Unfinished Muse

by R. L. Naquin

  I nodded. “I guess. Goodnight…hey, what do I call you?”

  “You’ve been calling me Phyllis for two years, dear. Why would you change that now?”

  I tried not to think of all the intimate moments I’d spent both with and without boyfriends in front of this self-aware plant. “Goodnight, Phyllis.”

  As much as I was eager to get back to sleep, I never did manage it that night. I was too afraid I’d wake up in a white room with padded walls.

  Maybe an institution would have been easier than what Phyllis had in store for me. Apparently, she had my whole life already planned and had been lying in wait for me to hit bottom.

  And now that I’d done it, she was more than ready to take over.

  Chapter 2

  After a long, mostly sleepless weekend spent arguing with a philodendron and dodging questions from Mrs. Terwilliger, I found myself standing on the sidewalk in the worst part of Topeka, bright and early Monday morning.

  With a houseplant tucked under my arm.

  The street was fairly empty of vehicles and pedestrians, which was good, since Phyllis was so excited to have browbeaten me into all this she hadn’t shut up the whole way there.

  “Are you sure you have the right address?” I asked, shifting her to the other arm. “The only businesses in this area are meth labs and prostitutes. I wasn’t especially good at chemistry in school, so I hope you didn’t drag me here to meet my new pimp.”

  She made a tutting noise, interesting for someone with no tongue. “Stop fussing, Wynter. Just do what I say. You’ll see.”

  All I saw was a homeless dude whip himself out and pee on the side of the building she wanted me to enter.

  At one time, the place might have been full of doctors’ offices or accounting firms. Now it was a single-story mess of peeling gray paint, boarded-over windows, and cracked concrete.

  And she wanted me to waltz in there like I had an appointment.

  Spend a weekend arguing with a plant. When you finally lose, you’ll walk into the pits of hell rather than continue the argument.

  I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and walked past the homeless guy shaking himself dry and tucking back in. I averted my eyes and didn’t return his greeting. At the threshold, I hesitated a moment, then pushed the door open.

  With the first step inside, everything changed.

  The door closed behind me, and I blinked in the sudden brightness. I stood in a round atrium bustling with people. Several stories above me, the ceiling rose to a glass dome. Everything was white and shiny and clean, and hallways led off in several directions. A bank of elevators opened and closed with people pouring out and more taking their places.

  In the center, a reception desk held court, surrounded by couches and chairs for people to wait in comfort.

  “Over there, dear,” Phyllis said. “We need to get you checked in.”

  I supposed she meant the reception area. I didn’t ask. My jaw hadn’t yet learned to reconnect my lips.

  We stood in line and waited our turn. I’d been so busy taking in the enormous—and impossible—building, I hadn’t looked at the receptionist yet.

  “Don’t stare, dear, it’s rude,” Phyllis said. “Put me on the counter, please. I’ll take care of everything.”

  I closed my mouth and did as I was told. This entire situation put me so far out of my element, I might as well have been at a cocktail party on Mars.

  “Patrice,” Phyllis said. “How wonderful to see you, dear.”

  Patrice wore small, mirrored sunglasses and a cleavage-baring, hot pink blouse that set off her green skin. Her dark green dreadlocks coiled around her ears with one or two skinny locks dangling over one eye. I called them dreadlocks in my mind because there was no way I would admit to myself that the woman had a head full of live, moving snakes.

  “Phyllis,” she said with a remarkable lack of hiss in her voice. “It’s about damn time you got here.” She looked from the plant to me and back again. “Is this her?”

  “It is, yes.”

  Patrice fixed me with what I was sure was a stony stare through those glasses. I may not have finished college, but I sure as hell knew a gorgon when I saw one. Not that Medusa was real, of course. I looked away in case my apparent lateness was cause for giving me that look over the top of her rims. Forget Mars. I was all the way out on Jupiter, and the cocktail party had turned into a lecture on alien economics.

  “Took you long enough,” Patrice said. She handed me a clipboard with a pen attached by a silver chain. “Fill out this paperwork and bring it up when you’re done.”

  “Thank you,” I said in a near whisper, eyes to the floor. I clutched Phyllis against my chest and made a beeline for the farthest chair from the desk.

  I settled into the seat, hands shaking, and put Phyllis on the table next to me. “What is this place? Why didn’t you warn me what to expect? How is any of this possible? Are we even in Topeka anymore?” I rattled off questions, hoping for answers, but also hoping some sort of understanding would click in my brain so I could think coherently.

  A faun in dress shirt and tie trotted past, and I felt my brain shrink away from the elusive understanding I so desperately wanted.

  “If I’d explained it first,” Phyllis said, “you either wouldn’t have come or wouldn’t have believed me. Knowing you, a little of both. Just fill out the paperwork. You don’t want to make Patrice angry.”

  No. No, I did not.

  The top of the form gave me the name of where I was, at least. Finally, some sort of clue: Mt. Olympus Employment Agency

  I filled out the form the best I could. My name was easy—Wynter Greene. I’d had a lot of minty-fresh jokes throughout my life, but now that I was an adult, I didn’t have to deal with it as much. The standard address, date of birth, and social security questions rounded out the first section. No problem.

  Section two was where things went a little sideways. They wanted the names of my parents. Who asks for that on a job application? I shrugged and put down my mom’s name, Cora Greene. I left the father question blank. I had no clue. Every time I’d tried to ask my mom about it, I got a different story.

  “Check the box for which parent is the superior deity?” I frowned at Phyllis. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Leave it,” she said. “Let them sort it out.”

  Section three was where I expected them to ask about my previous jobs. Or school. Or qualifications of any kind. Nope. They wanted to know if I could fly.

  I dropped the pen and held up my hands. “Phyllis? What am I supposed to do with this?”

  Her leaves quaked and she chuckled. “Answer ‘no’ to all the abilities questions, but in the write-in portion, tell them you’re good with plants.” She laughed at her own joke.

  I didn’t find it funny at all. “Crazy-ass job application,” I muttered under my breath. “And a talking plant who won’t help me.”

  I left nearly everything on the form blank. I didn’t know if they were joking or serious, and I didn’t want to come off sounding like a lunatic. Though the fact that I had to hand the forms to a gorgon while a lady with flowers growing out of her hair waited in line behind me kind of gave weight to the idea that the application questions were serious.

  Or that I was lying on the street somewhere with head trauma, and this was the weirdest dream ever.

  I bit my lip and squinted at the page in my hand. Yeah. That had to be it. Head trauma. I decided to proceed as if the whole thing were an entertaining product of a vehicular accident involving a family of ducks, a carload of clowns, and a careening melon cart. That could cause anybody to slip into a coma featuring a colorful dream cast of bizarre characters.

  My cheeks tightened with my strained smile as I handed over the clipboard.

  Patrice pushed her sunglasses up her nose and sniffed. “Not a lot of information here.” She yanked the papers from the metal clip and shoved them into a folder. “Follow the copper line to Thebes for orientati
on and further instruction. Next, please.”

  She slammed a stamp on the outside of my folder and set the whole thing on a tall pile. The flower-haired lady shoved me out of the way and threw a broken stick on the desk. “I’d like to make a complaint,” she said. She and Patrice both gave me a pointed look.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said and went back to where I’d left Phyllis on a table, talking to a rubber tree. “I have to follow a copper line to Thebes.”

  “Of course, dear,” Phyllis said. “Everyone has to start with orientation. You go on along, now. Pick me up when you’re finished. Sadie and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

  Sadie shook a fat leaf in my direction. “Don’t dawdle, sweetheart. You don’t want to miss the donuts. That’s the best part.”

  I scowled and turned away, examining the floor. Thin metallic lines crisscrossed everywhere in a complex pattern I’d assumed was part of the design. I could see now they all led in different directions.

  Can’t believe she’s deserting me to talk to a potted tree.

  With my head down to follow the copper line, I saw less of the crazy stuff around me, which was soothing. I saw my own feet encased in low-heeled black pumps. I saw other perfectly normal feet cross my path. If I passed a root or hoof or claw along the way, they were easier to accept than seeing the full bodies they were attached to.

  In the back of my mind, I worried that Thebes was a very long trip, considering it was on the other side of the world. Where, exactly, I wasn’t sure, but it was part of Greek mythology, so it had to be pretty far away. I crossed the atrium, went down a hall, turned right, and the copper line stopped short in front of a door with the word Thebes painted in copper across it.

  So, not halfway across the world. Just someone being clever with the names of their conference rooms.

  “Hold on to your butts,” I said, taking a deep breath and pushing the door open.

  Immediately, I could tell I’d missed the donuts portion of the meeting. In fact, the refreshment table on the left-hand wall was deserted, and everyone was already seated and facing the wall on the right. Until I walked in talking to myself, anyway. At that point, a room full of people swiveled their heads around to see who the disruptive, late girl was.

  The person they’d been paying attention to was a diminutive, frail-looking woman, old enough to be my grandmother or possibly my great-grandmother. She wore a pink tracksuit embroidered with odd symbols on the cuffs and collar.

  “Is this orientation?” I asked, trying to squeak above a whisper.

  The tiny woman pursed her lips until her red lipstick was nothing but a thin slash. “How many more are they going to send me last minute like this?” She threw her arm in the air in the universal symbol of “whatever, fine.” She flicked her hand at a seat in the front row. “Sit down. I was about to start.”

  I ducked my head and hurried to the chair, my cheeks burning. All around me, people clutched notebooks and pens, ready to take notes. I was late to class and unprepared. Any second, she would probably give us our final for the semester. I glanced down at myself, certain I’d be in nothing but my bra and underwear. When I saw my skirt and blouse, I frowned in disappointment. Not a dream. This total suckfest was absolutely for real.

  I dug through my purse as quietly as I could so as not to attract further attention. Fortunately, I’d gone through a stage where I thought I wanted to write poetry, so I had a pen and mini notebook with me. I flipped past several half-finished sonnets to a blank page.

  “Now that we’re all here,” the small lady said, “we’ll begin.” She cleared her throat. “I’m Mrs. Moros, and you’ll be spending the next few days with me. At the end of the week, you’ll get your work assignments, provided you make it through orientation and testing.”

  Ah. So there is a test. I knew it.

  She rested her hands on her hips and paced while she spoke. “You’re all here for the same reason: you’ve hit bottom. Every last one of you has managed to screw up your life.”

  A rumble went through the crowd, and people gave each other sideways glances.

  “No,” she said, raising her voice. “Don’t go looking at your neighbor to see who’s the bigger loser. You’re all losers in my book.”

  Somewhere in the back row—which honestly was only five rows back—someone sniffled. Part of me wanted to object, but the rest of me had to stifle a laugh. Yes, I’d quit my job, but that didn’t make me a loser. For one thing, I didn’t get fired. I left on my own terms.

  This wrinkled, bossy little stick figure doesn’t know anything about me.

  She swung around and stared at me. “That’s one,” she said.

  “What?” She couldn’t have heard me. I didn’t say anything out loud.

  “Guard your thoughts, Wynter. You’ll want to have more self-control than that if you’re ever going to make anything of your wasted life.” She spun around and marched off to say something probably equally chilling to a bald guy at the end of the row.

  I sat dumbfounded, my arms prickling with raised hairs. Mrs. Moros knew my name.

  And she’d heard exactly what I’d been thinking.

  Chapter 3

  Over the course of that week, I had several opportunities to regret having quit my crappy call-center job.

  The rest of that first morning, I sat as still as I could in my chair while Mrs. Moros droned on about the company, its heritage, and more times than I cared to count, how pathetic we all were.

  The second time she said it, my gut clenched and my jaw tightened, but I did my best not to think anything that might get me into trouble. The woman was seriously scary, despite her tiny size and wrinkled exterior. The fact that I had to guard my thoughts was scary all by itself. What kind of place was this?

  The kind of place with a gorgon for a receptionist, that’s what.

  By lunch, my head hurt, my stomach gurgled, and my ass felt like I’d been riding a horse cross-country. Sitting still wasn’t really my thing, but every time I’d squirmed, she nailed me back in place with her beady little eyes.

  Of course, I didn’t think about it that way as she did it. She’d have heard me with her wicked mind-reading skills. Seriously scary-ass woman.

  She let us go at noon with the admonishment that we needed to be back by one. I had no idea where we were going, but I followed the crowd out the door and down the hallway. We took a winding path through the building, past columns, across a rotunda, and through a pair of glass double doors marked Ambrosia.

  I knew ambrosia was supposed to be the food of the gods from Greek mythology. I got it. I also thought it was a mean joke. No matter where you were, cafeteria food should never be referred to as ambrosia. Not even in jest.

  I grabbed an orange tray and placed a fruit cup on it. I watched as a redhead with short, bouncy curls ordered the brown stuff in the back row of silver containers. The cafeteria worker scratched underneath her hairnet and plopped a spoonful of mystery meat on a plate.

  “Next.” She eyed me with suspicion, as if she thought I might try to custom order something.

  I pointed at a container of chunky orange stuff. “Is that macaroni and cheese?”

  She grunted. “Yes. You want it?”

  “Yes, please.” That should’ve been safe, right? Hard to make mac and cheese gross.

  She plopped a generous helping on the plate and handed it to me over the sneeze-guard. The motion pulled at her sleeve and revealed her scaly wrist. I swallowed hard and took the plate. As I moved down the line, I glanced back and saw a snaky tail undulating behind the woman. Not behind. Attached.

  I shivered and grabbed a bottle of water and a dinner roll.

  “That’s a lot of carbs,” the redhead said as we waited behind the cash register.

  I made a face. “Nothing else looked edible.”

  She lowered her voice so only I could hear. “I don’t even know what I chose. I was so freaked out by the woman behind the counter, I just pointed blindly.”

  We
moved forward, and it was her turn at the register. When she was done, she waited for me to pay for my own.

  Without a word, we found an empty table and sat together.

  “I’m Jillian Bean.” She took a tentative bite of the brown muck on her plate.

  “Your name is Jillian Bean.” I kept my face blank. I knew I was being juvenile, but I couldn’t stop it.

  See, Wynter? This is why you don’t have any friends.

  She smiled. “Yes it is. Go ahead. I’ve been called Jilly Bean most of my life. It stopped bothering me when I was nine.”

  I smiled back at her. “I’m Wynter.” I paused and lowered my voice. “Wynter Greene.”

  She gasped. “No! Oh, we’re going to be good friends. You must’ve gotten even more crap than I did.”

  I nodded and bit into my roll. It was hard, dry, and nearly broke my tooth. “At least yours is less straightforward and kind of cute. Mine’s just stupid.”

  She shook her head in a dramatic way. “Parents can be so cruel.”

  A middle-aged bald guy and a short Asian kid slid their trays on our table and sat.

  “I’m Hal. We talking about our parents?” The bald guy cracked open his water bottle and took a swig. “Because Elmore and I have been trying to figure out the mysterious genealogy that landed us here.” He stabbed at a piece of meat on his plate and held it aloft with his fork. “What the hell is this?”

  I looked at the three of them, as diverse as three people could get. “I’m still kind of vague on what the hell we’re all doing here. Or even where here is.”

  Hal wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “It’s pretty simple. Apparently, we’re all descendants of Greek gods or heroes, and we all suck at life. That’s kind of a good news, bad news thing.”

  I eyed Elmore, who was shoveling brown muck into his mouth. “None of us look especially Greek. Anybody know who the god in their family is?”

  Jilly shook her red curls. “My parents are both completely normal humans disappointed in their daughter’s lack of direction.”

  Hal shrugged. “My parents are long gone. They died in a car accident when I was sixteen.”