by Paul Neuhaus
Dona and I had seen one another off and on for years. Our relationship was almost entirely physical, so her lecture caught me off-guard—which is amazing since, in order to catch me off-guard, it needed to pass through a thick fog of contrariness and booze. My response was not everything it could’ve been. “Fuck’re you talking about?” I said.
Padovano dug her nails in deeper. “Do you remember when you came to me and you said you wanted a disguise and a car?”
I nodded.
“And you said that you’d been hiding in your house and you had gotten fat?”
I didn’t want to talk about getting fat. I nodded, but with less enthusiasm.
“I know that mostly we just do crazy things together and lick each other’s gnocca, but I was still worried about you. You—or at least the you I knew from before the fatness—was not the kind of person who should be hiding away. Not with so much life inside of you. I think, if you have a lot of life in you and you share it, other people get more life. It’s like free life.”
I gotta be honest: I was barely firing on one cylinder, let alone all of them. I lost the thread. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, grinning at her. “You’re like a pretty puppet going, ‘Bleh, bleh, bleh, bleh, bleh’. Make sense, pretty puppet! Make sense!”
Padovano was sensitive about her English so I touched a nerve. I touched a nerve like I intended to. She pulled her hands away and folded her arms over her chest again. “You are just being mean. Do you know what my father says about mean people?”
“Ooo, I know this one!” I said. Then I put on the stereotypical voice of Mario, the famous video game plumber. “‘Mama mia! That’s a spicy meatball!’”
Dona picked up her drink and tried to throw it in my face. Her glass was empty. She reached for my mug, but I was too fast for her. I grabbed it with both hands and pulled it toward me. Her face had gone red like a tomato. Which looked weird with all the copper-colored hair surrounding it. “Oh! You are terrible! You are like an infant! What is wrong with you? Where is the girl I know?!”
Right then, two cowboys with the worst timing in the history of cowboys bellied-up to our table. The taller of the two said, “Heya, ladies. We’ve been looking at you. And we like what we see. Hell, you’re the two best-looking women in the whole damn place. You wanna dance?”
Dona spun on them, redirecting her anger in their direction. I swear, as she yelled at them, her accent grew thicker. I half-expected her to lapse into Italian. “No, we don’t want to dance with you! Do you not have eyes? You do have eyes! I see them there. They’re on your faces! Since you have them, maybe you should use them! We are fighting! We are angry! Why would you want to get in the middle of that?! Why would you not leave us alone?”
Not only did these two cowboys have bad timing, they weren’t good at reading social cues either. Actually, scratch that: We’re not even talking social cues. Dona pretty much told them to go away, and they found it cute. Tall Grinning Cowboy turned to Short Grinning Cowboy. “Looks like somebody’s got their back up,” he said. He looked down at Dona. “Come on, lil’ girl, don’t put bad vibes in the air. Why don’t you let me cheer you up? My buddy’n me got just the thing to cheer you up…”
I looked over at Padovano. I put my upright hand next to my mouth and leaned toward her like I was sharing a secret. “I know English isn’t your first language, so I’m gonna help you… When he says they’ve got just the thing to cheer us up, he means their cocks.”
Laser beams practically shot out her eyes when her head snapped toward me. “I know what he means, and I don’t want anything to do with their smelly old cocks.”
Tall Grinning Cowboy took offense. “Hey, I’ll have you know I got the best-smelling cock in the place. A little soap and water, a little Axe Body Spray. It ain’t exactly rocket science.”
I looked up at him apologetically. “I’m sure your cock smells just fine,” I said. “Don’t take it personally. My friend here orders the Filet o’ Fish rather than the Quarter Pounder, if you catch my drift.”
The two cowboys nodded and the short one started to say something. I never found out what it was. Under the table, Dona kicked me square in the pussy. It hurt like a motherfucker. Not having testicles, I can’t make a direct comparison between a shot to the hoo-hah versus a shot to the jimmies. Take my word for it, though: a shot to the hoo-hah is no Sunday picnic. I turned bright red and doubled over. My date for the evening gathered her purse and tramped toward the exit. She practically had a thundercloud over her head like in the cartoons.
The cowboys watched her go. “Bit temperamental, ain’t she?” the short one said.
“What makes you say that?” I replied, still wheezing.
After Dona left, I realized I had a problem. Padovano drove us down to Long Beach, and I didn’t have a ride back. I also didn’t have a cellphone, so I couldn’t do Uber or any of that fancy shit. A cab ride back would cost a pretty penny, so I improvised. I strung together a series of rides from horny men. First, I hung out with the cowboys for a while (they weren’t so bad once you got to know them), then I had them take me to another bar a few miles north. In that way, and with a series of guys I’d only just met, I barhopped up the coast. Each bar was a new, wonderful experience, and, since I wasn’t in a big hurry, I enjoyed myself. Getting to know the weirdos at every stop then bumming a ride to the next joint. In retrospect, I probably spent about as much on booze as I would’ve spent on a cab, but that wasn’t the point. By the third bar, I’d forgotten all about Dona and her Italian passions. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Italians, but they’re Mediterraneans just like the Greeks. Hardwired for emotionality. Extreme, even. I wasn’t mad at Dona—not even for abandoning me—but I also couldn’t remember half of what she’d said. Something about caring and sharing, I think.
Somewhere in my reptile brain, I did remember I had an appointment at nine A.M. Amanda Venables wanted to have coffee and talk some girl talk. No doubt about the rigors of being queen of the Underworld and being pseudo-married to a goofball. Although I wasn’t particularly keen on having that conversation, I used that coffee date as my deadline. If I could get back to Malibu in time for that, I’d get to say, “What a good girl am I!”.
Along the way, I did mushrooms with two guys from Possum Grape, Arkansas (which is a real place, I kid you not). I also met a woman who lost her right tit in an industrial accident (she wouldn’t elaborate). Oh, and I talked to a guy who had someone else’s face tattooed over his own. Not anyone famous, just this other guy he knew. Never let it be said that getting out on a Saturday night doesn’t have its rewards. By the time I got back to the trailer, I felt like I’d been everywhere and seen it all.
My final ride dropped me in the parking lot of the Tonga Lei Lounge just as the sun was coming up. I thanked the shy Mexican man who’d been my last chauffeur and walked across the pavement between the silent restaurant and my long aluminum home.
I wasn’t alone.
There were two wooden steps leading from the ground to my trailer door. Tiresias was on the top step banging on my door. In his right hand he held a briefcase. Well, not a briefcase, really. It was way longer on the sides than a briefcase. Imagine a briefcase designed to carry an oar. “She’s not home, you crazy old bastard!” I said to him. I immediately regretted my own loudness.
Ty turned and looked down at me with his all-white eyes—just like the teacher guy from the old Kung Fu TV series. “Dora?” he said.
“Who else? Do you have any idea what time it is? It’s like six in the morning.”
“No, I don’t know what time it is. I’m blind. Day and night are the same to me.”
I stopped a couple of steps away from the trailer. “Don’t they make special watches for you fuckers? Like talking watches? Or maybe you could hire a neighbor kid to follow you around and tell you what time it is.”
He furrowed his brow. “Do I look like Nelson Rockefeller to you?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. I don�
�t know what Nelson Rockefeller looks like.”
“I’m told he was an average-looking white guy. Anyway, he’s dead so he doesn’t look like anything now. Which gives me the advantage. But I didn’t come here to talk about Nelson Rockefeller.”
I brushed past him. “Disappointing,” I said.
As I stood next to him, unlocking the door, he said, “You stink.”
We both went in. “As in scent or personality?”
“Scent. The jury’s still out on personality.”
Once the old man was inside, Hope said hello to him from the desk. After he returned the greeting, he said to me, “Wait, you weren’t carrying Hope outside, were you? I mean you didn’t just bring her in and set her down…”
Hope sighed. “No, I’ve been here all night. Alone.”
I shook my finger at the clay jug and the disembodied voice from inside it. “Don’t be such a baby. Do you know what a buzzkill it is to carry a pithos on a bar-crawl?”
Ty grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me to face him. “Pandora. Didn’t you have Hope stolen once already? It wasn’t even that long ago. You can’t leave someone as valuable—and dangerous—as she is just lying around. It’s not wise.”
“Thank you,” Hope said. If she’d been visible, she would’ve turned to me and given me an I-told-you-so glare.
I plopped down on the couch. A twinge in my nether regions reminded me of the pussy kick I’d taken the night before. “What’s the big deal? She’s here, isn’t she? Things’ve been quiet. She’s not in any danger.”
Ty felt around until he found the chair next to the door. He put it down halfway between me and the exit and sat. He put his long case on the ground next to him. “Nonsense. There’re loads of mythological creatures still roaming the earth, and most of them are congregating right here in Los Angeles. It’s a dangerous world. None of us can afford to be complacent.”
I folded my arms and pouted. “I wasn’t being complacent. I was just having a little fun.”
“A little fun?” Hope interjected. “You smell like a brewery.”
Ty and I ignored her. “No one’s telling you not to have fun,” the old man said. “You deserve some fun after all the crazy goings-on last month but do it smart. If you wanna go out and paint the town, get a babysitter for Hope. You can call me. Just Hope and I would be fun. Making popcorn… Sitting up… Watching old spy movies.”
Hope cooed. Ty had hit a sweet spot for her. She adored spy movies.
I sighed and dropped my arms. “Okay, okay. The next time I want to go out and get blasted, I’ll give you a call.”
“Please do,” he replied. “But I have to ask… Why do you want to go out and get blasted? It sounds like such an empty experience. Wouldn’t you rather go out with a friend and talk some meaningful talk? Wouldn’t you like to make some connections?”
I folded my arms again. He was suddenly reminding me of a huffy Italian girl. “What’re you talking about, old man?”
“Shall I get to the meat of why I’m here?”
“I wish you would.”
The old Greek nodded. “Like I said before, it’s been almost a month since the Kraken Affair. Between that and your prior adventure with Medea, I thought you were making real strides getting-out-of-your-shell-wise. Then, bam! Nothing. You go right back into your old pattern—only now, if anything, it’s worse. You sit in this trailer, nobody hears from you. Did you know that Elijah’s got Keri in rehab? You knew that, right? I mean El did call you like a million times. Then again you never called him back.”
I demurred, lowering my chin. “How’s she doing?”
“Not good. It’s a difficult thing. Although it might’ve been easier for her if you’d honored your commitment.”
A flash of shame and panic went across my face. He couldn’t see it, but knowing Ty, he could probably feel it somehow. I decided to play dumb. “What commitment?”
“Did you not tell Elijah you’d go to rehab with Keri?”
Damn. El must’ve told him I said that. “I… did. But that was something I volunteered for. He didn’t ask me.”
“Which makes it a doubly nice gesture. Not to mention the fact it would’ve been good for her to have the support, and good for you since you need treatment as much as Keri.”
I leaned back and dropped my arms to my sides, palms up. I suddenly felt very drained. “Yeah, well, I thought about that, and I decided it wasn’t for me. I mean Keri’s not even my kid and I wouldn’t know how to live if I got straight. I don’t think I’m the social butterfly type.”
Tiresias smiled. “Nobody’s saying you have to be the social butterfly type. You can be whatever type you want just as long as it’s a healthy type. And it doesn’t take that much work to maintain relationships. You could get yourself a couple of gal pals. You could come with me and the fellas to the brony events.”
He was just pushing my buttons. “We both know that could will ever happen.”
He shrugged his shoulders in mock disappointment. “Let me know if you reconsider. I think you’d look darling dressed as Honey Horse.”
He’d come for a pep talk. While I appreciated the thought behind it, I wasn’t especially keen to observe the ritual. “What’s in the case?” I said.
“Ah,” he said, his face brightening. “What’s in the case is for you. A little token of my esteem.” He picked up the black container and handed it to a point in space right next to me.
I slid over on the couch to accommodate his lack of sight. I took the case and laid it down on my lap. “What is it?”
From the desk, Hope said, “Why do people do that? Why do they say, ‘What is it?’ when, if they opened it, they would know. It’s going to take longer for him to say, ‘Open it and find out’ than it would to just open it and see for yourself.”
Ty’s smile grew wider and he said, “Open it and find out.”
The case had two latches. I flipped them up and raised the lid. Inside the case was a Cort Style Axe Bass Guitar—the kind played by Gene Simmons of KISS. I’d noticed the instrument hanging in Ty’s pawnshop a little over a month ago and fallen in love with it. “Wow,” I said with reverential awe. “Is this for me?”
“Yes, ma’am. Think of it as a ‘thank you’ for all the amazing things you did. And as a sign of my affection.”
I gave him a coy look. “Why, Ty, are you hitting on me?”
“Please. I’m more man than you could ever handle.”
“I believe it.” I took the bass out of the case and put the case down on the floor. Then I laid the instrument across my knees. “God, Ty, I don’t know what to say. This is like the most awesome thing anyone’s ever given me.”
He made a tsk. “Further proof you need to get out more.”
I began plucking at the strings. I had no idea how to play the bass and no intention of learning, but I loved the look and the feel of the thing. “I’ve been out recently. In the way that most people mean when they say, ‘You need to get out more’. It’s overrated.”
“You mean your night of debauchery?”
“No, no. Before that.”
“Play something,” he said. “Play me a selection from the KISS songbook.”
I grinned at him sheepishly. “I don’t know how to play the bass.”
“Then why did you want it?” he asked, stymied.
“Because it’s super-cool,” I replied. “I’m gonna hang it on the wall next to a picture of Gene Simmons spitting up blood.”
“Gene Simmons is ill?”
“No, no. It’s part of his act.”
“Oh. Alright. You know I’m not hip to all the kids’ jive these days. I’m a Cole Porter man.”
“I am too but you can’t hang a piano on the wall.”
“True. Would you allow me to be frank with you?”
“As opposed to Charlie?”
“Can the Abbott and Costello for a minute. I’m being serious.”
“Okay.” As a sign of respect, I stopped noodling on my new axe-s
haped toy and propped it against the couch next to me.
“These are all sore spots… The things I’m about to mention… I’m bringing them up only by way of discussion; not to make you feel badly. I want to be very, very clear about that.”
I believed him, but we were sliding back into pep talk territory and my spine stiffened. Clearly, the bass was designed as the spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down—and he wasn’t going to leave until I took the medicine.
Ty sat for a moment, composing his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I’ve talked to a few folks since you came to visit me in my shop—and since BronyKonfab. I know you spent a whole lot of time holed-up in this trailer. I also have an idea what the catalyst was for that. Then you got drug out, kicking and screaming, into the whole Orpheus and Medea thing. Then, without even a moment to catch your breath, there was the Adrestia and Kraken thing. Along the way, you lost some people, you had to confront some old feelings. It’s been a crazy time. I just want to tell you something: Don’t always listen to your brain.”
“What? Don’t always listen to my brain?”
“That’s right. Don’t always listen to your brain. I told Perseus before he went off to face the Kraken all those millennia ago to lean on his noggin. That a good brain was the only weapon the gods’d given us against a nutso world. I still believe that. But I also believe our brains’re too good. They’re always active and, when they get bored and turn inward, they become dangerous. Suddenly, you’ve got that amazing weapon trained on yourself and, Wow! What a shock! you end up hurting yourself with it. Would you mind if I told you a little story?”
I told him I didn’t mind.
Again, he hesitated, composing what he wanted to say. “After the Golden Age… After the gods had all gone to wherever it is gods go when their own brains turn inward… I was in Sicily. I lived there for many years, loving the land and the people. There was one person I loved above all others. A beautiful peasant girl with a deep soul and a questing mind. A real forerunner to the strong women we have today.”