by David Athey
I slowly approached the scene.
"Angelo!" the blond woman hollered, pounding her fist on the door. "Let me in! I'm warning you. I'll make your life miserable if you don't open up-now!"
"Good morning," I said, inching closer. "Are you okay?"
The woman ignored me. "Angelo!" she shouted. "Open the door or I'll break it down!"
"Miss, do you need help?"
"I can kick in the door by myself."
"Umm, have you been hurt? Should I call the police?"
"Angelo!" she hollered. "I'm not waiting another second!"
The apartment door swung open. A large, bearded man with long red hair stepped into the hallway. He was wearing nothing but cut-off jeans. "Gloria," he said gently, "did you lock yourself out again? Why don't you take a key when you go for a walk?"
She shrugged. "This dress doesn't have any pockets and I don't like purses. So just leave the door open, you jerk. Why do you have to be such a jerk?"
"Excuse me," I whispered. "The world is sad enough. Couldn't you speak kinder words to your husband?"
Gloria shook her head. "He's my father. He knows he's a jerk."
Angelo grinned and rubbed his hairy belly. "You're new here," he said, his eyes showing that I was welcome.
"I'm Danny. From Iowa."
Gloria shuddered. "Talk about cold. Just like our home country. We grew up in snow and ice, too."
"Yes," her father said. "We're from Norway." He reached out as if to shake my hand, then slapped my stomach. "Man, you need some fish fat!"
I took a step back. "What I really need is a paycheck, before I run out of money."
Angelo laughed. "Money? What do you want with that misery?"
"I'd like to buy a castle for the woman of my dreams. But I'd settle for a grass hut. Or just the beach and a ceiling of stars. With love, that would be castle enough."
"Oh my goodness," Gloria said. "You believe in true love?"
"Yes."
"For real?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes, of course."
Gloria walked over and kissed me. Full on the lips. She tasted like music and tropical fruit.
"Danny of Iowa," she said, "will you take me dancing in the sky?"
Angelo grabbed his daughter's hand and pulled her away. "My apologies," he said. "I'm afraid Gloria has an overactive imagination. Sorry to have disturbed you."
I didn't feel disturbed. A bit tingly, perhaps.
Angelo led his beautiful daughter into their apartment, leaving me standing alone in the hallway, wondering: what is God doing to me now?
The rest of the day, I sat in my living room and stared out the open door, wishing that Gloria would reappear. The sun went down and the shadows came up. Eventually, I quit my vigil, washed my face, and went to bed. My dreams that night were all about the sky and birds and stars. And there was something beyond the stars that I could almost glimpse, but no matter how hard I flapped my arms, I just couldn't get there.
A crash awakened me. It sounded like a bottle busting on the roof, and there were people laughing and dancing.
"Danny!" a voice shouted. "Join us!"
It was tempting, but I rolled over and went back to sleep, rejoining the sky and trying to get beyond it.
At sunrise, I showered and put on my high-society clothes, but instead of pursuing employment on Worth Avenue, I went for a melancholy walk in the opposite direction. It was a beautiful day, warm with a soft breeze whispering through the green and golden palms. My heart pounded and ached as usual. And my feet kept walking north, beyond The Breakers Hotel, all the way to Saint Edward's Church.
There was a woman in a white dress at the top of the stairs. And I wondered: is there a wedding?
"The church is locked," she said with a Boston accent.
"Really? That seems strange."
The lady tugged on the door. "Nobody seems to be on duty. Crud. I need to get in there and confess something. My husband and I just flew down here for the week, and I maxed out the credit card already. This town's a real killa."
She gave the door a kick and then sat on the top step of the church in her new dress. "Crud. I feel really cruddy."
I was disappointed that the church was locked, but I climbed the stairs and sat beside the lady in white and introduced myself. "I'm Danny."
"Hiya, Danny. I'm Velma."
We shook hands and just sat in the light for a while. Eventually, Velma said, "I don't think they're gonna let us in today."
Hating to see anyone suffer, I tried to give the lady some advice. "Why not just return all the merchandise?"
She gave me a funny look. "Return everything? Even the one dress in all of the world that perfectly fits me?"
"Well, maybe keep that dress. You have the receipts for everything else, right?"
"Yeah, I have the receipts. I do this sort of thing all the time."
I paused, thinking that my wisdom had run its course. Offering Velma a smile, I added one thing. "You look lovely. You probably don't need any more clothes."
Velma patted my knee. "Danny, you just keep talkin'. I'll sit right here on the steps and listen all day."
We sat in silence for a while, the sun growing stronger. I could feel myself starting to turn color, but I didn't feel burned. Velma squinted. "What about you, Danny? Did you max out the credit card? What's on your heart, dear, if I might ask?"
During the next half hour or so, I attempted to explain my sins, including what I did at the post office, but the lady from Boston was easy on me. "You're kinda different, Danny. But your heart is pure."
"So tell me," I asked, "what should I do?"
"Keep loving God and neighbor," she said, "and do whatever you feel is best."
"That's my penance?"
"That's it."
It seemed too easy. So I felt the need to protest. "You should give me a penance that hurts."
Velma shook her head. "You got what you deserved. Unless there's something you didn't tell me."
"I feel like I haven't told you anything, because everything is so complicated and mysterious. I could write a whole book."
Velma chuckled. "A whole book! That would be cruel and unusual punishment."
My heart pounded and ached. "That's the penance I want."
"Really?"
"Yes, I need to suffer ... my story. The whole of it."
"Okay," Velma said with a shrug. "So be it. Your penance is to suffer the writing of your life. And if your book is published, I'll buy the first copy."
"Thank you," I said, rising. "I feel better already."
I bounded down the steps of the church and rushed around the corner to the drugstore to buy some spiral notebooks and pens with blue ink. And then I hurried back to my room in the Dream Tower and sat at the window with its view of infinity. And I began my story.
We played our first concert by torchlight near the river. Free of charge, our old-fashioned act attracted a crowd to the hymns and spirituals that most people know by heart.
That night, there was another party on the roof. A band was playing amazing melodies, but nobody was singing. I thought: eventually I'll have a song to share with them. Eventually I'll have all the words.
The parties on the roof continued day after day, week after week, and I was tempted to go up there and sing, but I never strayed from my room.
Gloria knocked on the door every morning and asked if I was okay and left some food for me to eat. Sometimes I would speak with her for a minute or two and express my appreciation for her graciousness, but I was careful not to flirt. The last thing I needed while doing my penance was to feel all tingly.
Mrs. Concher, every afternoon, scratched on the door with her pink fingernails and warned me against becoming one of those people in Hell who owe her money. If she scratched long enough, I came to the door with a wad of cash that was growing smaller.
The week before Christmas, Mrs. Concher entered my apartment and blew smoke in my face. "You need to
get a life, Danny."
I choked on the haze. "I'm working on it."
She gestured emphatically, sprinkling me with ashes. "You should be doing things, not scribbling things."
I brushed off my shirt. "Mrs. Concher, may I ask you a question?"
She aimed her cigar. "Shoot."
"Would you say that you have a normal happy life?"
The worn old woman took a deep drag, her eyes narrowing while she considered the question very carefully. "No, Danny. I don't have a normal happy life. But at least I'm trying. You need to try, as well, especially since God has put a mark on you."
"A mark? What do you mean?"
Mrs. Concher reached out with her smoke-free hand and touched my heart. "It's written all over you, Danny. A romance. Now get busy loving."
The tears trickled into my whiskers. "I do love. You'll understand when you read my penance."
That night the denizens of Dream Tower laughed and danced and broke bottles above my head while I suffered my life story. After filling up another spiral notebook, I closed my eyes and concentrated on the music. Some lyrics floated to my tongue, and I lifted my head and sang in a loud voice, "If you sing your life, you pray it twice, through the dark days and the sun-filled nights."
The revelers heard me, and answered, "Danny, come up here and join us!"
Not yet, I thought. Not until my life story gets to where I am.
Three nights later, I had written myself all the way to Florida, all the way to the Dream Tower. To celebrate the suffering achievement, I got all dressed up in my blue blazer. My head was swirling with exhilaration as I left my room and climbed the rickety steps. At the top of the stairs, I paused, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Two coconut-topped women with mermaid bottoms were swinging their hips with joy. Behind them, a plump pirate with a peg leg grinned and drank his grog. And a thin man in a flamingo mask flapped his arms and screeched.
Near the barbecue was a laughing group of surfer boys and girls in bathing suits. Slabs of ribs, the apparent feast, sizzled and smoked. Behind the barbecue was the band, including a guitar player, a bongo player, and a shell blower. And towering above them was a giant with a three-pronged weapon. A trident.
I wondered: what if this party is some kind of cultic ritual? What if the cult needs to sacrifice an Iowan to appease their tropical gods?
A shadowy figure in a chair struck a match. The pink face of Mrs. Concher appeared. She cackled and pointed her cigar in my direction. "He's come out of his cave! Look at that beard!"
The giant strode toward me as if he were the guardian of the party. I extended my hand to greet him. He poked his trident into my chest, nearly breaking the skin. It was Angelo. He had seaweed and shells in his hair, and fish skin wrapped around his legs. "Hello, Danny," he said. "What do you want?"
"I'd like to join your party. And I'd like to sing some lyrics for the band."
"Ha!" Angelo said, poking me with the trident. "Ha! Ha!"
Mrs. Concher cackled. The mermaids giggled. The plump pirate tapped his wooden leg. The flamingo-man flapped his arms and screeched.
"Okay," Angelo said, pulling back his weapon. "You can join the party. Why not? It's almost Christmas. We'll let you have this present. But you can't sing with the band. At least not tonight."
"Why not?"
Angelo's face grew solemn. "Maybe tomorrow night."
The music began to play and the dance resumed. I looked around for Gloria.
Angelo spoke gravely into my ear. "Danny, there's something you should know about Gloria."
"Here I am," she said, whooshing out of the shadows from the other side of the roof. She was dressed in a white ball gown and her tiara was filled with moonlight.
"Goodness," I said, "you look so real."
"What do you mean, `real'?"
"I mean, like an actual princess. The gown really suits you, like it was designed special, like you're really from a royal family."
Gloria curtsied. "I'm glad you came up, Danny. I've been inviting you every night."
"I know. I've been busy trying to create my life. I mean-"
"Danny, let's talk in private."
Gloria smiled a pert good-bye to her father and then took my hand and led me away, back into the shadows from whence she had come. "Let's sit here on the ledge," she said. "I have to tell you something."
The air was sultry and my head was swimming.
"I had a dream about you," Gloria said, staring out at the wall of royal palms. "It was back in October. You appeared in my bedroom at dawn. And you kissed me."
"I kissed you?"
"Did you ever."
My cheeks burned under my whiskers and I turned away and looked up at the stars. The Big Dipper was pouring, hopefully a blessing.
"C'mon, Gloria," I said, standing and taking her hand. "Let's join the dance."
"Oh, yes."
We waltzed over to the other side of the roof, where Angelo immediately assailed us and broke us apart.
"Stop that!" he shouted.
And the music stopped.
Gloria stamped her foot. "Father!"
"Danny," Angelo said, "come with me." He handed his trident to a mermaid and then led me to the eastern ledge of the roof. "Look out at the ocean. What do you see?"
"Nothing."
Angelo pushed me, and I almost toppled. "C'mon," he said, "can't you see the light in the ocean? Can't you see it swimming out there? Can't you see the king?"
"No. I can't see anything out there."
Mrs. Concher came up behind me in a cloud of smoke and pushed me farther out, gripping my blazer with her fingernails. "Can't you see the king?"
"No. I can't."
"Well, that needs to change."
She suddenly released me, and I flailed backward into the arms of a mermaid.
The mermaid hugged my body against her coconut bikini and announced, "This boy's a keeper!"
Gloria smiled and took me by the hand and led me away from the crowd while the music resumed.
"Who is the king?" I asked. "Do I need his permission to sing with the band?"
She rolled her eyes. "It's just a game we play."
"A game?"
She shouted at Angelo. "For pity's sake, Father, the end of the world could come at any second. Why don't you let Danny sing? We've all heard his voice. He's wonderful."
Angelo grabbed his trident and strode toward us. "Danny, you have to go now!" He pointed the weapon at my chest. "I'll meet you in the hallway tomorrow morning. We'll go out in my boat. And if we don't sink, and if you catch the king, then you can sing with the band."
"Okay," I said, backing toward the door. "It's a deal. But what if I don't catch a big fish? What if I catch a little one?"
"We don't need a trophy to hang on the wall. Catching the fish is not about size, it's about wild beauty, strength, and grace. And you have to be very careful about eating mercury-flesh. The bigger the king, the more mercury in your blood."
"So what's good? Twenty pounds? Thirty pounds?"
Angelo poked me gently in the heart. "I'll tell you what's good, Danny. Getting out on the water and searching for the king. That's really good."
"And what if I don't catch him?"
"We'll just go out to the deep. And take it from there."
Gloria blew me a kiss, the mermaids waved their hips, Mrs. Concher blew smoke, the pirate tapped his wooden leg, and the pink flamingo flapped his arms and screeched.
At first light, I was already in the hallway when Angelo stumbled out of his door and laughed at my clothes.
"You look like a tourist in that rainbow shirt," he said. "The kind of tourist that drowns."
"Well, look at you."
Angelo wore cut-off jeans. That was it. No shoes, no shirt, no hat. He wiped his bleary eyes and yawned. "You drive, Danny."
"Drive? The docks are just a few blocks away."
Angelo laughed. "You think I can afford to keep my boat on Palm Beach?"
We went
down to the Cadillac and drove away from the island, across the alligator-green bridge, and up the road for a mile or so, and then Angelo told me to get on the interstate and go north. Traffic was frantic, and a silver Jaguar seemed determined to sniff my bumper, making me swerve.
Angelo said, "Danny, you're a lousy driver."
Fortunately, I was able to avoid several accidents as we approached Blue Heron Boulevard.
"Exit here." Angelo wiped some of the sweat from his face. "Go east, under the bridge. Watch out for that jogger! Man, what's wrong with your eyes? Okay, there's the entrance to the marina. See it?"
"Yes, Angelo. Relax."
"Watch out for the baby manatee!" "What? Where?"
"Ha! Just kidding."
I parked the high-rider between a shiny red pickup and a shinier yellow Corvette, and we climbed out.
Near the waterway was a grizzled fisherman with a pole over his shoulder. He stood near a shack with a sign above the entrance: FISH R US. The old man looked in our direction and shouted, "Good morning, Angelo!"
"Good morning, jig. Do you have any sardines?"
"I've got sardines swimming out of my ears."
"Ha!"
Jig staggered toward the shack and shouted over his shoulder, "You want a six-pack of beer and a couple of sandwiches?"
Angelo smiled. "We sure do. Put everything on my tab."
"No, let me pay," I said, reaching for my wad of cash.
Angelo waved me aside. "It's all on me."
The late-December sun was rising more furiously than one would expect. It would be a scorcher. "What a beautiful day," Angelo said, strolling toward the dock. His red hair was a tangled mess of fire, and the freckled blotches on his back were like countries on a leather map. "It's a perfect day to catch the king," he said. "What do you say, Danny?"
"I'm game."
"Good boy."
Angelo walked between the rows of boats. I followed, wondering: which one is his? The old sailboat? The old skiff? None of the vessels were like the polished yachts on Palm Beach. The boats in this marina were covered with a paste of algae, dirt, and oil.