Mr. Izaguirre, landlord, on Zeus’s rental application

First thing that struck me, of course, was the name. Not really the name, per se, although sure, it was a little strange, a Z name, you don’t see too many of those, but no—what really got me was—middle initial: blank. Last name: blank. Who does this joker think he is, I thought, no last name? I mean even Elvis, he fills out a rental agreement, he writes Presley, right? And Sting, you remember Sting, don’t you, from the Police? Roxanne, you don’t have to . . . I bet Sting doesn’t even write Sting, he writes . . . what’s his real name, Gordon something? Summers? Sumners? Sure, maybe he writes Sting in parentheses, in addition to Gordon Such-and-Such, in the interest of full disclosure, Oh, right, Sting, this is Sting’s rental application, but he doesn’t just leave the last name . . . so anyway I checked what the joker wrote down for Occupation, and that’s when . . . well, he wrote God. God. Can you believe that? I mean . . . well I tore up the application right then and there. God. Hijo de puta. Another comedian, wasting my time.

Walter, systems analyst, on Athena the Goddess of Wisdom

Right away, I knew she wasn’t a local. I can always spot them, the out-of-towners; it’s a special sense I have, a gift, though of course she wasn’t too . . . the helmet and the spear were dead giveaways, obviously.

Her accent was interesting. At first I thought it was Slavic, but it turned out to be Greek. She was asking about restaurants, so I suggested Mykonos, on Coral Way, but then I thought, she can eat Greek food any old time in Greece, maybe she wants to try something different, being on vacation and all. But then again, maybe Greek food would be a comfort, her being so far away from home. And those Mykonos fries, with all that oregano and melted feta, it just doesn’t get better than . . . I wasn’t really sure what she was planning on doing with that spear, though. I sure hope she wasn’t planning on hunting our indigenous wildlife. Or non-indigenous, for that matter. You know all those iguanas ambling around the suburbs are originally from Central and South America, as are most of the parrots, although I suppose some might be from Africa; Asia and Australia are probably a stretch . . . is that allowed, in Greece, spear hunting? In residential neighborhoods? I would think there would be a law against it. I don’t know much about Greece. First thing that popped into my mind, trying to think of a topic for small talk, was had she seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding? She hadn’t. It was a stupid question. I didn’t have the nerve to ask her about the spear.

Jorge and Patato, of the band There Were No Survivors, on Apollo’s audition

—Our ad specifically said guitarist wanted.

—Right. We were also very clear about our influences . . .

—Cannibal Corpse. Cattle Decapitation.

—Prostitute Disfigurement.

—But then this guy shows up with a . . .

—Lyre.

—Exactly. A lyre. And we were like, Dude, have you even heard a Cannibal Corpse song before?

—What are we going to do with a lyre?

—It just doesn’t . . . I mean, the thing didn’t even have a pickup. Amplifying it would have been . . .

—You can’t sonically skull-fuck an audience with a lyre.

—And then there’s the tunic, which . . .

—Let’s not even get into the tunic.

—Last I heard, he was playing in this indie rock band, Stopping by Tiger Woods on a Snowy Evening.

—And you know, good for him. ’Cause he wasn’t half bad.

—Not bad at all. Dude could shred, on the lyre. He just wasn’t the right . . .

—Anyway, we do still need a guitarist, so if you know anybody . . .

Celia, Cheesecake Factory hostess, on Ares the God of War

I told him thirty minutes. Not at all unreasonable, for a Friday night. Friday nights we’re always swamped. But Mr. Bronze Helmet and Breastplate wasn’t having it. He leans in, inches from my face, and says, Woman! Do you know who I am? Which, needless to say, gets us started off on the wrong foot. But I try to keep my cool; I say, Sir, I’m sorry, but we seat our guests in the order they . . . and then he cuts me off and says, I am slaughter personified! Well I didn’t much like the sound of that, so I signaled Big Julio, the busboy, and next thing you know mall security is hauling Mr. Breastplate away as he kicks and flails and screams that our cheesecakes will run red with blood. A real ugly scene, right in the middle of some little kid’s birthday celebration, too. The complimentary ice cream scoop, the lit candle, the singing servers, everything. The poor kid bawling his head off. It was complete madness. And, of course, amid all the madness, what got lost was the irony of the whole situation. Which was: If this guy is really such hot stuff, like he says, then what in God’s name is he doing at Cheesecake Factory?

T-Dog, unemployed, on Aphrodite’s legendary beauty

That ass. Ese culo, más lindo del . . . The rest of her, was nice too, but . . . damn.

To be continued in Part Two: I Left My Heart in Opa-locka

Photo by Wikimedia user Miamitom