Previous installments of Mt. Olympus, Miami

Shorty’s BBQ (9200 S Dixie Hwy)

Zeus, Apollo, Artemis, Hermes

Z: You know what I miss most?

Ap: The mountains?

Ar: The Mediterranean climate?

H: The easily suggestible river nymphs?

Z: The sacrifices.

Ap: What, you don’t like your brisket?

H: Here, try the Kansas City-style sauce.

Z: No, the brisket’s fine. It’s just—I miss the sentiment, you know. The acknowledgement. The respect. I mean, ever since Judeo-Christianity . . .

Ap: Here we go again.

Z: Now just listen to me! Maybe it’s not such a big deal to you kids, since you didn’t have as far to fall. But I was the king! King of the gods! And then one day some Jewish guy comes along, performs a few amateur hour magic tricks, organizes seafood buffets and self-help seminars, and gets nailed to a cross, and before you know it all my temples are crumbling and you can’t throw a stick in Athens without hitting a Greek Orthodox church!

Ar: That’s a pretty loose historical interpretation, Dad.

Z: History. That’s all we are now, history. We’re subject matter for tour guides. We’re plastic knickknacks in museum gift shops. We’re . . . we’re possible answers on multiple-choice tests.

H: Here, try the smoky vinegar.

Z: I was listening to a Neil Young song the other day. And there was a line that went, “It’s better to burn out, than to fade away.” And it’s true. It’s so true.

Ar: You were listening to Neil Young?

Ap: What’s wrong with Neil Young? Haven’t you ever heard After the Gold Rush?

Z: We should have burnt out, you know? Gone out in flames of glory. Like the old days. Just settle all this monotheism nonsense once and for all with a well-placed lightning bolt.

Ar: But it’s not the old days anymore, Dad. It’s the new days.

Z: Which is exactly my problem.

Ap: Harvest? Everyone Knows This Is Nowhere? Tonight’s the Night?

Ar: Pass me the pulled pork.

H: Here, try the sweet and spicy.

Andiamo (5600 Biscayne Blvd)

Athena, Aphrodite, Persephone

P: Sorry I’m late.

Aph: It’s okay. We ordered you a Quattro Formaggi.

At: Traffic on US-1?

P: No. I was held up at home. Hades sent me a singing telegram.

At: Again?

Aph: Oh no.

At: At least this one was shorter than the last one, I hope.

P: Nope. Forty-five minutes.

At: Oh no.

P: I had to make the singer some chamomile tea so he could finish the last ten minutes.

At: Unbelievable.

P: It’s okay. I’m used to it. He always gets like this, after I’ve been away for five or six months.

Aph: But singing telegrams? Surely there’s a more efficient means of communication.

P: Well, there’s no cell phone service or internet in the underworld. And he says letters are too impersonal. Plus he loves music . . .

At: Bullshit. Ten to one he uses the telegram singers as spies, to see if you’re living with someone.

P: You think?

Aph: Girl. You know Hades keeps you on a short leash.

At: Ten to one that after they’re done singing, they go through your mail.

Aph: What was the message about, anyway?

P: Oh, the usual. “How are you? I miss you. I can’t wait until you come back. Reigning over the land of the dead isn’t the same without you.”

At: For forty-five minutes?

P: Yeah. There were, you know, elaborations.

At: I’ll say.

P: Plus he repeated himself a lot.

Aph: And what was the tune?

P: The tune?

Aph: Yeah, like, what melody did the singer use? For the message?

P: Oh. I didn’t really recognize it.

At: Sing it to us.

P: Um, okay. It went like this. <sings>

Aph: Oh my god.

At: “Faithfully” by Journey?

Aph: Definitely “Faithfully” by Journey.

P: Is that bad?

At: Girl. We need to have a serious chat.

News Cafe (800 Ocean Dr)

Hephaestus, Hestia

Hep: Look at those girls. They’re so beautiful. And I’m so . . .

Hes: Now, Hephaestus.

Hep: I mean they’d never even look at me.

Hes: How could you possibly know that?

Hep: And if they did, they’d probably just laugh with derision. Or shriek with fear. Or take a picture of me with their iPhones, and post it onterrifyinghideousmonsters.blogspot.com.

Hes: None of this is constructive.

Hep: How does it feel, I wonder, to be that beautiful? To know that everyone who looks at you desires you, or is envious of you, or both?

Hes: I don’t desire them. I don’t envy them.

Hep: Look at their hair! How do they get their hair to do that?

Hes: Big deal! You know, they’re probably shit at blacksmithing.

Hep: Blacksmithing! Who cares about blacksmithing? This city revolves around beauty, around sex. And they are its gods, its goddesses.

Hes: But you need an axe, or a set of horseshoes, you think you’re gonna ask those little tarts?

Hep: An axe? Horseshoes? Are you serious! It’s the twenty-first century. No one needs axes. No one needs horseshoes.

Hes: Tell that to a lumberjack. Tell that to a horseman.

Hep: You see any lumberjacks out here? You see any horsemen?

Hes: That fellow over there looks sort of like a lumberjack.

Hep: He’s probably just some tourist from Minnesota.

Hes: That fellow over there looks like he’s ridden a horse.

Hep: We’re in Miami now. All that matters here is a pretty face, rock hard abs, and a firm ass.

Hes: You’re being horrible.

Hep: And you know Aphrodite just loves this place.

Hes: All I’m saying is—a pretty face isn’t going to fix your wheelbarrow. A firm ass isn’t going to weld the broken axle on your plow.

Hep: Look at their eyebrows! How do they get their eyebrows to do that?

Hes: That fellow over there looks like he’s handled a plow.

Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. (401 Biscayne Blvd)

Ares, his server Francesca

A: Woman! I am slaughter personified!

F: That may be, but I still can’t serve you a Lieutenant Dan’s Pomegranate Punch without seeing a photo ID.

To be continued in Part Five: Unincorporated Dade Rock City

Previous installments of Mt. Olympus, Miami

Photo by MBK on Flickr