“You mean besides doin’ nothin’ but watching Netflix and getting food delivered to my bedroom door? I’m going on this literature tour down in the Quarter.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I know it sounds touristy. I mean, it is touristy, but it’s being given by my favorite writer.”
“No offense taken.”
“Huh? Oh!” Zibby laughed, a little embarrassed.
“I thought John Kennedy Toole was your favorite?”
“Living writer.”
“I see. Who is it?”
“Clemmons Ruiz. You know ’im?”
“Sounds familiar. Doesn’t even sound like a real name. Haven’t read anything of his, though.”
“Ugh, he’s amazing,” Zibby gushed. “He just…I don’t know. He just gets me. I swear, Quiet in the Alley got me through my breakup with my ex.”
“Quiet in the Alley, huh? Okay, I’ll add it to my already exorbitant Books to Read list. I’m breaking my rule here of not adding to it until I put a dent in it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, but I guess it doesn’t matter. I fear that when I die, whether it’s tomorrow or when I’m ninety-five, I’ll have a list of books to read upwards of a hundred-and-twenty I’ll leave behind me.”
He topped off her bubbly, a sour wine she felt in her lymph nodes.
“Lemme see dis list?”
“No way. You’ll be repulsed by the amount of Dead. White. Men,” he said, pausing between each word.
“I have nothing against white men!”
“Clearly, I mean…”
“Oh, shut up.”
Ben took the wine glass from Zibby’s hand and placed it on the coffee table. The TV was on, but hadn’t been changed from the home screen and was showing a slowly revolving screensaver of a night sky speckled with stars, giving the living room a blue tint like it was being viewed through a stage gel. He suppressed his smile—letting half of it sneak out the side of his mouth—and looked at her the way Ryan once looked at her when they shared a vision of life together in Colorado. And perhaps it was the effervescent wine coating her post-exam relaxation, but when he kissed her, she melted and let herself become vulnerable for the first time in years.
Dio
The God of the Vine had collected followers as he traversed the neighborhoods of New Orleans East and Gentilly, through a neighborhood named Desire—where heroin addicts langoured about like the lotus-eaters of Djerba—down into the gentrifying fringes of St. Roch and into the Marigny.
The schoolgirl—now one of many girls following Dio on foot into the heart of the city—had fashioned the god a palm-leaf crown, dyed purple with wine, and cut the peroxided blond out of his natural black hair. A thick black beard had reclaimed his cleanshaven face. Dio had jettisoned his American clothing on the side of Almonaster Avenue, swaddling himself once more in a makeshift toga from a white bedsheet.
The priest called out to the people of New Orleans—most looking on with confusion from their stoops—to join the Second Coming of the Lord.
“I’ve done witnessed it! Avec mes propres yeux! Dem miracles, mes amis, the miracles carried out by our Lord!”
Dio had permitted the priest to perpetuate these falsities, knowing that such allegations resonated with the mortals of America. He had seen the dancing and gyrating, the speaking in tongues and handling of snakes the Americans did in their churches, conduct indistinct from that of the Maenads. He had let the priest call him the “King of Kings” and even obliged his wishes and referred to the Cajun as “Peter.” But when they reached Washington Square, a small park close enough to the Frenchmen Street action they could still hear the music of the clubs and bars, Dio planned to disclose his true identity to the growing masses.
He stood on a park bench in palm tree shade and addressed his flock, which had doubled and fanned out along the park since the last time he turned around to admire them, forming a semicircle in front of the elevated god. Unbeknownst to Dio, his followers had also began shedding their clothing and wrapping themselves in sheets or garbage bags or dirty pages of the Times-Picayune to emulate their messiah, paying no mind to their bloody feet.
“Children of the vine!”
The flock went silent; only the sounds of high-pitched brass could be heard from the open-door venues of Frenchmen Street. “I am older than your mortal minds can fathom. I knew your Christ.” Dio stepped down from the bench and walked through the parting flock. He bent down and put his hand over a patch of dirt. “He was a friend to me. I taught him his miracles. But it is time that the mortals of Earth know the truth about their well-being.” Dio closed his eyes and a sprout popped out from the soil, and when he stepped back, a vine shot out from the ground, the bushels of grapes taking shape like bubbles.
A gasp emitted from the flock and many fell back, frightened, awestruck—some clasped hands with those beside them, others began to cry. An NOPD squad car pulled up to the park and two officers stepped out of the vehicle.
“For too long I have sat idle atop the Mount! The gods you worship, these false prophets, have poisoned the world!” Dio sliced his arm through the air and vines shot out of the soil like crashing tectonic plates. “Cast them out! Let go of your Christ, he is not here for you! Forget the lies of Buddha, Brahma, Muhammad, and Yaweh! Fear not! Follow me and you shall never tread alone through the darkness!”
The girl and other young females who had latched onto the flock tossed bushels of grapes into buckets and mashed them into a juicy pulp with their bare feet.
“Baptize yourself in the nectar of life! Become the vine!”
Dio’s yoke on the flock was strong, but the shooting vines from the earth had frozen the followers in their place.
“A further demonstration to prove my power? I understand.”
He called for the priest, who, having shed his black shirt and white tab collar and changed into a filthy bedsheet tunic, obediently stepped up to the god’s side.
“Do you trust me, Peter?” Dio whispered to the priest, placing his hand on the clergyman’s shoulder.
“Mon Dieu, evrryting I am, an’ evrryting I do for da rest a’ my life, is for you, my God.”
Dio guided the priest to his knees. With his thyrsus raised above his head, the god declared, “Follow me and the fear of death shall never consume you!” And he brought the staff down onto the priest’s skull, crumpling him to the ground.
Tourists who had been watching from the street, taking souvenir videos and pictures of another New Orleans whack-job, began to scream—one puked on the spot. But the flock did not move.
Dio bent beside the idle body and placed his hand over the priest’s eyes. The onlookers drew over the twitching man and an audible horror coursed through the flock and into the bar patrons who had emptied onto Frenchmen Street following the commotion. The police officers called for backup, one pulling the shotgun from the front seat and taking cover behind the open car doors.
The god stood up, sunlight twinkling in the blood spatter now covering the side of his face. But these looks, these were the familiar faces of the mortals. They were in the crowds that gathered before the gallows at Salem, the guillotine in the Place de la Révolution, the Via Dolorosa of Jerusalem. The mortals had feared death because they did not know eternal life—the priest rose to his feet—so Dio would show it to them.
Zibby
Text to Ben 3L: Hey, a bunch of 1Ls are going on a bar crawl right in your neighborhood tomorrow night, if you’re interested.
Text to Ben 3L: Unless you’re too cool to be seen with us. ;)
She pushed the phone to the end of the desk, attempting to get back into study mode. But before she grabbed the next index card—the mnemonic device written on the upward-facing side—she clicked the side of the phone to see if Ben had texted back, even though it was on vibrate and had been silent.
Like a final boss in a video game—a bigger and badder boss than all of the other bosses combined—LaSalle’s Criminal Law exam was the
ultimate final of the 1L fall semester.
“It gets better,” upperclassmen had assured—Zibby imagined a YouTube campaign with soft music and newly minted JDs holding index cards with uplifting messages targeting the fledgling 1Ls of America. “It gets better.”
Finally she read the mnemonic device and recited its meaning: “Big Red FACEFLAPS.”
“Burglary, robbery, forgery, attempt, conspiracy, embezzlement, false pretenses, larceny…uh…uh…assault! Assault, premeditated murder, solicitation. Assault, assault, assault,” she repeated the truant crime, hoping to sear it into her brain.
Zibby checked her phone again: nothing.
She started from the top, planning to run through her outline one final time before setting it aside forever, and then her phone vibrated. She swiped it off the desk, almost knocking it onto the floor and her casebook with it, and checked the screen. Zibby slumped back into her desk chair when she saw it was only Brian.
Text from Pham-Boy: Yo Zibbs, you coming to the protest tomorrow?
Text to Pham-Boy: Protest?
Text from Pham-Boy: Zibby Dufossat doesn’t know about a protest? Wow, law school must really be kicking your ass.
Zibby googled Protests in New Orleans and a string of headlines with images of Confederate flag-waving protestors squaring off against a more diverse swath of counter-protestors filled the screen: Is New Orleans the Confederate Monument Debate Bellwether? New Orleans in the Crosshairs of Confederate Heritage Debate. Protestors from Across the Nation Descend on New Orleans. Battle of New Orleans 2.0.
Text to Pham-Boy: I completely forgot about that. Anyway, I have an exam tomorrow. Last one of the semester. Then Tara and I are going on a bar crawl. We’re starting at Cooter’s if you down.
Text from Pham-Boy: You really not gonna see Lee come down? We’d been waiting for this for years. Thought you’d be in full Social Justice Warrior mode in law school.
Text from Pham-Boy: Just don’t forget about all us plebeians when you’re a hot shot lawyer.
Zibby tossed the phone onto her bed to distance herself from the distraction. She was too exhausted to argue with Brian and just wanted to run through her outline one last time, read the chapter Clemmons Ruiz had just released on his website from his new book, Sirens of the Mississippi, and go to bed.
She’d almost made it through voluntary manslaughter before her phone began to vibrate, just loud enough on the mattress to pull her attention away from her crumpled, meticulously highlighted and overly underlined Criminal Law outline.
“Is he really calling me right now?” Zibby said, hoping Brian had gotten the hint that her unresponsiveness meant she didn’t want to talk.
She rolled her chair over to her bed and picked up the phone: Incoming Call: Tara was at the top of the lock screen, accompanied by a picture showcasing braces and pigtails, which Zibby had promised to delete since the seventh grade. Confused, she answered the phone.
“Hey T, what’s up?”
“Hey, uh…what kind of car does LaSalle drive?”
“Why is it so loud? Are you at Vito’s?”
“I couldn’t study anymore so decided to get a shift in because we’re going on the crawl tomorrow.”
“Gotcha.”
“So I’m pretty sure…uh…I don’t know how to say this, but I came outside for a cigarette…”
“I thought you quit?”
“I’m stressed from finals. Listen, Zibbs, I came out for a cigarette and this white Porsche drove by. It parked over in that lot across from Starbucks, next to Ben’s apartment.” Zibby shot out of the chair. “It’s tough to see from here, but it looked like a blonde woman got out and went in through his door.”
“What was the license plate?”
“I didn’t get a good look.”
Zosima.
“Did it begin with a ‘Z’? Was it ZOS117?”
“Zibbs, I really didn’t see it. I just thought you should…”
She sprinted out of the house, hopped onto her bike, and tore down Dublin Street.
She turned onto Plum Street and crossed South Carrollton Avenue, beating out a bell-ringing streetcar that had the right of way. She passed Adams Street Grocery—Brian’s brothers Trang and Minh engaged in a scuffle outside the front door—and Snake and Jake’s, where the red Christmas lights had begun to illuminate the small crowd congregating outside the dive on the otherwise residential block. In a fury, Zibby had already commenced her turn onto Maple Street when a black blur cut in front of her bike, causing her to swing to the right and crash into the ground.
The patrons of Starbucks and the wine bar, who had been enjoying their beverages on a balmy New Orleans December night, rose from their seats, tentative as to whether they should lend a hand to the battered girl gripping her elbow on the sidewalk.
“Are you, like, okay?” a guy asked from the Starbucks patio.
“Dinner and a show,” she responded, holding back the tears.
Across the street, Elvis swatted at the corpse of a mauled anole, unrepentant for his transgression.
“Thanks, Elvis.”
From the ground, Zibby watched as a white Porsche Carrera 4S, top down, pulled out of its spot and backed onto Maple Street. The blonde driver in sunglasses, even though it was night; the license plate ZOS117.
Zibby rose from the sidewalk and marched across the parking lot, leaving the bike on its side, the front wheel still spinning. Kennedy followed her with his eyes from the window unit air conditioner as she approached the door.
Knock, knock, knock. She peeked in through the sliver of window not blocked from the pillowcase-cum-curtain Ben had nailed into the door, and saw him jump up from the couch. He peeked through the same sliver and stumbled back as they locked eyes.
“OPEN. THE. DOOR.”
Ben threw on a smile and opened the door. “Hey! What ah…what are you doing here? Everything…”
“Why the fuck was LaSalle here?”
“What? What are…”
“Don’t even try, Ben. I just saw her pull out of the parking lot.”
“Are you okay? You’re bleeding.”
“Fucking tell me.”
“Zibby, there is a Starbucks right there.” He pointed toward the Starbucks. “Why would…”
“Tara saw her come in here. She works right at Vito’s. I’m gonna give you another chance to tell the truth…”
“Listen, we weren’t like…together. I mean, I really like you.”
“Was she in here?”
Ben sat on the wine-colored couch, defeated, and took a deep breath. “Yeah.”
“Fuck you!”
“Listen—and I swear I’m not lying—I was breaking it off with her.”
“Breaking it off? Jesus, you two were together?”
“I was her research assistant last year and…”
“Wait, wait, so were you fucking her while you were fucking me?”
He didn’t respond quick enough.
“She got you that new laptop, didn’t she? And she paid to get your book published, right? What were you, like, her sugar baby?” Zibby snarked.
He remained silent.
“Oh, great! You fucking cliché.” Zibby knocked a bottle of red wine off the coffee table as she turned to leave, shattering it into three pieces on the tile floor. “Why don’t you suck it off the tile, asshole.” And she slammed the door shut.
She rode her bike to Vito’s, where Tara made her a stiff drink while listening to Zibby’s story, on the verge of tears.
“But…with LaSalle?” Tara fake shivered after placing the Moscow mule on a coaster. Zibby wiped blood from her hand with a flimsy bar napkin. Tara smiled. “Ya know, that really sucks, Zibbs.” Zibby drank half the mule. Tara filled two dark drafts and handed them to a customer. “Ya think…” She paused, assessing the situation. “Ya think she made him give the reasoning for why they should fuck?”
Zibby spat ginger beer and vodka all over the bar laughing.
“I’m serious! Lik
e…what was his last name?”
“D’Alessio,” Zibby said, wiping her chin.
“‘Mr. D’Alessio, what is your reasoning for your motion to compel reverse cowgirl?’”
Zibby laughed and raised the copper mug to her lips. “Love you, T.”
“Love you too, Z. Ya know what? Fuck him. And fuck her. You can report it, ya know?”
“Of course, I’ve already thought about it, but I didn’t, like, see them doing it. They’d just deny it. Plus, it’s not even worth the effort.”
“I would say just crush her exam and be like ‘you ain’t got shit on me! I got buku jamz, biiiiitch,’ but I don’t want you to throw off the curve for the rest of us.”
“Yeah, you right. I’m gonna slay her exam, bar crawl with my girl…”
“Yeah, yeah!”
“…and meet Clemmons Ruiz.”
“Oh, that’s right! I forgot you were doing that.” Tara poured out some well rum and doused it in fountain cola. “Hey, I couldn’t think of a better rebound.”
Dio
The sea of Dio’s flock followed him through the gates of the Audubon Zoo, uncontested. The bellowing roar of the howler monkeys and shriek of the Indian elephants joined in with the screeching brass, the percussive thunder of the flock’s indefatigable musicians. The animals approached the limits of their habitats in recognition of the deity as he passed each exhibit: the sea lions and river otters launched from their tanks in celebration, the giraffes bowed, the Bengal tiger—the crown jewel of the zoo—rose onto his hind legs and roared.
However, one animal—a lone rhinoceros—did not join in the merriment, and stood in his habitat chewing on grass. The god approached the animal and, even from where the rhinoceros stood on the other side of a small river used as a barrier, its electric-blue eyes interrupted with an intermittent flash, like lightning trapped inside two marbles.
The flock danced and sang unwaveringly, moving about the zoo without direction, but Dio remained at the fence of the rhino.
“I didn’t think you would ever grow bored with Scandinavia, Father.”
The Neon God Page 18