seriously. 2. In my head, Debris and Detritus are played respectively by a de-dragged Courtney Act and Willam Belli from RuPaul’s Drag Race. 3. It took me almost a year to finish it because I could not find a good plot handle until two weeks before the deadline. Yay pressure! 4. Lisa the Nereid has a much larger role in my/Nicola’s fantasy romance novel Deep Water (Olympic Cove 3). 5. Miz Maggie’s last name is a nod to Florence Henderson, who died shortly before I finished the piece.

  * * *

  Melanie Fletcher

  14

  By Any Other Name

  Weyodi

  Detritus loved parties as a rule. He loved the abandoned plastic serving ware. He loved the dented red plastic party cups scattered like poppies blooming on the lawn. The half-eaten appetizers and dried-out cake. He loved the irreparably stained party clothes never to be worn again, and all the little wadded up napkins—oh, how his heart was touched by each and every crumpled darling! The empty cans and bottles tugged at him like the sight of a child tottering along the edge of a great precipice, and each one snatched from the hands of a potential recycler and thrown into the garbage was a tiny victory for him and did him good deep down. Yes, Detritus loved parties. Still, he had to admit he’d enjoy this particular party more if the guest list had been a bit more exclusive.

  It seemed as though half the gods in the history of the world were here tonight, but weren’t they always? Shortening the guest list invariably led to a divine battle, so it was generally not done. Not unless someone was incredibly bored.