Cyclops Road

by Jeff Strand

  * * *

  I wake up from a dream about Becky. It's a happy dream, though the details vanish as soon as I realize that I'm still in a Louisiana rest area.

  Harriett is seated on a bench next to the restrooms, reading a paperback book. She immediately realizes that I'm awake, so I assume she was keeping a close eye on me. She closes the book and stands up.

  I take my cell phone out of my pocket and check the time. 1:42 p.m. I feel bad that she waited around for me to sleep so long, but, hey, at least I saved her a crapload of walking time. She shoves the book into her backpack as she walks toward the car. There was a muscular, shirtless guy on the cover.

  Harriett opens the door, climbs inside, and hands me a bag of potato chips. "I purchased this for you. I tried an identical bag earlier. They're incredible."

  "Thanks. What were you reading?"

  "Lassoing The Cowboy. I thought it was a western but I was mistaken."

  "Are you reading a smut novel?"

  "It's a relationship novel."

  "Yeah, right."

  "I bought it from a woman with six children. It's surprisingly engaging so far. My usual reading material is quite different."

  "You didn't have to let me sleep so long."

  "And you didn't have to let me sleep so long."

  "We should coordinate our schedules."

  "Agreed."

  "Well, give me a few minutes to stretch and use the restroom, and we'll get back on the road."

  I pee at a urinal used by men with haphazard targeting skills, then wash my hands and face in the sink. I check myself out in the mirror. It's the most rested I've looked since Becky died, although stubble has never looked good on me. I'll have to pick up a razor. Also a toothbrush, dental floss, deodorant, change of clothes...I really wasn't planning on this being a full-fledged road trip.

  "Any new feelings on the hero?" I ask, as we pull back onto the highway.

  "Nothing yet. Would you like me to open your bag of potato slices for you so that you're not distracted while you drive?"

  "Nah. The food in New Orleans is amazing. Have you ever had a muffaletta?"

  Harriett shakes her head.

  "Oh my God. It's got ham, salami, mortadella, two kinds of cheese, and this olive salad that will blow your freaking mind. It's the sandwich equivalent of chocolate. Have you ever had gumbo?"

  "No."

  "See, that's not okay. Your life won't truly begin until lunch. What kind of stuff do you normally eat?"

  "Various meats. Various vegetables. Various dairy products. I had no complaints."

  "You're going to be three hundred pounds by the time we leave this city. We'll basically just be able to catapult you at the Cyclops and crush him flat."

  "I'm very much looking forward to a muffaletta."

  * * *

  "Turn right," says Harriett, as we get close to the French Quarter.

  I take a right.

  "No, I apologize, it should have been a left turn."

  "No problem. I'll circle the block."

  I drive three-quarters of the way back around the block before Harriett says, "No, I was wrong. Your original turn was correct."

  "Okay."

  "At least I think it was."

  "Okay."

  "Can you drive more slowly?"

  "Not without pissing off the other drivers."

  "I may need to walk."

  "That's fine. I'll park somewhere."

  Finding a place to park in the French Quarter is hell on earth, but I eventually accomplish the task and we get out of the car. Harriett takes her backpack and pole.

  We walk around for about forty-five minutes, and my stomach is rumbling enough that I almost suggest we stop for lunch. But I don't want to throw her off the scent, even though I don't believe there is an actual scent.

  "Here," she says, stopping in front of a touristy gift shop. "This is the right place. The first hero is inside."

  It's a pretty lame gift shop. The front window is filled with T-shirts about the merriment of alcoholism. All of the alligator heads on sticks I could ever want are on display by the open front door.

  The shop has exactly one customer, a morbidly obese man chuckling at a toy where you can jiggle a lever and make a plastic woman's breasts bounce. An exhausted looking woman with silver hair in a tight perm, probably in her sixties, stands behind the counter.

  "Her," says Harriett, pointing.

  "Don't point."

  "It's her."

  "Are you sure? She seems kind of old."

  "Without any doubt. I don't know her name, but that is absolutely her, no question in my mind."

  "All right, then." I'm not sure what I was expecting. Somebody much younger. Or somebody in a full suit of armor, holding a sword.

  Well, no, what I was expecting was nobody. I can't help but feel that this conversation has the potential to be extremely awkward.

  "Do you want me to give you some privacy?" I ask.

  "Not unless this makes you uncomfortable."

  "Nope." It does, actually, but I feel like I should probably be there to intervene if this starts to go in a "Get the hell out of my shop before I call the police" direction.

  Harriett walks into the shop. I reluctantly follow.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Harriett strides up to the front counter.

  "How may I help you today?" asks the woman with a smile. Visibly exhausted or not, her enthusiasm for helping Harriett with something today seems genuine.

  "My name is Harriett Lancaster."

  "Pleased to meet you."

  Harriett just stares at her. I assume that she's hoping for a spark of recognition. There isn't one.

  The staring goes on a bit too long before the woman speaks. "Were you looking for anything in particular?"

  "Yes," says Harriett. "You."

  I silently wince. Harriett has now officially become creepy. I feel like I should step in and try to steer the conversation into a not-quite-so-unnerving direction, but it's not my place to interfere quite yet.

  The woman's smile disappears. "Now what's he done?"

  "Who?"

  "Tell me why you're here."

  Harriett unzips her backpack. The woman slides her hand beneath the counter, and I am ninety-nine percent certain that she's going for a silent alarm button, a baseball bat, or a gun. We're now at the part where I should intervene.

  Harriett takes out a scroll. She gently places it on the counter and removes the twine that was tied around it. She unrolls it and holds it down by the edges. "Read this."

  The woman glances down at the scroll. She reads for about five seconds before looking back up at Harriett. "What's this?"

  "Does it make you feel anything?"

  "Does it make me feel anything? It makes me feel like you walked into the wrong shop. Sorry, ma'am, but we don't allow solicitors here. I've had my own religion for quite some time, thanks."

  "I'm not here to change your religion," Harriett insists.

  "Well, I'm here to change your facial structure if you don't get out of my store. If you want to buy something, that's great; otherwise, move along."

  Okay, we've now had our first threat of violence! I step over to the counter. "I apologize," I tell the woman. "We're just going to look at the T-shirts."

  "We've got more against the back wall," the woman informs me.

  "Wait," Harriett says. Please, please, please don't mention the Cyclops, I think. "Your name is Jeannie, right?"

  "Yes."

  Please, please, please don't say anything about how you knew her name from a feeling deep within yourself.

  "Jeannie, just read the scroll. It will take two minutes of your time. And my companion will buy a shirt, even if it is not a good value for the price."

  The guy who was playing with the plastic big-boobie-girl toy exits the shop.

  Jeannie looks back down at the scroll. Her hand remains out of sight beneath the counter, but I'm going to be optimistic and assume that if sh
e does have a gun, she'll wave it at us and tell us to get the hell out of her shop before making the decision to blow somebody's head off.

  She reads for about fifteen more seconds, then looks up and glares at me. "Go pick out your damn shirt."

  I nod and walk to the back of the shop. My hair isn't thinning yet, otherwise I would be all over the shirt that informs the public that it's not a bald spot, it's a solar panel for a sex machine. Instead, I go with a light blue shirt that says simply, "New Orleans."

  I return to the counter. Harriett rolls up the scroll.

  "So, what did you think?" Harriett asks.

  "I think this better be a hidden-camera TV show, because I'm going to be seriously pissed if you're peddling this nonsense in my store without me getting any free publicity out of it."

  "How did it make you feel?"

  "It made me feel angry and annoyed, like a busy store-owner who's wasted her time." She reaches out to me. "Let me ring up your shirt."

  I hand her the shirt.

  "Please," says Harriett. "I need to know if it stirred up any feelings inside of you."

  "You want to know what feelings it stirred up? It stirred up the kind of feelings you get when some strange lady comes in to your place of business and makes you read a damn scroll saying that your damn destiny is to slay a damn Cyclops."

  "And those feelings are...?" asks Harriett, hopefully.

  "That this is bullshit! You brought bullshit into my store!"

  "It's not balderdash," says Harriett.

  "That's fourteen dollars and thirty-eight cents," Jeannie tells me.

  This shirt was supposed to be on sale for ten bucks, but I don't point out the error. Harriett unzips a pocket of her backpack and gives Jeannie a twenty. Jeannie holds it up to the light to inspect it, then counts out the change.

  "Do you think we could buy you dinner?" Harriett asks. "I understand that muffalettas are a flavorful local delicacy."

  "No, you can't buy me a damn muffaletta. What you can do is take your shirt and get the hell out of my store. I don't have time for this."

  "Your level of hostility seems disproportionate to the amount of your time we've wasted," says Harriett. "Are you sure you didn't feel anything when you read the scroll? Perhaps there's a feeling of recognition that is scaring you. We can talk about this."

  Jeannie gives her a smile that is about one percent as genuine as the smile she gave us when we first entered her shop. "You don't seem rock-stupid," she says. "So explain to me what you thought was going to happen here."

  "I thought you'd read the scroll and realize that it was true."

  "Mmm-hmm. I'm sixty-seven years old. You thought I'd grab me a sword and run off on some Cyclops hunt?"

  "That would be the optimal outcome, yes. But I wouldn't expect you to provide your own sword."

  "So you really thought I'd just leave my shop, leave my grandson, and go on a merry ol' journey with you?"

  "No. I thought you'd ask your other employees to run the shop in your absence. I didn't know your family situation, but I assumed that if there were child-care issues that a spouse or other relatives could provide supervision."

  "My only employee is my grandson. I'd be lucky if he didn't burn the damn place down."

  "Some children rise to the occasion when given responsibility."

  "You are one crazy bitch, you know that? You need to take your shirt and your scroll and get out of here before I call the cops. Get out. Go to the next store in line."

  "There's no other store," says Harriett. "You're the one we seek."

  "I mean it. Move along."

  "What if we bought an alligator head?" I ask.

  "If you buy a gator head, you can stick around for as long as it takes to pick one, but no longer, and if you mention that damn scroll again I'll beat your ass with it."

  "With the scroll or the gator head?" I ask.

  "The gator head."

  I walk over to the display and pretend that I'm comparing and contrasting the different models.

  "I'm not certain what I expected from you," Harriett says. "I've had my entire life to train for this. I hoped that you had been training as well. I know how this all must sound to somebody who wasn't acclimated to the idea as a young girl." She gestures to me. "He doesn't believe me either."

  "Then he's not as dumb as he looks."

  I want to inform Jeannie that I don't look dumb, then I remember that I'm not six years old.

  "If you change your mind, please contact us," says Harriett.

  "How do I do that? Talk into a crystal ball?"

  I return to the counter with my alligator head. I take out one of my business cards for work, cross out the no-longer-valid phone number, and write in my cell number. I slide it over to Jeannie.

  "I'm not going to call you," she says.

  "That's fine. Keep it anyway."

  "It's going in the trash as soon as you leave."

  "I understand."

  Harriett turns and walks out of the store, but not before I see a tear trickling down her cheek.

  Jeannie rings up the alligator head. "She must be damn good in bed for you to deal with that level of nuts."

  "We're not sleeping together. She's just a friend."

  "Uh-huh. You'd better be getting some friendly benefits if you're spending all day hearing about Cyclopses and shit."

  I've never played the "dead wife" card, but I think now is the time. I tap my wedding ring.

  "My wife died of breast cancer two weeks ago," I say. "I'm not looking for any 'friendly benefits.'"

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Cancer's a goddamn rotten dirty whore, isn't it?"

  "It sure is."

  "I'm not trying to disrespect your friend. But when she comes into my shop with some damn prophecy scroll, sorry, I'm not going to play along. You aren't doing her any favors yourself."

  I shrug. "Maybe not. It gives her a purpose."

  "Yeah, well, raising my grandson and selling cheap crap to tourists gives me a purpose, and it's an actual purpose."

  "So...because I have to ask, you definitely didn't feel anything when you read the scroll, right?"

  "No, I didn't feel anything! Are you serious?"

  "Just checking."

  Jeannie sighs. "Sorry about your wife. I'll give you twenty percent off the gator head."

  * * *

  I take a bite of my delicious muffaletta sandwich. So good. Becky loved them even more than I do, and I associate it with happy memories of her. I was worried that it might make me feel sad and lonely, but, no, it reminds me of sitting outside of a bookstore that had just barely enough of a canopy to keep us dry in the downpour, as we shared a sandwich and a can of root beer. I love that memory.

  Harriett hasn't taken a bite yet. She looks heartbroken.

  "I'm sorry she didn't go for the idea," I say.

  "Me too."

  I wonder what Jeannie would've said if she knew that the original plan was for them to walk across the country? It probably would have been something impolite.

  "You should try to enjoy your sandwich. Then we'll figure out what to do next."

  "There's nothing to figure out."

  "So, you're cancelling the trip?"

  "Absolutely not. I'm proceeding without her."

  "Are you sure you had the right person?"

  "I was as sure as I could possibly be," she says. "I still feel sure. It doesn't matter if I'm wrong, because if I am, I have no way to find the right hero."

  "Will that mess up the prophecy?"

  "I don't know. We're going to pretend that it won't."

  "Is it possible—and I'm only playing Devil's advocate here—that this means the scroll is just some writing on papyrus, and not an actual prophecy?"

  Harriett shrugs. "It's possible."

  "So then is it possible that the best next step is to...you know, reevaluate?"

  "No. It is not. I'm not going to abandon my destiny just because some irritable old woman in a gift shop rejects her own."<
br />
  "I suppose we could kidnap her."

  "Was that humor?"

  "Yes."

  "Actually, it's not a terrible idea in concept, though her continual attempts to escape would give us one more thing to worry about while we were trying to slay the Cyclops."

  "It's a terrible idea on every conceivable level."

  "Perhaps we should talk to her grandson. Find out if she's ever mentioned this sort of destiny, even in passing."

  "I'd rather not have a restraining order placed against me. Potential employers look at that kind of thing."

  "So, onward. We'll do it without her." Harriett finally takes a bite of her sandwich. "Goodness. That is literally the most flavors I've ever experienced in a single mouthful of food."

  "Tasty?"

  "Very."

  "We'll take the other halves with us. They're even better when the bread has had time to soak up the oil. Save room for gumbo."

  * * *

  Harriett does not enjoy the gumbo.

  "That was like hellfire on my tongue," says Harriett, swishing a drink of water around in her mouth.

  "Don't you use spices at home?"

  "Of course we do. Salt and pepper. I don't understand why you would want to ignite your mouth. Do people really consider that a pleasurable sensation?"

  "Yeah. I love spicy food."

  "I can still feel it dissolving my taste buds."

  "You only had one bite."

  "Am I blistered?" Harriett sticks her tongue out at me.

  "No, you're fine."

  "Chocolate is superior."

  Harriett is ready to go, but I've proposed the idea that we spend the night in New Orleans. That way, if her feeling about the correct person does change, she'll still be around to act upon it. This will also allow us to get on the same sleep schedule, and to drive all day instead of all night. Plus, I love New Orleans.

  She still seems bummed out, but she takes delight in the street musicians and the artists selling their work. We go on a cemetery tour, where Harriett is fascinated by the offerings that people leave on some of the above ground graves.

  We walk down Bourbon Street. Harriett pauses in front of one of the strip clubs.