Sirens of DemiMonde

by N. Godwin

  I named it the DemiMonde on the spot, the half world. The name had roots and took hold because we all operate between the lines here; half alive, half grown, ubiquitous. We are the castaways of society, the ones nobody wants, or needs, or knows what to do about.

  Any kid who chooses Halfling status at the DemiMonde is required to make an addition to the menu and learn some basic kitchen and restaurant techniques. You stay for free as long as you wish in exchange for working the café, going to school, and learning to read. We keep our own tips though, which are considerable during peak seasons.

  Eunice has never-ever introduced one menu item or cooked a single thing. Although she’s owned this place for thirty years, she drifts by on whatever we all want or don’t want to cook, which is why the menu is written on chalkboards, since it changes every time a Halfling leaves and a new one shows up to take his/her place. We once had Coco Puffs up there for eighteen months.

  Kids have come here from as far away as Alaska. We’ve had them from Portland, Oregon and Minot, North Dakota. We had this seventeen year old from Amsterdam two years back who couldn’t speak a word of English, but I think he got us confused with a youth hostel because he kept paying me every time he took a shower.

  We’re sort of in between Halflings right now so anytime the surf is up I run this place alone. Just wait until it gets real hot because then Halflings will start showing up like nuns at a bake sale. I’m the only one who doesn’t surf so every time there’s a swell I’m up to eyeballs in hamburgers and chicken wings.

  Eunice likes that the dudes surf because it brings in doe-eyed girls and other nubile sports enthusiasts. We give away massive quantities of food here. We are a Robin Hood organization. Our menu has no set price so we can charge what we think is fair. Fair to us is to over-charge the person in two hundred dollar shoes so the guy with no shoes can eat for free. Nobody ever complains.

  Eunice says she is a breatharian and doesn’t have to eat. She drinks red wine instead. Her glass is always so full it spills down her skeletal fingers.

  Nobody knows where she came from. For some reason this has always been a cause of morbid speculation. The stories are profound and vile combined, a secret known but to God.

  Why am I whispering?

  I quickly look over my shoulder and out the window, noticing the sky is overcast and I involuntarily shudder as I quickly cross my heart. Hobie and I still have to go to the SuperCenter for groceries before the storm sets-in, on account of I won’t venture out beyond these walls once it hits. But I reckon the storm is hours away so I can just stop acting like a silly child and concentrate on the duties at hand.

  That’s Hobie at the open flame grill, flipping the hamburger patties and grouper while Ken tackles dressing the buns. Ken is held up at the garlic aioli because Hobie didn’t have time to finish his chores before the lunch rush. Even though he only has thirty yards to walk from the bunkhouse to the café, Hobie is always late. It’s a given.

  Hobie is fifteen years old and is number 3 on my list. I’d resisted adding his name, him being underage and all, but as fate would have it he’s clearly one of the few people I’ve allowed closest to my heart over his three years here. I think I was weakened over time because he has needed so much affection to heal. He reminds me of a puppy. Sometimes I want to pat his head or scratch behind his ears. But I most certainly don’t.

  You think you can close your heart, steel your mind against emotional entanglements that can rear back and bite (and I am an expert at such tactics), but inch by inch, some people just wear you down, even despite yourself or any warning signs to the contrary. We are all just human, after all, I think, remembering it’s probably about time for another silent prayer because, as they say, my mama didn’t raise no fool. I accomplish this without closing my eyes. I need to see everything because of this feeling in the pit of my gut which is telling me things are about to change.

  “The waves are eight feet high. I swear!” I hear Hobie telling Ken again. “You know, with that tropical depression moving in and all. Storm’s supposed to hit tonight!”

  “Killer.”

  In a moment they’ll both begin to panic and beg me to let them go. Eight foot waves are all it takes to excite these guys since there are no waves to speak of here. The Gulf Coast is not known for decent surfing waves except during tropical storms and hurricanes. We are the armpit of Florida and, believe you me, every hurricane heads straight for us like a plague.

  Like clockwork, Horst Gunther walks up to the kitchen door. He is tall and out of breath, pellets of water still dripping from his tanned skin, his five foot neon quad is held ceremoniously under his arm like a priceless piece of art.

  Horst is number 7 on my list and is just on loan to us for the summer. The rest of the year he plays soccer for the University of Florida and is their celebrated Chechen, or Turkish, or Serbian (I forget which) goalie who doesn’t actually care much for the game. He prefers gardening or chess. Nonetheless, when his team won the SEC title last month, Horst shaved his hair into a Mohawk and showed true team spirit by dyeing it orange and blue.

  Horst isn’t a Halfling. He has a life. He doesn’t stay here at the café and lives with his aunt and uncle or whoever in a tony nearby home on the bay, so we know he’s not homeless or poor. He just works for tips (which, I’m pretty sure, he puts in the donation jar) because he always likes to be near us all he can.

  “It’s up!” Horst shouts to Ken. “There’s a tropical storm blowing in.”

  “Killer!”

  Hobie is the first to approach me. He moves like a pelican, wiry, even for a fifteen year old, his skin sun-kissed, his brown eyes permanently reddened from the salt water. “It’s up, Jimmy-Sue. It’s up!” He beseeches with a toothy grin.

  I taunt him with a stern grin and slightly raise my eyebrow.

  “Let us go!” he pleads. “Come on. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll get you a killer date for the weekend.” He tells me this with a genuine smile, like it’s an enormous favor.

  I hold up my hand as I cringe. “Please, don’t. Just. No.” You should see the guys he drags in here to show me, fourteen and fifteen year olds with no body hair what so ever. I never know whether to burp them or laugh. “I’ll ask Eunice,” I finally allow, knowing that they know she doesn’t really care; she just likes me to ask.

  I move back to Eunice’s table and she and Freckles look up expectantly as I approach. “It’s up,” I tell her.

  Eunice fixes me with a hard stare and slurs only slightly. “Make sure they cover for you tomorrow. I promised your mama you’d go home for Sunday supper for a change.” She takes a long hard draw on her unfiltered Camel. “You gotta spend a little more time with your family or else they’ll--”

  “I’m not going for supper!”

  “Oh yes, you are. I made a promise way back when and, God as my witness, I’ll never break that one again, so you’re not working here tomorrow afternoon so stop trying to pretend you don’t have a life! I promised your mama--”

  Ah, Mama... Mama raises beagles, grows roses and chives, and walks door to door for Jesus. She teaches 3rd grade Sunday school and bakes the blue-ribbon caramel cake at the county fair every year.

  Mama terrifies me. Statuesque, frozen, Mama is an oyster, timid and afraid, closed off from everything, doomed by toxic elementals. They say she was beautiful once and unafraid. A long time ago when she was young they say…

  Don’t think about they. Don’t to it.

  But before I can rein them in they become an avalanche and I can’t stop my mind from moving backwards no matter how hard I try to deflect. I. Can’t. Help. It. And suddenly I remember thirteen. My mind tumbles and scrapes and breaks into the exact moment when my greatest transgression had robbed me of everything.

  No! I will not allow my psychosis free reign. Never! I must stay the course and think intangibles. Never absolutes. Never.

  Praying helps.

  This time I whisper my desperate plea aloud and look heavenwar
d until I manage to think unalgebra. I think it hard and strain with all my might until spots are pinging against my eyelids and I can finally sigh and forget how loving another, man or beast, is surely their kiss of death can fade completely from my thoughts.

  “You listening to me, Jimmy-Sue?” I hear Eunice asking impatiently from another dimension.

  “Ooh, Jimmy-Sue?” Hobie calls from the kitchen in a hushed dramatic voice. “Teleeeeephone.”

  I can tell who’s on the other end by the rigid way Hobie is holding that phone away from his body. I check the condition of the tables I pass along the way and breathe in a quick intake of good air as Hobie sympathetically hands me the phone.

  I clear my throat. “Hello, Daddy. Who? Oh, that’s just Hobie, Daddy. Yes, sir, he’s been here for two years now, remember. Yes, sir. What? No, of course not, Daddy! He’s a Halfling, remember? Yes, sir, just a moniker we find humorous.”

  “No, Daddy, you don’t have to remind me about men. Yes, Daddy. I know what they want,” I sigh deeply and stare at my feet.

  I can hear Killer, Hobie and Horst snickering behind me and I turn and glare at them. All three look quickly away.

  “Do I know what, Daddy? What a man costs? What do you mean costs? Are they for sale?”

  “No, sir, I’m being literal, not disrespectful. Yes, yes, of course, sir, I remember our deal. You remind me every week. Yes, sir, literal again. I won’t forget. I’ll be there tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. sharp. No. No Sunday school this time, either. I’m absolutely positive, no discussion, sir. But I’ll be there,” I sigh, trying hard not to make my words sound pained, “Just like always.”

  I hang up and pause to breathe before turning around. I concentrate on not meeting the dudes’ eyes because the whole darn café seems to have gone dead silent and I hate it when everyone stares at me! So I tell the dudes to clear out and go enjoy the waves. They rush past me and almost knock over two lip-locked tourists standing in the doorway.

  I study the newcomers as they end their kiss, holding hands tight enough to mate, and make their way over to the small two-top in the corner by the window, the only one with a tablecloth (the one Eunice insists we keep ready just in case, waiting for God knows who to arrive). The flush on their cheeks is embarrassing and I look away, contemplating inane mating rituals.

  I don’t get the attraction. For heaven’s sake stop grunting and do something constructive. Seriously, go clean the kitchen or read a book.

  I know I can never have a man. And I don’t give a rat’s patootie.

  I’m being vulgar again. Do you believe thinking disgusting thoughts is a sin? Do you think such thoughts produce negative energy that can boomerang back to smack you upside the head when you least expect it? And, if this is the case, how many negative thoughts before you’re penalized? And if you’re penalized are you punished here on earth?

  Do you think God punishes children?

  I force a smile as I approach the affectionate couple, noticing her manicured hands, his expensive Italian sandals. They are marveling over our menu. I can guess what they will order and smile when I am right.

  I always enjoy studying receptive tourists as they react, comparing their quirky new surroundings with one another. I remind myself to linger a moment longer at their tables, maybe answer one last question, or better yet, ask one. I remind myself to study, to listen. I remind myself often.

  Being receptive is tricky to do sometimes because of all this silly static between my ears. Although, I only get the occasional bursts of coherence now and then, it’s true; there is always a low and steady hum and crackle, like living inside the speakers of an old Motorola or being on hold with a sleeping asthmatic. Still, I simply must stay put longer and study and listen because one of these kind strangers is going to be my random Harold, my number 13, the final name on my Labor Day list.

  Since they are drawn here, too, like moths to a flickering candle, and are an elemental ingredient to our magic, one of their names must go into the pot for consideration. As such, I’m tutoring myself to be more spontaneous and it isn’t an easy balancing act.

  Thank goodness for the signs that have lighted my path and lead me this far, since each candidate has always been revealed to me by an uncommon spectacle of light or sound, feeling not unlike a whack upside my head. You say headache, I say sign, nonetheless they serve as bonfires guiding me through this uncharted course I am honor bound to follow, come what may and yada yada.

  My list is to be capped tonight with these thirteen names; thirteen because epics of Biblical proportions work that way, with a wicked obvious myth that can kick the holy stuffing out of you. Beware and pay heed to the wives-tales; so remember this always or else you’ll regret it; thirteen is a number to dread, thirteen carries fear dragging grief behind him. Thirteen takes so much more than you can safely give. Cross my heart and hope to die.

  I turn to see who’s slamming the front door again and my eyes inadvertently go up to the sky, past the glare of the sun, up beyond the birds and the clouds, up where something dark and huge and insatiable waits, up where it all began.

  I notice a new crowd of between-diners appearing out of the glare and my eyes forget for a moment and look toward Eunice for help. She is engrossed in a diatribe about Ronnie Reagan, her most favorite president ever with some tourists sitting one table over while Eunice blows huge smoke rings into their faces. She pauses, waiting for the reaction most Caucasians have when they find out she’s a rabid republican. It’s like they forget she’s black.

  I move into high gear, sighing over the waves and spot Fat-Sandy as she rolls over to my counter to order. Her nickname really is Fat-Sandy. She told us her granddaddy himself named her this when she was only nine months old. Before I can greet her, she once again tells me how to change this order, to put more garlic and salt on that and that and that. She drives Hobie nuts when she’s here, which is a lot because she’s Eunice’s best griping-buddy.

  Fat-Sandy is number 11 on my list and is an Irish-American mixture built like a giant beach ball with huge rolls of pink flesh turning into multi-colored mounds of pulp in motion. Her small eyes are always squinting, trying to see beyond beads of sweat. She loves fried anything, our chocohttps://petitions.moveon.org/sign/hold-equifax-accountable?source=s.fb&r_by=50209late cake, and a good gossip.

  I go crazy working the kitchen, the counter and the register but turn when I feel Eunice and Fat-Sandy’s eyes on me, both giving me a look of maternal pride. I can hear Eunice point me out to the neighboring tables and brag about me being with her for five years. I feel my cheeks blush as the newcomers turn and stare at me, too. I catch Eunice’s eye as she follows with her usual “I expect big things from Jimmy-Sue.”

  Big things… I cross my heart and sigh, instinctively praying for just another day of only little things, then cross my heart just for good measure. I glance out over the roaring gulf across the street. Heat lightning crashes across the horizon and I quickly shrink back inside.

  I’m not sure I like how tonight is going. There are too many distractions, too much noise and static, and wouldn’t you just know that every stinking time I walk in the kitchen now that new cat insists on sorrowfully howling by the door. He’s been doing this off and on for the better part of an hour now, ever since Hobie and I discovered him on our return trip from the SuperCenter. There we were, innocently unloading our supplies and darn-it all if some redneck in a Mustang didn’t pull up in front of our café and toss the darn cat out of his window straight at us, as if we and the sweet little pussycat were trash, or trouble, or both, leaving us with one chatty cat we’ve decided to name Blue, since he’s a dark grayish-blue and has obviously known pitiful neglect. However, stinking Blue insists on singing the blues right beside whatever door or window I am nearest, because, as my luck would have it, no good deed goes unpunished.

  Smack, right upside the head, just like I said.

  But then my favorite time of night comes as Killer-Ken begins playing his guitar until he and
the cat are singing and howling together in magical sync about the mystical, unfathomable tonight along with the Smashing Pumpkins, and I relax and join in as Ken and Blue serenade me while I laugh.

  I’m standing on my stool, stirring a fresh pot of gumbo (which needs more bay leaf) when I give into home and begin to orchestrate our brilliant music with my favorite long wooden spoon, and sing along with abandon, loud and silly, until I feel a shiver run down my spine.

  I turn quickly and look around the kitchen and then outside the window where it is dark. I can see traces of the storm blowing closer. I feel my paranoia creeping back and this simply won’t do, but just as I turn away my peripheral vision suddenly thinks I see a pair of dark eyes staring at me from above , and I drop my spoon and shudder. When I look again the eyes are gone, because they always are.

  Even as I try to regain my composure I can’t seem to shake the feel that I am being watched again by dark hungry eyes, familiar eyes, I’d swear it, yet not. My mind stirs with some illusive déjà vu, a shadow of some sort, perhaps something from a nightmare?

  I turn my body to gaze intently outside into the dimly lit carport, hallowed ground as good as any. I can see only boxes of clutter, broken chairs and surfing gear, nothing else, yet I tremble again, sensing something outside just beyond human sight and sense, something that’s gotten substantially closer.

  But these are hallowed grounds and I’m really confused now, so I think unalgebra. I think on intangibles and probabilities, and luckily remember that it’s all okay because the probabilities are I’m merely crazy, so I ohm myself to calm. Even I’m smart enough to know there are at least a half dozen paranoia and phobias that could easily, and most likely do, have my name on them, and this soothes me.