The angel looked at him and recognized him. “Oh, it’s you. We run these things all the time. Winner of this one gets to bury his bone in the Queen of the Nile. You really haven’t rolled for a scorcher yet? You’re not exactly fresh from the circus anymore.”
“Been kind of busy,” Jim said. “So if I win this I really get to lay Cleopatra?”
“Yep.”
“What about this bit here? Take your chances or accept your fate. What does that mean? What’s the difference?”
“You don’t learn so quick, do you,” the angel said. “Last time you asked me something like that, I heard they shot you out of a tiny cannon.”
“Oh yeah.” Jim checked the boulevard for philosophers. He saw none, so he said, “Give me a hint?”
The angel shrugged. Then he struck Jim in the face with his fist. It was a mighty strike, for the angel was an angel, and Jim fell upon the sidewalk.
“Dude. What the hell?”
And the angel said, “Chance is which hand I hit you with. Fate is when you hit the ground.” Followed by a chuckle.
3
Lay Lady Lane was a long and shining broadway of neon lights and marquis that flashed the names of history’s sexiest women. There were marquis for Marilyn Monroe, Mata Hari, Pocahontas, Jackie Kennedy, Audrey Hepburn, Madhubala, Nefertiti, Grace Kelly, Joan of Arc, and a thousand more. Above them all and at the center the name of Cleopatra glittered.
Jim went through the doors that revolved beneath the marquis. In the lobby there was the banter of hopeful men. Each man was queued in one of two lines: one line for men who took their chances, and one line for men who accepted their fate.
Jim went to the help desk. Behind it was a man whose nametag said, Butch, Angel in Training.
“First time?” said Butch.
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s pretty simple. You go through that door, you get what’s coming to you. You go through that one, you get something else. It’s like, you walk the path or you roll the dice.”
“Dice?” Jim checked his pocket. He still had the glossy red dice from the other side of the brick wall at the edge of paradise. “Seems like fate could do dice, too.”
“Well, flip a coin, then.”
Jim didn’t have any coins, so he was forced to accept the redaction. “What about this part here? The part that says my indulgence rights will be thoroughly abused. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Really?”
“What?”
“You’re here for a chance to put your dick in the queen and you’re asking me about the fine print.”
“How do you know I’ll do the chance thing?”
“From one guy to another, you don’t exactly have the gravity of fate under you.”
After some consideration, Jim decided that this was not an insult. “Indulge me,” he said.
“Tell you what.” Butch cracked his knuckles. “Here’s the short of it. Lucy, her whole thing is everybody gets what they want, right? She hates rules. But what’s the first thing you want to do when you get here? You want to fuck Cleopatra, that’s what. So Cleopatra’s got, like, a billion dudes playing Every Rose Has It’s Thorn at her window, and that’s a shit deal. For everybody. So she rounds up all the scorchers, you know, your Marilyn Monroes and your Marie Antoinettes, and they all march on Lucy. And Lucy’s cool – have you met her? Yeah, you seem like the type. Anyway, they set up this whole infrastructure and assign teams of angels to field requests. It’s all very organized. Now Cleopatra just gets an email every week, and she doesn’t have to hear that damn song anymore.
“It all sounds good, except Cleopatra – just Cleopatra – needs a thousand angels to sift through all these requests. There’s a shortage of angels. And there’s a billion dudes that are pissed off about the selection process. They know damn well that Cleopatra isn’t gonna blow some clerk from New Jersey. So there’s hardly an angel in paradise that isn’t reading love limericks, and everything with a dick is crying foul. It’s a fucking mess.
“So Lucy comes out with the lottery and the Pussy Pact. She tells Cleopatra and every other scorcher that if they forego free will once a year and spread their legs for some Jack, she’ll give them angelic privilege. That’s, like, they get to be angels but they don’t have to wear the uniform or do any work. And to the Jacks she says, Listen, you’ve got an eternity to win, and if you don’t like it the Truth Road is that way. That cooled everybody off, and we built Lay Lady Lane.”
And Jim said, “So this is just saying that I might not win.”
“Pretty much.”
“Thanks.” And Jim went to take his chances.
4
The casino was filled with the men who did not have the gravity of fate under them. Though Jim did not count them, he thought that this was probably most men, for they were many. He wondered if accepting a light fate might have been better than taking a fat chance.
He rattled the glossy red dice in his pocket and looked for a craps game, but he couldn’t find one. Nor could he find blackjack or poker or roulette or any slot machine. There wasn’t even a bar. There weren’t even hookers. It was the damnedest casino that Jim had ever seen.
But there were balloons. He came to understand that there was a balloon for every man, and inside a single balloon there was a ticket to Cleopatra’s villa by the sea. So he mulled about through the fateless men and searched for his lucky balloon.
He mulled too long. Now there were only two balloons left. One of them was red, and the other was blue. He chose the blue, for it was the color of the sea. But as he chose it, another man chose it as well.
“This one is mine, thank you very much,” said the irrelevant gentleman.
“I don’t know,” said Jim. “I think I touched it first.”
“I mean to have it.”
“Is there a moderator around here?”
As Jim looked around, the irrelevant gentleman tried to take the balloon. But Jim’s grip was firm.
“Hey, that’s not cool, man,” he said.
“I have been coming to this lottery for two hundred years, and every year my balloon is blue. I mean to have it.”
“I’ll do you paper-rock-scissors for it.”
“And take two chances while everyone else takes one? I am not an idiot, sir.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“Of course that’s how it works. If the ticket is indeed in one of these two balloons, I will choose the correct balloon half of the time. And assuming that we are equally matched in the game of paper-rock-scissors, I will defeat you half of the time. To perform both in consequence requires a half times a half, and I am reduced to a quarter.”
“But there’s just two balloons.”
“I will not trade my half for a quarter, sir. I mean to have this balloon.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make any sense. The ticket might be in the red one.”
“So why don’t you take the red one?”
“Well, maybe I will.”
“Take it then.”
“You know what, I’m gonna.”
So Jim took the red balloon and the irrelevant gentleman took the blue. And now that every fateless man had chosen a balloon, the casino staff handed out the thumb tacks. There was some fanfare, and the owner of the casino thanked the devil for the Pussy Pact and all the fateless men for attending. Then he said, “May fortune fuck the queen!”
Jim took up the red balloon and the thumb tack and he popped the balloon. Inside of it was a ticket, and the ticket was to Cleopatra’s villa by the sea.
So all but one of the fateless men became dejected. More dejected than any of them was the irrelevant gentleman. Jim put a consoling hand upon his shoulder and said,
“Cheer up, man. You’re good luck.”
5
Cleopatra answered the door in an old T-shirt and sweatpants. She ate pizza rolls from a ruby-studded chalice. She offered him one, so he ate it, and it was alright.
; He said, “Are you Cleopatra?”
“The seventh,” she said. “Daughter of kings, consort to Caesars, and Isis in the flesh.”
“I’m Jim.”
“Come in, Jim. And please, don’t be shy. Or ceremonious. I loathe ceremonious. Just relax and enjoy yourself. Oh, and you’re to take this, tuck it away, and you’re not to open it until the contest is over.”
“What is it?” Jim took the jeweled egg and turned it over in his hands. “It’s very pretty.”
“I’m not sure. I’m just the prize, as they say. Though they don’t really say such things, do they? But come, this way. Fate is waiting in the sun room.”
Jim put the egg in his pocket and followed Cleopatra through the villa by the sea. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said.
“Oh, do tell me. What have you heard, my brave warrior of fortune?”
“Uh, well, you’re the Queen of the Nile. You launched a thousand ships with your face. Um, you killed yourself with a snake because of Caesar. And you’re, like, the most beautiful woman that ever lived.”
Cleopatra took another pizza roll from the ruby-studded chalice. She talked while she chewed. “I was Pharaoh, never queen. It was the face of Helen of Troy that launched a thousand ships. The asp was invented by some sappy poet, and Mark Antony was never Caesar. And I could never get rid of the arm fat.”
She wiped some pizza roll grease on her T-shirt then demonstrated the arm fat by the jiggling of her elbow. Jim saw that she was a bit flabby. But before he could assure her that she wasn’t, she belched, and the moment passed.
“Don’t take me the wrong way,” she said. “I try not to be a bitch, but the mythology does get tiresome. And here we are. Fate awaits you, my brave warrior of fortune.”
They entered the sun room. There was the flushing of a toilet, the grunting of a throat, and then a man came out of the bathroom. He was jagged handsome. He wore a tailored suit without a tie and his jet black hair was ice cold. He said to Cleopatra,
“Who’s the interloper?”
“This is Jim,” she said.
“Jim. Well, Jim, what do you say we dispense with the overture and get down to the movement? This is a lovely villa, and I’m sure you’re fascinating company, but I’m double parked. And if the Pharaoh mouth-farts again I might lose my chub.”
Jim recognized him. “Humphrey Bogart?”
“This isn’t the beginning of a beautiful friendship, kid. Save the woo for the lady.”
6
Cleopatra set three tattered board games upon the table. She said, “It’s customary for the champion of fate to choose the final game. I’ve got The Game of Life, Connect Four, and Hungry Hungry Hippos.”
Humphrey said, “Fate is the devil’s word, it isn’t mine. I don’t want any part of it. It was my feet that got me through the door, and it’s my disposition that’ll get you in my car. Let the kid decide, he’s good for it.”
So Jim considered the games. He was adept at Connect Four, but it lacked the element of chance. Hungry Hungry Hippos was a silly game, and he doubted he could beat Humphrey Bogart at the Game of Life.
Then he remembered the glossy red dice from the other side of the wall at the edge of paradise. He took them out of his pocket and set them on the table. “I’ve got a better game,” he said. “One roll, high roll wins.”
“Short and sweet. I like the kid.” Humphrey took up a die and he winked at Cleopatra. “But I have to warn you, Jim, the last time I rolled dice it was for eight thousand dinars, and the other guy died in the war.”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
“It means I’ve been here before.”
Humphrey rolled the glossy red die. It clattered across the table and came up two. Jim rolled his glossy red die. It clattered across the table and came up three.
“Ha!” Jim stood. “Eat shit, Bogart! The queen is mine!”
But Humphrey was cool. “Reel it in, cod-slayer. I’d say you should play it closer to the vest, but you wouldn’t know how to wear one. And don’t be a racist, the lady’s a Pharaoh.”
The Pharaoh belched. Humphrey stood and shook Jim’s hand. Then he pulled Jim aside and spoke out of the Pharaoh’s hearing.
“Between you and me, I’m just putting in an appearance here. It’s for the papers. The gams on Cloud Nine suit me just fine. I’m happy for you. Really, I am. You’re a good kid. Not too clever, but not too sweet either. It’s a noble combination. That’s why I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the lady.”
“Embarrass me?”
“Joe Louis is taking a dive.”
“What?”
“The Unknown Soldier, he’s going for a walk.”
“That isn’t better.”
“Your fly is down, kid. You’re flopping around like a pygmy.”
Jim flushed and he checked his fly. But his fly was not down. And in the time it took him to recover from his confusion, Humphrey hoisted the Pharaoh over his shoulder and kicked open a window.
“What the hell, man. You lost!”
Humphrey gave him a dramatic profile. “You had a good run, kid. It just wasn’t meant to be.” And he fired off a grappling gun and carried the Pharaoh away.
Jim ran to the window. Cleopatra waved. “Better luck next time, Jim!” she said. She jumped into Humphrey’s Packard Super-Eight. Humphrey took her away, down the road that curved around the sea.
“But I won,” Jim said.
He took out the jeweled egg and opened it. Inside there was voucher addressed to the runner-up in the Annual Cleopatra Lottery. Jim thought, How did she know? Then he thought, Oh, that bitch.
The voucher was for eighteen holes of golf with Adolf Hitler.
VII
1
“Fore!” Jim yelled. Even in paradise he hooked the damn ball. The ball sailed left over the fairway and past the bunker. It thwunked a tree.
“Ha!” Hitler pulled out his driver. “At least you’re not trapped in the bunker. Get it?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
Hitler teed up and took one practice swing. The swing was creamy smooth. When he struck the ball it went straight down the middle of the fairway. He said, “It was a suicide joke.”
And Jim thought, Bogart is balls deep in the flesh of Isis, and I get hooks and Hitler jokes.
“You seem a little tense,” Hitler said. “Perhaps you’re unhappy with the lottery result.” He replaced his driver and put an arm around Jim’s shoulder. “Cleopatra and the Fuhrer have much in common. We will have a good time. And eighteen holes is more than she would have given you. Ha!”
“I get it.”
“A sex joke!”
Jim climbed into the chariot with the Fuhrer. The chariot was drawn up the fairway by two hipsters, for their names were Larry Goldstein and Gary Steinberg.
“I’ll bite,” said Jim. “What could you possibly have in common with Cleopatra?”
Hitler said, “We ruled. We expanded our empires until we were defeated by superpowers. We killed ourselves to avoid capture. Much in common.”
“Yeah, but, I mean, with or without the arm fat she’s smoking hot. She consorted with Caesars. And you were, like, the Lord of the Nazis.”
“Fuhrer.”
“It ain’t the same.”
They came to the place where Jim’s ball thwunked. The hipsters set down the chariot, and they found the ball in some tall grass behind an oak tree. It was a fair lie. Jim took out a seven iron and he punched the ball into the fairway.
“The Pharaohs were not kind to their people,” said Hitler.
“Dude. Nazis.”
Jim exchanged the seven iron for a fairway wood and approached his ball. His swing was wild. The ball hooked and sailed out of play.
“You need to be more open,” Hitler said.
“What?!”
“Your club face. You have to open up your club face.”
“Oh, a golf joke.”
“I never joke about golf.”
Jim t
hrew down the club.
“You killed a billion people. Like, a fucking billion. And you’re giving me shit about my golf swing?”
“You have a terrible swing.”
“Give me another ball.”
So Hitler threw him another ball and he lined up for a second shot. “Relax your shoulders,” Hitler said. “And bend your knees a little. Remember to keep your head down. You must strike the ball well before you can watch it fly.”
Jim thought, The Fuhrer wants me to relax and be more open. He took a breath, opened up, and swung. The ball sailed straight down the fairway and thumped down on the fringe of the green. He handed his club to one of the hipsters as he climbed back into the chariot.
“It was Plato that showed me golf,” Hitler said. “He is a very good teacher. Being more open, that was the first trick he showed me.”
“You golf with Plato?”
“We have much in common.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Hitler’s drive was in the dead center of the fairway. He approached the ball with an eight iron. His swing was creamy smooth and he stuck the ball pin high.
“And it’s not true about the billion people,” he said.
“Well, I exaggerated a little,” Jim said.
“In this place I’ve only killed one person. They only count it if you pull the trigger.”
“Oh come on.”
“It’s true. I’m only credited with a single kill, one Adolf Hitler.” He thumbed his chest. “You might call me a hero.”
Hitler put his eight iron back into the bag and climbed back into the chariot. The hipsters carried on. Jim rummaged through his brain for some high school history.
“But how is that possible?” Jim said. “D-Day, the Battle of the Bulge, the concentration camps. That was all you. You made all that shit happen.”
“Free will.”
“Free will?”
“You’re only responsible for what you do. According to the records, I just talked a lot. The kills all went to the people who listened to me.”
“But you forced them to do it!”
Book of Jim: Agnostic Parables and Dick Jokes From Lucifer's Paradise Page 5