1.

Once upon a time, the Little Mermaid came into Red Lobster. She came into Red Lobster sad and wobbly. Sad, because she missed her family and friends far away under the sea. Wobbly, because she was now an ex-Mermaid, and had still not quite gotten the hang of legs.

The Little Mermaid came into Red Lobster every Thursday. She never ordered anything, never requested a table. She just loitered in the lobby, by the aquariums, and sang to the lobsters. She had a good singing voice, but, still, customers complained. We told her she could sing to the lobsters all she wanted if she bought something—a Caesar salad, crab cakes, mozzarella cheese sticks, a cup of clam chowder—but she never did. I think she had money troubles. The market price of lobster was then around twenty-seven dollars a pound.

Our manager, Farnsworth, instituted a strict zero tolerance policy toward the Mermaid. He warned new hires about her during induction training, posted “For the Enjoyment of Customers Only” signs on the lobster tanks, stapled a poorly taken photo of the Mermaid to a corkboard in the staff room. But, if he wasn’t around, and no customers complained, we left the Mermaid alone, let her sing to the lobsters for as long as she wanted. I think she wrote the songs herself. They were extremely sad, and many of them seemed like they were meant to be duets, presumably with the lobsters, but when it came time for the lobsters to sing all we heard was silence. This made her sad songs even sadder.

When business was slow, I’d sneak away from my tables and stand near the hostess’s podium, to watch the Mermaid, listen to her sing. Usually I could catch a chorus or two before my tables became restless. The hostesses teased me, said I must have a thing for redheads. Everyone assumed I was the author of the crude graffiti concerning the Mermaid in the employees-only restroom. But, unlike my male coworkers, my interest in the Mermaid went beyond her big doe eyes and exposed navel and tiny seashell bras. It was her voice that truly enchanted me. Red Lobster piped in bland Lionel Richie and Michael Bublé hits all day—the Mermaid’s enigmatic half-silent songs were a welcome respite. I thought about asking her to teach me the lobster parts of her duets sometimes, but my voice wasn’t very good. I wouldn’t have been able to do the lobster parts justice.

Occasionally, as part of my professional responsibilities as a Red Lobster team member, I had to retrieve a lobster from the lobby aquarium during one of the Little Mermaid’s songs. I always begged my coworkers to do it instead, but to no avail. There was a color-coded chart in the staff room that clearly indicated the lobster-handling rotation. I tried to be as respectful, as inconspicuous, as possible. I’d always wait until the Mermaid closed her eyes, immersed herself in a particularly emotional vocal passage, to grab the lobster. I’d always scoop the doomed crustacean out of the tank briskly, efficiently, attempt to ferry it to the kitchen without the Mermaid even noticing that one of her duet partners was gone. But I was never brisk, never efficient, enough. Her eyes always opened, as I grasped the lobster, as it writhed and twitched and thrashed in my hands. She always noticed. She always witnessed my betrayal.

Could the Little Mermaid hear the lobsters? I can only assume she could. Did she have to teach the lobsters their parts of the duets, or did the lobsters already know the melodies, the lyrics, had they sung these songs since birth, since long before they were scooped from the sea floor by New England fishermen and transported a thousand miles to Red Lobster number 437? Did the lobsters sing these songs during their strange journey? Did they understand what awaited them in the restaurant lobby? Did they fathom why their friends, once removed from the aquarium, never came back?

The Little Mermaid never said anything when I retrieved the lobsters. She never screamed, never slapped me, never missed a beat. She just kept singing. But I knew she hated me. “I’m sorry,” I’d say, under my breath, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over, as I carried the lobster, struggling and writhing, to the kitchen. It’s not like I enjoyed this, I wanted to tell the Mermaid. It’s not like I caught the lobster, ordered it, wanted it to die. I was just doing my job. And I didn’t even want to do my job. But that’s what a job is—nine times out of ten—doing something you don’t want to do. And I only kept that job, I wanted to tell the Mermaid, as the lobster in my hands twitched and thrashed and writhed, I only kept it so I could hear her, every Thursday, singing her half of her sad, sweet, seasick songs.

2.

Once upon a time, the old woodcarver Geppetto waited for his son, Pinocchio, to come home from a party. Tick, tock, tick, tock went the woodcarver’s twenty handcrafted cuckoo clocks. Pinocchio’s curfew was midnight—it was now one-thirty. Geppetto, furious, whittled a wooden cuckoo until it was thin splinters of pine.

A real boy. That’s what Geppetto had wished for, and that’s what he had gotten, along with all the toils and tribulations that came with one. Geppetto had tried to be a good father, but Pinocchio, even with the guidance of his insectile conscience, Jiminy Cricket, had always been a handful. Geppetto’s first years of fatherhood were spent largely in emergency rooms, principal’s offices, juvenile courts, the stomach of a giant whale. Now, Pinocchio was seventeen, and Geppetto had two different bail bondsmen on speed dial and three different prescriptions for anxiety and stress. Geppetto had fired Jiminy Cricket the previous fall and experimented with other moral-advising insects—a sawfly, a mealybug, a bagworm, a banana gnat, a louse—but Pinocchio’s behavior didn’t improve. In the winter, Jiminy Cricket begged for his old job back, and Geppetto relented. Geppetto knew how tough the job market was—he himself had recently enrolled in classes to become a certified professional locksmith and a licensed acupuncturist and masseuse. There was just no money in woodcarving anymore.

Geppetto put down his whittling knife and paced around his workshop. He dusted his clocks, swept up splinters, arranged the tools in his toolbox by alphabetical order. It was no mystery what Pinocchio was up to, in the early hours of the morning. He was with one of his good-for-nothing girls: Briana, maybe, or Amber, or Nikki, Ree-Ree, Marisleidis, Honey Bee, Nyeesha. Why couldn’t Pinocchio go out with a nice Italian girl, like Sofia D’Allesandro, who had bought two of Geppetto’s wooden lawn reindeer for her grandparents last Christmas? With no Mrs. Geppetto, Pinocchio sorely needed a positive feminine influence, but instead he cavorted all hours of the night with girls whose idea of formal attire was black instead of leopard print thongs and whose names regularly got carved into the partitions separating truck stop urinals.

Mrs. Geppetto. Geppetto had tried to meet women, had tried to find Pinocchio a loving and nurturing mother, but to no avail. He was so old, so poor, so frail. And women were suspicious of a man who spent so much of his time whittling. No, there would be no Mrs. Geppetto, except for the puppet the old woodcarver kept hidden in a deadbolted closet, for special occasions, but there could still be a Mrs. Pinocchio. A nice girl. She would make all the difference, thought Geppetto, one nice girl, to impress upon Pinocchio the virtues of prudence, wisdom, moderation, and restraint. But how much longer could he wait for Pinocchio to take an interest in such a girl? For such a girl to take an interest in Pinocchio? Even with his three anti-anxiety medications, Geppetto’s blood pressure was through the roof. No, the clocks were tick-ticking, the cuckoo could come at any moment, it was time for Geppetto to take matters into his own hands. And so he cleared off his worktable, retrieved the necessary tools, selected his finest slab of Italian cherrywood, and began carving Pinocchio a nice, Italian, wooden girl.

Geppetto named the girl Arabella. She was short and slim, like the girls Pinocchio canoodled with down by the abandoned glue factory, but whereas their faces were tarty and twisted, hers was hand-carved to be warm, friendly, kind. Geppetto put the finishing touches on Arabella—sanded her blemishes, took a half-inch off her waist, rectified small asymmetries between her breasts—and then knelt dutifully on his bed and waited for a wishing star to twinkle in the sky. Unknowledgeable about astronomy, Geppetto mistook Venus for a star sufficiently twinkly to grant him a wish, and he clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and wished upon Venus that Arabella, his beautiful teenage puppet, would become a real girl. He made it explicitly clear to Venus that the Arabella, once brought to life, was not meant to be his wife, or girlfriend, or anything funny like that. He didn’t want Venus to get the wrong idea. He simply wanted Arabella animated so she could win the heart of his troubled son Pinocchio, guide him along the straight and narrow path, enhance his character and assist him with his studies, keep him from coming home at two-thirty in the morning and vomiting all over Geppetto’s customer invoices and wood lathe.

And lo, in a cerulean flash, the Blue Fairy did appear to grant gentle Geppetto his wish. She was just as beautiful as Geppetto remembered, although she was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and spandex Capri leggings instead of her customary sparkling blue gown. On Tuesday and Thursday nights the Blue Fairy moonlighted as a water aerobics and Pilates instructor. There was just no money in wish-granting anymore.

The Blue Fairy, with a wave of her wand, brought the lovely Arabella to life, and told her that if she proved to be brave, truthful, and unselfish, she would one day become a real girl. Geppetto asked the Blue Fairy if she could recruit an insect or possibly an arachnid who knew right from wrong to serve as Arabella’s conscience, but the Blue Fairy said no, she could not, for liability reasons. She couldn’t afford to be sued for any intervertebrate contractor’s misguided or fraudulent third-party advice. Instead, she gave Arabella a helpful pocket guide, Bad Puppet, Good Puppet: A Beginner’s Guide to Morality, as well as a Pilates and water aerobics brochure, in case Arabella ever wanted to enroll in a class. And then, in another cerulean flash, she was gone. She taught an indoor pool power plunge class at eight-thirty.

Geppetto introduced Arabella to Pinocchio the next morning, at breakfast. The old woodcarver sat his pulchritudinous puppet directly across from his son and winked at Pinocchio every time he said Arabella’s name.

“Arabella, what a beautiful girl, eh, Pinocchio?”

“Dad, she’s made of wood,” said Pinocchio.

“Cherrywood!” said Geppetto. “The finest cherrywood, imported from Sicily!”

“Umm, does anyone want my hash browns?” said Arabella, meekly. “I don’t have a digestive system.”

Geppetto enrolled Arabella as a junior in Pinocchio’s high school. He told the registrar that Arabella’s previous school transcripts had unfortunately been swallowed by a giant whale. On her first day of school, Arabella’s classmates called her Lumber Girl, threw her into the gym swimming pool to see if she would float, and carved their initials into her shins when she wasn’t looking. Arabella consulted Bad Puppet, Good Puppet: A Beginner’s Guide to Morality to see what the proper response was to her classmates’ bullying. Her guide said, “The bad puppet, when bullied, seeks revenge, for instance by slashing the bully’s tires, or pouring sugar in his gas tank, or planting thirty grams of cocaine in his backpack and getting him arrested for felony drug trafficking. The good puppet, when bullied, remembers that any satisfaction earned from revenge is ultimately fleeting, whereas the fortitude and unique life perspective gained from dutifully enduring the bully’s relentless verbal and/or physical abuse will last for an entire lifetime.”

Home was not much better for Arabella. There was nothing to do, Geppetto’s cat Figaro kept sharpening his claws on her ankles, and Geppetto was always making her and Pinocchio sit through candlelit spaghetti dinner together as Jiminy Cricket played “Bella Notte” over and over on a tiny accordion.

“It is a beautiful night, eh, Pinocchio?” said Geppetto, winking mischievously at Arabella and his son.

“Old man,” said Pinocchio, venomously. “If I hear ‘Bella Notte’ one more time, I swear to God, I’m going to rip Jiminy’s six legs off one by one with my bare hands, and throw you back into the stomach of that motherfucking whale.”

Despite Geppetto’s and Jiminy Cricket’s best efforts, no sparks flew between Arabella and Pinocchio. Arabella told Geppetto that Pinocchio was a mindless, crude, substance-abusing misogynist. Pinocchio told Geppetto that he could never date a girl whose handjobs would give him splinters. Arabella was attracted to some of the girls at her school, but she never spoke to them, never made eye contact, kept her feelings hidden. Bad Puppet, Good Puppet: A Beginner’s Guide to Morality said any feelings that felt wrong were wrong. It said, “The good puppet embraces the simplicity and convenience of celibacy.” It said, “For an alphabetical glossary of sins and malfeasances, turn to page 178.”

The weeks passed. Pinocchio got all Fs on his midterm report card. He received a ten-day outdoor suspension for baking pot brownies in Foods and Nutrition. He got two members of the color guard pregnant. Geppetto fired Jiminy Cricket a second time and tried out several non-insect arthropods as Pinocchio’s conscience—a centipede, a millipede, a sea spider, an acorn barnacle—but alas, no matter what class the conscience, what family, what order, what subphylum, Pinocchio’s slide to Gomorrah continued unabated. The last straw came on the final day of Pinocchio’s suspension, when Geppetto came home early from an acupuncture house call and discovered Pinocchio straddling the half-naked Blue Fairy on the workshop floor. The Blue Fairy said it wasn’t what it looked like, as she frantically collected her discarded clothes and lubricated magic wand, but Geppetto paid her protests no heed.

“Out!” Geppetto shouted at his son and the fairy who had brought him to life. “Out! Out! Out! You are no longer welcome in this household! And you too!” he shouted at the barnacle then serving as Pinocchio’s conscience. “Barnacle, you have failed me for the last time.”

After that, it was just Arabella and Geppetto in the old woodcarver’s workshop. There were no more candlelit spaghetti dinners. There was no more accordion-playing Jiminy Cricket. There was no more “Bella Notte.” Geppetto thought about asking Arabella if she’d like to be his daughter, but wasn’t sure if he could stand to be disappointed by another child. Instead, he asked Arabella to get a job and start paying rent. His jobs weren’t going so well. There was just no money in woodcarving, massage therapy, locksmithing, or acupuncture anymore.

The Blue Fairy had said that Arabella would become a real girl if she proved to be brave, truthful, and unselfish. Arabella thought that she had been unselfish, but she certainly hadn’t been truthful or brave. She had never spoken a word to the girls she fantasized about at school. She had never admitted to Geppetto the real reason why she had no interest in asking any boys to the upcoming Sadie Hawkins Dance. In health class, Arabella learned about her female classmates’ blooming bodies, about all their hidden, pliable parts, the parts that, for her, were just flat, rigid strips of sanded-down wood. “The good puppet does not succumb to weaknesses of the flesh, as the good puppet has no flesh,” said Bad Puppet, Good Puppet: A Beginner’s Guide to Morality. Arabella ran her fingers along the grain of her Sicilian cherrywood. She thought about the girl who sat in front of her in biology class. She poured on a dollop of wood polish. “Star light,” she whispered, as she rubbed the polish into her rigid parts. “Star bright / first star I see tonight / I wish I may, I wish I might . . .”

Arabella got a job at a chocolate shop. She worked after school and on weekends, five to six days a week. During Arabella’s job interview, the shop’s owner said he had been having issues with employees stealing and eating his inventory. Arabella informed him that she had no digestive system and he hired her immediately.

The day of the Sadie Hawkins dance came. All of the girls Arabella secretly admired had long before secured their dates. Arabella worked alone at the chocolate shop that night and envisioned all the girls dolled up for the dance, chiffon, velvet, silk, taffeta, lace. Geppetto had made Arabella a dress, back when he still hoped she would rescue Pinocchio from perpetual delinquency, but he had never shown it to her. Perhaps she could be his daughter, after all, he thought, kneeling on his bed, staring at the stars outside his window. She seemed good. Really, truly, sincerely good. Maybe she wouldn’t disappoint him. She could be his daughter and he could still charge her rent. Yes, it was decided. He was going to have a daughter. He was going to be the proud father of a beautiful girl. In the chocolate shop, Arabella removed one chocolate from every gift box, and threw the commandeered chocolates into the trash. “The bad puppet does not consider the consequences of his or her actions,” said Bad Puppet, Good Puppet: A Beginner’s Guide to Morality. Arabella did not consider the consequences of her actions. There was no need. She couldn’t eat chocolate—she couldn’t eat anything. She would be held completely blameless. Outside, the stars shone brightly. Arabella took the trash out to the dumpster and smiled.

3.

Once upon a time, Snow White spoke with her late stepmother’s magic mirror. The mirror was just one of many items of furniture that Snow White inherited from her stepmother. She also inherited a dining table, a bridal chest, a Gothic buffet cabinet, a four-poster bed, and a handsome mahogany armoire.

Snow White spoke with the magic mirror when her husband, the Prince, was away on hunting trips. The Prince was away on hunting trips often. In the early days of Snow White’s marriage, the Prince would leave the castle before sunrise and return at sunset with a carriage brimming with foxes, mink, pheasant, elk, quail, but, lately, the Prince’s hunting trips had extended to overnight excursions, and yet he always returned with his carriage completely empty. Snow White never asked the magic mirror why the Prince’s carriage was empty. She never asked the mirror what the Prince was actually hunting. Instead, Snow White asked the mirror trivia questions. Marsupials, U.S. state capitals, Peloponnesian War battles, the periodic table. Sometimes, when she couldn’t think of any more trivia questions, Snow White asked the magic mirror how the seven dwarfs were doing. The dwarfs, still laboring in the mines, weren’t doing so well. Happy had contracted black lung. Sleepy had developed miner’s elbow. Bashful had been fatally crushed by a coal car. Dopey had split his own hand open with a pick.

The months passed. More and more dwarfs succumbed to black lung. Grumpy fell down a 200-foot mine shaft. Sneezy developed chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. The Prince’s fruitless hunting trips expanded from weekends to entire weeks. Snow White spent her days half-heartedly singing to birds at the mouth of the wishing well where she and the Prince had first met, and her nights struggling to think of more trivia questions for the magic mirror. Some nights, she couldn’t think of a single question. Instead, she and the magic mirror made small talk. “The cucumbers are really coming in,” Snow White would say. Or, “Good tomato weather today.” Or, “Wind’s really blowing up a gale.”

A year went by. The seven dwarfs were now down to three dwarfs. Snow White’s tomatoes and cucumbers perished in a late frost. The Prince’s hunting carriages kept returning empty. Coliform bacteria were found in the wishing well. Snow White ran out of trivia questions, and instead spoke to magic mirror about more personal matters. “Magic mirror, on the wall,” she said. “Is it normal for my husband to spend so much time away from me? Is it normal for him to always say he’s too tired to touch me? Is it normal for him to constantly belittle me in front of the duchesses, the marchionesses, the countesses, viscountesses, baronesses? Is it normal for him to spend so much time with his female horseback riding coach? Is it normal for him to hide racy pictures of teenage scullery maids in our handsome mahogany armoire?”

Snow White had been a teenage scullery maid herself, when she and the Prince first met. He hadn’t known she was a princess then. He had thought she was just a hot no-strings-attached servant girl singing to birds near a wishing well. Then, the magic mirror proclaimed Snow White the fairest one of all, and Snow White’s jealous stepmother ordered a huntsman to murder her, and the huntsman instead advised Snow White to flee into the forest, where she befriended the seven dwarfs by performing a variety of domestic services. A period of contentment and whistle-accompanied manual labor followed, until Snow White’s stepmother engineered a severe case of food poisoning that rendered Snow White comatose in a glass coffin, where the Prince discovered and revived her with true love’s kiss. It seemed romantic at the time, but the more Snow White thought about it, the more red flags it raised. Why was the Prince kissing a sixteen-year-old, presumably dead girl lying in a glass coffin? How many other comatose underage maidens had he kissed? What would he have done to her if she hadn’t woken up? What was he hunting for on those hunting trips? What else was he hiding in her stepmother’s handsome mahogany armoire?

The magic mirror had proclaimed Snow White the fairest one of all, but Snow White certainly didn’t feel like the fairest one of all. She didn’t look anything like the Prince’s racy teenage scullery maids. They were all curvy, long-legged, exotic, bronzed. Snow White bought a push-up bra, platform heels, silicone buttock pads, but she was too self-conscious to wear them. She endured several sessions at a local tanning salon, but her skin merely turned an angry lobster red.

Snow White sometimes dreamt about the huntsman. It was always the same, the dream, the huntsman crawling into bed with Snow White, kissing, caressing, undressing her, running his tongue across her naked body, making love to her savagely, then tenderly, whispering into her ear that she was the fairest one of all, all while holding her still-beating heart in his hand. Snow White recounted the dream to the magic mirror, asked if it was normal for a woman to dream such dreams about a man other than her husband.

“Good sweet corn weather today,” said the magic mirror. “Azaleas are coming into bloom. Wind’s blowing up a gale.”

That August, a mining accident trapped the three still-living dwarfs two thousand feet below the earth’s surface. Doc, Dopey, Sleepy—their small, bearded faces appearing on the front pages of newspapers across the world: “Los Tres Enanos,” “Les Trois Nains,” “De Drie Dwergen.” With the Prince away on an extended hunting trip, Snow White coped during the crisis by reading the newspaper accounts of the rescue operation to the magic mirror and tossing all the wedding jewelry the Prince had given to her into the wishing well. Seventeen days into the rescue, engineers discovered a note attached to a drill bit that said, “Heigh ho, heigh ho, food and water running low.” An audio recorder subsequently lowered down the exploratory borehole captured the faint sound of whistling.

Sometimes, late at night, Snow White recalled her time in the glass coffin. How peaceful she had felt, how tranquil, waiting for her true love to wake her with a single kiss. “He had to love me, right?” she said to the magic mirror, after relating Le Monde and The Christian Science Monitor’s latest features on the dwarfs’ attempted rescue. “If he didn’t love me, he couldn’t have awakened me. So he loves me. Or, at least, he loved me. Right? Right? Right?”

“Leaves are turning,” said the magic mirror. “Good cauliflower weather today. Birds starting to get restless.”

Snow White was eating apples again. She had sworn them off after falling victim to her stepmother’s spell, refused to consume apples in any form: apple juice, applesauce, apple cider, Apple Jacks. But now, when she bit into a fresh, juicy apple, she secretly longed to succumb to another slumber-sorceress’s spell, to rest once more in a glass coffin until the Prince rescued her from stasis with true love’s kiss. “He will come back to me,” she said to the magic mirror, as a hot apple pie cooled on her windowsill. “Someday my prince will come back.”

Meanwhile, the three dwarfs, still trapped in the mine, had become international media sensations. There were Doc, Dopey, and Sleepy t-shirts. There were Doc, Dopey, and Sleepy plush dolls. There were Doc, Dopey, and Sleepy vitamin-enriched cereals. There were Doc, Dopey, and Sleepy marital aids. A club remix of the dwarfs’ subterranean whistling charted in seven different countries. Licensing agreements and endorsement deals were lowered to the dwarfs along with water, flashlights, medical supplies, and food.

After returning with yet another empty hunting carriage, the Prince informed Snow White that he would be away for the entirety of fox season. “How long is fox season?” Snow White asked, but the Prince was already gone. Snow White tried to keep herself busy with domestic tasks—sweeping, mopping, dusting, rinsing, polishing—the mindless routines that had always brought her comfort, distracted her from her troubles, inspired her to gaily whistle; but try as she might, she couldn’t sweep away her pain. She couldn’t swiffer away her sadness. She couldn’t squeegee away her loneliness. She couldn’t whistle anymore.

Two months later, the dwarfs were successfully rescued from the mine. Reporters from all over the world were there to greet them at the surface, as were celebrities and foreign dignitaries, as were film and television agents, as was the Prince, who presented the dwarfs with gold medals and baskets of gourmet summer sausage and cheese. Snow White, meanwhile, remained at the castle. She wanted to see her old friends, to celebrate with them their improbable rescue, but couldn’t stand to be hassled by the cameras, the journalists, the duchesses, countesses, baronesses, the crowds.

Snow White stopped sweeping. She stopped mopping, wiping, dusting. She stopped singing to the birds, stopped whistling while she worked, stopped wishing at the wishing well. Mostly, she just spoke to the magic mirror.

“Magic mirror, on the wall,” said Snow White. “Who’s the fairest of them all?”

“Well,” said the magic mirror. “Fairest is such a nebulous term . . .”

“The fairest,” said Snow White. “You know, the most beautiful, most attractive, most enticing, smokin’, bangin’, bootylicious.”

“Right, but beauty is such a subjective quality . . .”

“The loveliest, prettiest, cutest, hottest, finest, flyest.”

“And of course wise men say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder . . .”

“The bee’s knees, the cat’s pajamas, the hostess with the mostess, the caterpillar’s spats.”

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure . . .”

“The sweetest honey, the phattest shorty, the foxiest lady, the stone coldest fox.”

“And really, who am I to say . . .”

“The fairest!” Snow White exploded. “Come on! Tell me! The fairest! Who is it? Is it Duchess What’s-Her-Name? Is it Viscountess What’s-Her-Face? Is it one of those goddamn teenage scullery maids? Who’s the fairest of them all?”

“After all,” said the magic mirror. “I’m just furniture.”

The three dwarfs never had to work in the mines again. They made the rounds of all the talk shows, guest starred on television sitcoms, signed six-figure endorsement deals, hawked energy drinks, snack foods, domestic beer. The house where they had lived with Snow White and the other four, dearly departed dwarfs was redeveloped into a mine-themed water park. The mine where they had labored was repurposed as a heavily advertised tourist trap. The forest through which Snow White had fled the huntsman was converted into a casino, a golf course, and a forty-six-story luxury hotel.

Snow White, skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, hair as black as ebony. Her mother, the queen, had wished for her unborn child to possess these physical attributes, and though she died during childbirth, she got her wish. “Why couldn’t my mother have wished for something more practical?” Snow White asked the magic mirror. “Why couldn’t she have wished for intelligence? Why couldn’t she have wished for kindness, healthiness, sanity, safety, love? Why couldn’t she have wished me a happy childhood, a painless adolescence, a good marriage, a peaceful and contented dotage? Why couldn’t she have wished to not fucking die the moment I was born? Fuck snow-white skin. Fuck blood-red lips. Fuck ebony hair. Where’s the peroxide? I’m dying that shit blonde tonight.”

Snow White still possessed the glass coffin. It was in an underground floor of the castle, in storage, along with unwanted inheritances from Snow White’s stepmother: a throne, a cauldron, a fondue set, back issues of Good Housekeeping and Better Homes and Gardens. The coffin was still furnished with comfortable bedding and a pillow. Snow White had joked to the Prince that it would make a perfect extra bed for a guest room, back when Snow White and the Prince were still speaking to each other, back when it was still conceivable that Snow White might ever have guests.

One thing Snow White never told the magic mirror was that she sometimes lay in the coffin. She always did it early in the morning, when everyone else in the castle was sleeping, when she herself couldn’t sleep, when her thoughts were racing with nostalgia and regret. She descended the basement stairs with a candle and a Red Delicious apple. She traversed the piles of her stepmother’s bric-a-brac. She opened the coffin’s glass case, and carefully climbed inside. “Only true love will awake me,” she thought, as she bit into the apple, blew out her candle. “Only a kiss will shake me from this evil spell.” Snow White, skin scarlet as strawberries, lips glossy as glass, hair bleached as bone, waiting in the darkness desperately for her rescuer, her prince, to come.

Akron, Ohio

Akron, Ohio. Jewel of the Cuyahoga. Pride of Summit County. City of wonder and mystery. The story of Akron is the story of America: Humble beginnings, grandiose dreams, triumph, then adversity, then apocalyptic hellscape, then redemption, a new beginning, the resurgence of the indomitable Akron Spirit.

I arrive in Akron via Goodyear Blimp. The Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company, founded in Akron in 1898, has long been synonymous with the blimp, that bewitching behemoth of the sky, that soaring conqueror of the clouds, that miracle of helium and neoprene-impregnated polyester fabric. In the days before the blimp, Goodyear and its subsidiary the Zeppelin Company were the world’s leading builders of rigid airships, and the United States’ largest airship was dubbed, what else, Akron, the USS Akronrepresenting the city of its name with pride and distinction until 1933, when inclement weather brought the Akron down into the frigid waters off the coast of New Jersey and sent all but three of the seventy-six strong crew to their deep, dark Atlantic graves.

The blimp’s captain is an Akron man, as was his father, as was his father before him. Nothing could drive his family from Akron, he says, not the collapse of the American tire industry in the 70s and 80s, not the resulting urban flight and decay, not the hordes of swarming undead that have roamed Akron since the early 90s, feasting on any remaining Akronites’ flesh, entrails, and brains. The captain takes us over scenic downtown Akron, and introduces me to the many marvels nestled within the city’s heart. There is historic Quaker Square, a mall hewn from the silos and factories of the dearly departed Quaker Oats Company. There is the storied University of Akron, the Harvard of Mid-America, home of the mighty Akron Zips. There is a Quizno’s and two Subways, home of the $5 Footlong Sub. There is the apartment of this guy Darrell, who the blimp’s captain says can hook me up with a car stereo, real cheap.

When the undead first arrived, says the blimp’s captain, they could not have come at a worse time. Factories were closing. Unemployment was soaring. The Rust Belt was rusting. And then the undead descended upon Akron, from the depths of hell, reducing the city’s already dwindling tax base in their unquenchable pursuit of flesh and brains. The blimp’s captain could only watch as friends and family were laid off by Goodyear, B.F. Goodrich, Firestone, Quaker Oats, and then eaten alive by marauding zombies in their homes, at church, at Akron Aeros minor league baseball games. We pass over the National Inventors Hall of Fame Museum, the Akron Zoological Park, the Rubber Bowl, the Derby Downs racetrack, the Akron Civic Theater. “John Hiatt and Lyle Lovett are performing at the Civic Theater next Saturday,” says the blimp’s captain. “I have tickets in the middle balcony.”

The blimp’s captain’s own wife and children were devoured by the undead, he tells me, during our breathtaking aerial tour of Rubber City. First they got his wife, then his son Chad, then his daughter Rosie, then little Keeley and little Micky. They left only bones. Thankfully, the so-called Akron Miracle of the early 21^st century has reversed the fortunes of many areas of the city, with the increasing prominence of new industries such as polymer research and production softening the losses of the tire giants, the beautification of downtown Akron attracting prospective residents away from the suburbs, and the National Guard keeping the hordes of undead largely confined to the neighborhoods of East Akron, Middlebury, and Goodyear Heights. “Look, the Firestone Country Club!” says the blimp’s captain. “Finest fifty-four holes of golf you’ll ever play.”

I ask the captain if we can land, so I can gaze upon the endless marvels of Akron up close, but he informs me that it is still not safe enough for the blimp to touch down within the Akron city limits. The last blimp that landed in Akron, the Spirit of Innovation, lost its entire crew to the ambushing undead in mere minutes. Still, I am certain that by the seventh or eighth edition of Johnny America’s America I will finally walk Akron’s streets, rub shoulders with its proud citizens, savor its $5 Footlong subs, and gain, at last, a street-level view of what for now can only witnessed from the sky: Akron, City of Dreams, Lord of the I-77/I-76 Interchange, Land of Helium and Progress.

Abilene, Texas

Abilene, Texas. God’s country. Where men are men, and women are women, and briscuit is briscuit.

I happen upon Abilene, one scorching summer’s day, by chance. I had intended to go to San Antonio, but apparently while leaving Dallas/Ft. Worth I had taken the wrong exit. No matter. As so many do, I fall in love with Abilene instantly: its bustling freeways, its Old West charm, its maximum-security correctional facilities.

With my hired guide still waiting for me in San Antonio, I decide to tour Abilene on my own, experience the “Real Abilene,” the Abilene they don’t show you in the glossyExperience Abilene brochures. My first stop is at Abilene’s famed Red Lobster, where Abilene fishermen have been bringing their daily catch of fresh lobster, snow crab, shrimp scampi, and garlic cheddar biscuits since the city’s founding in 1881. My server, Wendy-Lou, possesses a wealth of knowledge about Abilene’s rich history, and regales me with tale after tale of Abilene romance, intrigue, treachery, and deceit, tales such as the ballad of why Wendy-Lou’s ex-boyfriend Troy took that hoochie Doreen to prom, the ballad of why Wendy-Lou’s mama peppered their TV with two ounces of buckshot during the Cowboys-Cardinals game, and the ballad of why her coworkers Glory-Mae and Billy-Boy are no longer allowed inside the Red Lobster seafood freezer at the same time.

After sating my hunger at Red Lobster, I set my course for beautiful downtown Abilene, but unfortunately take another wrong exit and end up at the Abilene Regional Airport. No matter. Serendipitously, in the airport lobby I happen upon Abilene’s largest and most vibrant collection of fine art, a treasure trove of such contemporary masterpieces as “Untitled” by Linda Francis, “Untitled #7” by Walter Musbrook, “Shattered Dreams” by H.C. Stellenbosch, and “Puppies” by Abilene-area 4^th grader Lawanda Smith. Paris’s the Louvre may have the Mona Lisa, Madrid’s Museo Reina Sofía may have Guernica, but Abilene’s Regional Airport has seven daily flights to Dallas Fort Worth International and free luggage carts. And best of all, it’s free! A can’t-miss destination for every lover of art and value.

Thanks to the expert directions of the friendly native Abileneans in the airport’s baggage claim area, I find myself on the correct path to downtown Abilene, where I encounter a West Texas wonderland of red brick buildings, retail outlets, and parking spaces. As I park my trusty Kia in front of a RadioShack, I fantasize about all the great Texans who may have parked in this very space: T. Boone Pickens, Lyndon B. Johnson, Sissy Spacek, General Sam Houston, Lee Harvey Oswald, the members of ZZ Top. I walk the streets of Abilene, for four or five minutes, but it is very hot, so I decide to leave the streets and enjoy the authentic regional cooking and central air conditioning of Abilene’s legendary restaurant Taco Bell. A glorious fusion of Mexican and Texas cuisine, or “Mex-Tex,” as it fondly called by Abilene natives, Taco Bell’s menu offers a variety of exotic, mouth-watering dishes that have been cooked over the hearths and roaring campfires of Abilene since the days of Bonnie and Clyde. Gorditas. Chalupas. Taquitos. Enchiritos. Volcano Double Beef Burritos. Crunchwrap Supremes.

I could while away endless hours eating and people-watching in the exclusive, chic environs of Taco Bell, but my parking space is limited to thirty minutes maximum, and so I bid Taco Bell adieu and finish my 7-Layer Burrito in my Kia. There is plenty more of Abilene to see, but, as my hotel reservation is for a Motel 6 just outside of San Antonio, I figure I better get headed in that direction before rush hour. No matter. I shall return to Abilene, Blossoming Rose of Texas, this captivating city that has captured my heart. I know not when, I know not how. But I shall return, as certain as the sun returns with the dawn, as certain as the tumbleweed drifts across the prairie, as certain as Texas’s lone star converts hydrogen into helium, I shall return, unless I take another wrong exit, in which case, I hear Corpus Christi and Galveston are nice.

Newark, New Jersey

The City of Love. Many cities stake this claim. Paris. Rome. Venice. Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. But no city, in this humble travel writer’s mind, is more deserving of the title than that American bastion of romance, Newark, New Jersey.

Newark. Honeymoon haven. Romantic retreat. Sanctuary of sweethearts. Newark, where young lovers take moonlit rides on the picturesque New Jersey Turnpike, where infatuated couples leisurely cruise down the pristine waters of the Passaic River, where hopeless romantics gaze together at the millions of stars glittering above the famous Newark skyline. Newark: where, in the smoldering shadows of nearby Jersey City, that special someone is powerless to refuse you his or her heart.

Having no special someone of my own, I arrive in Newark hopeful that love awaits me in this dazzling city of 300,000 romantics, as love has awaited so many other visitors to its fair, seductive shores. I had a special someone, once, to whom I dedicated the first and second editions of my bestselling travel guide Johnny America’s America, but she failed me, and thus I dedicate the third edition of my book to no one.

My first stop in the City of Love is at Newark’s bustling port, one of the largest containerized ports in the world. Millions of tons of cargo are handled in the Port of Newark each year. Perhaps there is a longshorewoman there who will handle my broken heart.

In the Port of Newark I speak of love to the stevedores, the crane operators, the dock supervisors and port authority officers. I am told to leave immediately; I am in a restricted area. The port authority officers escort me to my car.

Next I visit that other stronghold of amorous bewitchment, the All Jersey Multiplex Cinema. What better place to seek love than in the dark aisles of a movie theater, a smoldering romance playing on the screen, the aphrodisiac scent of popcorn butter and Junior Mints wafting through the air. Unfortunately, the All Jersey Multiplex Cinema appears to be permanently closed, it is moldering, collapsing, and riddled with graffiti, and my only offer of love comes from an inscription etched onto an out-of-order phone booth. It seems that tonight the City of Love is playing hard to get.

Undaunted, I continue on to the glamorous Ramada Plaza Hotel just outside of the Newark International Airport. I met my ex-special someone in a Ramada hotel, during the book tour for my bestselling Johnny America’s Asia by Yak. I speak of love to the concierge, to the bellhops, to the airport shuttle drivers and the cleaning ladies. They direct me to the hotel bar, where I tell the bartender to serve me whatever the locals drink. He makes me a Manhattan.

In the hotel bar I speak of love to a 57-year-old dental hygienist from Topeka. I speak of love to a 42-year-old wastewater technician from Biloxi, and a 61-year-old senior sales associate from East Lansing. My ex-special someone is a 27-year-old Outback Steakhouse server from Rockford, Illinois. She has forever ruined Outback Steakhouse for me. I can no longer eat Walkabout Soup or a Bloomin’ Onion without being reduced to tears.

But I am strong. I do not cry in the Ramada Plaza Hotel bar. Instead, I speak of love to a 23-year-old data entry specialist from Phoenix. Her special someone, a former professional super welterweight boxer, hammers me in the jaw. When I regain consciousness, I am in Newark’s University Hospital. There is romantic fluorescent lighting. There are patients dressed only in flimsy gowns. It is a hospital for lovers.

I speak of love to the nurses and my attending physician. I am told that I suffered a concussion and need to stay overnight, for observation. Oh, what fortune, to end my journey here, in this libidinous, erotically charged hospital in the City of Love. A nurse pricks me with an IV needle, Cupid’s arrow. I am helplessly smitten. Due to memory loss resulting from my head injury I can no longer recall the nurse’s name, but I know that if I see her again I shall recognize her instantly, and those old familiar feelings will again well up inside of me. Oh, to be hospitalized once more in the glorious City of Love! Newark, this will not be the last head injury I suffer within your fair borders, this I assure you. Newark, my brain will swell within you again. This is my promise. This is my vow.

Pembroke Pines, Florida

Florida. Winter paradise. Land of the alligator, citrus, favorable tax structure. Each year millions of heat-seeking tourists flock to Florida, to Disney World in Orlando, to South Beach in Miami, to the River Garden Hebrew Home for the Aged in Jacksonville, to the Fountainview resort-style senior living community in West Palm Beach. But so often lost amid these well-known Floridian vacation destinations is a city just as deserving, if not more deserving, of full-page accolades in every Florida tourism brochure. That city is Pembroke Pines, the City Pulchritudinous, the Diamond of Broward County.

I arrive in Pembroke Pines early. There is so much to do, so much to see. My first stop is at Domino’s Pizza, where Pembroke Pines’ vibrant Italian-American community has been baking the traditional tomato-and-cheese-slathered pies of their homeland for generations. Not wanting to look like a tourist, I order in Italian. Unfortunately, my pronunciation is very bad, and the Domino’s staff is unable to understand me. Also, I do not know the Italian words for deep dish or Cinna Stix.

Next, I proceed to Pier 1, where Pembroke Pines artisans sell their lovingly handcrafted furniture, vases, soap and lotion caddies, and patchouli candles, as they have for centuries, in a buzzing, bustling setting that can rival that of any market in London, Cairo, Paris, or Marrakech. Truly, Pier 1 is marvel. Where else but in Pembroke Pines could one find such a dizzying array of chair cushions, doormats, throw pillows, table linens, and wicker barstools in one convenient location?

After leaving Pier 1, I decide to take a walk in the great outdoors to experience Pembroke Pines’ natural beauty, and what better place to walk than Pembroke Road, a.k.a. the Boulevard of Dreams, a.k.a. State Highway 824. Walking along Pembroke Road, one truly communes with nature in all its glory. The flora. The fauna. The guardrails. The overpasses. The median strips. Strolling through Pembroke Pines, it is not difficult to imagine what Adam and Eve must have felt as they leisurely sauntered through Eden. It is a place of untouched innocence, of unparalleled beauty. It is a paradise easily accessible via Florida’s Turnpike.

When the sun sets, and the day draws to a close, it is finally time to enjoy Pembroke Pines’ legendary nightlife. Pembroke Pines is famous for its exclusive restaurants, clubs, and discotheques, and thanks to some string pulling by my publisher I am granted unrestricted access to the most exclusive club of them all: BJ’s Wholesale Club. At BJ’s, Pembroke Pines’ illuminati dress to see and be seen. Levis. Dockers. Gym shorts. Sweatpants. The hottest DJs, unseen, play the most electric soft rock and smooth jazz jams, and BJ’s sizzling staff are always ready to cater to your every whim. The party goes on into the wee hours of 9 pm, and then the celebrities and socialites and hot young things of Pembroke Pines shuffle out of BJ’s and head to their tony duplexes for their much-needed beauty sleep. Meanwhile, this humble travel writer checks into the luxurious Holiday Inn Express Hotel & Suites, which has justly earned its reputation for offering only the finest complimentary soaps, shampoos, and hand towels since 1983. Exhausted from a long day of witnessing the greatness of one of the greatest cities in America, no, one of the greatest cities in the world, I fall onto my bed, forever changed. Goodnight, Pembroke Pines, but not goodbye. We shall dance our crazy dance again—mark my words—we shall dance again.

Rumors

The pizza arrived during the final round of the Caesar salad wrestling. The two runners-up were wrestling each other for first place, extremely delicately. They didn’t want to hurt each other. They bore each other no ill will.

Illa D-Murder paid and tipped the deliveryman, and also autographed an insulated delivery bag. The deliveryman said everyone at the 145 Chancellor Street Domino’s was a big fan. Illa D-Murder’s posse distributed the pizzas equitably to each table, and we devoured the pizza hungrily. Samantha Schulz-Singer asked the caterers if we could now have the Caesar salad. “Of course,” said a caterer in a Victoria’s Secret v-string, “help yourselves,” as she pointed to the floor.

The rumors concerning the catering company’s owner intensified. Where did the rumors come from? There were rumors about where the rumors came from. That’s how intensified the rumors had become. It was said the catering company owner had ties to radical Zionists. It was said he was the Antichrist, that he was a one-man Islamist sleeper cell, that he possessed the ability to walk through walls. “Why aren’t you wearing any pants?” Johanna Blum said to Rodney Feldmann. Rodney said, “Let me get my manager,” and then asked if anyone could lend him a magic marker. Darren Schnellenburger helped himself to some Caesar salad off the floor, and got in the way of the wrestlers. “Stop!” said Isaac Zeichner. “Stop!” Bull Jaworski mentioned he had a whistle in the trunk of his car. Johnny Zalewski staggered from table to table, showing everyone his face on a For Sale sign. “Look at that,” he said. “Isn’t that something?” “That’s something,” we said, which was inherently true.

Scoreboard

After the restart, the prom queen runner-up won the final round of Caesar salad wrestling. She and the homecoming queen runner-up were both tied for first place. “Let’s see how well you two do in the battle of wits,” said the homecoming queen. “Scoreboard,” said the homecoming queen runner-up. There wasn’t actually a scoreboard. It was just a figure of speech.

As we ate our dinner, more and more celebrity impersonators wandered into our midst. The reunion organizers were all drunk, and therefore less vigilant. They didn’t notice Jerry Lewis slow dancing with Dean Martin, or Joseph Stalin pouring Everclear into Liza Minnelli’s mouth.

John Lennon came. So did Charlie Chaplin, and Abraham Lincoln, and Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island. They had all heard there was pizza. “What they feed you at your retreat?” Illa D-Murder asked an Illa D-Murder impersonator. “Fruit snacks,” said the Illa D-Murder impersonator. “Ritz crackers. Cheese spread. Poland Spring bottled water.” Carl Finkelstein said over one-fourth of bottled water was actually bottled tap water and Wally Mulrooney said Carl could suck it. “Is Stalin really a celebrity?” wondered Terry Pastorelli. “He was big in Russia,” said Jamie O’Toole.

Memory

Wonderful memories were shared at the reunion. Tina Nadler remembered the times she would get free Blizzards from Karen Asnien at Dairy Queen. Dwight Haglund remembered the times he and Earl Skog would play Mario Kart 64 while listening to Pink Floyd’s Atom Heart Mother. Elle Steinhauser remembered her locker combination, Jeff Revello remembered every profanity he ever etched into Mr. Carpenter’s desk, Rhoda Eisenstein remembered every topping that came with a number two from Big Sven’s Super Subs, Austin Quinn remembered every lyric to Gary, Indiana and Seventy-Six Trombones.

Other memories were not shared. Madeline Woodford reading the same medical brochure over and over in the clinic waiting room. Jawanda Jackson reading her name over and over in indelible marker on the bathroom stall. Jordan Krueger preparing the materials. Rachel Kempster writing her parents the note. Isis Cuomo getting into the station wagon. Reece Stickler handing Paul Oldenfeld that last bottle of Corona.

Did we come here to remember? If so, what did we hope to gain by remembering? Had we left valuable wisdom behind? Had we let vital knowledge pass through us, accumulate in our school’s plumbing and ductwork? Were the answers to our most fervent prayers circulated and recirculated in the hallways of our clueless youth? Sophie Bluestein remembered not knowing how to file a W-4 form. Adam Lux remembered not knowing the child support laws of Washington state. Janie Kennedy remembered not knowing that tuna contains mercury, that tap water contains chlorine, that Starbucks Frappuccino Lights contain gluten, that chocolate contains trace amounts of shit, that every woman should own a single breasted blazer, that a seamless bra is a must for the summer, that Zoloft tablets come in 25, 50, and 100 milligrams, that you need to get on the best preschools’ waiting lists as soon as your child is born. We remembered study hall. We remembered homeroom. We remembered the fertile smell of fresh-cut grass.

Speech

With dinner nearly finished, it was time for speeches. Speeches were absolutely necessary at a reunion, for reasons none of us could articulate. The first speech was to be given by Walter Grogan, who no one really remembered but who was now extravagantly wealthy from fertilizer money, but unfortunately Walter was stuck at LaGuardia, so the reunion organizers had a Martin Luther King, Jr. impersonator speak in his stead.

“Hello class of 2000,” said the Martin Luther King, Jr. impersonator. “Is anyone the owner of a red Chrysler Sebring, license plate 4BX G29?”

No one responded.

“Okay, your car is about to be towed,” the Martin Luther King, Jr. impersonator said. “Thank you very much.” He then walked back to his table, and there was scattered applause.

Nostalgia Table

There was a nostalgia table at the reunion. Guests had been asked to bring photos, posters, t-shirts, trophies, and other items of sentimental value to the reunion, and the reunion organizers had showcased the items on a large oak table near the Chandler Room’s main entrance. There was a photo of Darci Hessler winning the 1999 All-Regions Cross Country Invitational. There was a photo of Ethan Holveck closing his eyes and giving two thumbs up. There were swim team ribbons, golf trophies, playbills for Into the Woods, Les Misérables, The Music Man; letter jackets, never-returned history textbooks, student activity fee receipts. What was nostalgia, exactly? What was sentimental value? There were protractors. There were tardy slips. There were plastic jack-o-lanterns full of expired condoms, and copies of The Great Gatsby with disconnected phone numbers written in the margins. We looked so young, in the nostalgia table photos. Jonah Konkol had a Mohawk. Denise Holland had terrible acne. Mitchell Wunnicke still had the right half of his face. Some of us spent thirty minutes poring over each photograph, marveling over each trophy, fondling each jacket, each t-shirt. Some of us walked right past and ordered from the open bar. “To each his own,” said Eric Stamos to Ramona Hartley. “What?” said Ramona Hartley.

Speeches

After the Martin Luther King Jr. impersonator had returned to his seat, other speakers spoke. Carly Cashman, Duane Danielson; Carleton Chandler, the great-grandson of the Carleton Chandler for whom the Chandler Room was named. “Thank you for celebrating my great-grandfather’s legacy by enjoying the hotel’s state-of-the-art banquet hall facilities,” said the younger Carleton Chandler. “As my great-grandfather often said, ‘Monthly and seasonal rates are available on request.’”

Meanwhile, at our individual tables, we gave our own speeches. Nikki LaFlash spoke about the merits of a home birth. Rusty Cornelius spoke about the Mexicans and the Jews. Collin Biller spoke about his top four favorite speeches of all time. “Number four—Gettysburg Address. Number three—‘I Have a Dream.’ Number two—‘Win One for the Gipper’ in Knute Rockne, All American. Number one—Sermon on the Mount.” “Top four?” said Kelvyn Colussi. “Who makes lists of four?” Rusty Cornelius said the Mexicans and the Jews did. Lillian Dykstra said she would have put Pericles’ Funeral Oration at number two. Johnny Zalewski said, “Wait until you see this,” and disappeared into the parking lot. Doug Weisenhut said, “Scooch in a little closer, but don’t block the urn.” Bryan Kramer said he would have put FDR’s Pearl Harbor Address to the Nation at number three.

Battle of Wits

Once the speeches were over, Isaac Zeichner announced over the microphone that it was now time for the battle of wits. The queens and almost-queens were walking from table to table, asking if anyone had a change of clothes they could borrow. It must have been very uncomfortable for them, slathered with all that Caesar dressing. Nadia Jasmani reminded everyone she had never agreed to condiments. Isaac Zeichner said that his Lexus had recently been making a weird clicking noise inside the dash, and whoever could diagnose and fix the problem first would earn fifteen points. “Probably one of the HVAC servo motors,” said the homecoming queen’s boyfriend. “Hey! No coaching!” shrieked the homecoming queen runner-up. The prom queen refused to participate. She said automobile repair didn’t constitute a battle of wits. Joel Nast, an auto mechanic, said “Now listen here.” Dawn Euhardy said, “How about, instead of car repair, Sudoku?” Bull Jaworski said he had a 13,000-piece puzzle of The Last Supper in the trunk of his car.

The queens, almost-queens, and Isaac Zeichner argued, and the rest of us lost interest. The DJ turned Isaac’s microphone off and played TLC’s “No Scrubs,” and we danced. Rodney Feldmann was allowed to dance, so long as he also carried his tray of tomato bruschetta. Ross Schmelzer asked us if, during the best moment of our lives, we were wearing pants. “Yes,” said Sebastian Teschendorf. “Yes,” said Colleen Jenkins. “Yes,” said Taryn Palloni. “No,” said Alex Berenbaum. “How about cutoffs?” said Spencer Bergmann-Caligari. Joel Nast asked Isaac Zeichner if his Lexus made the clicking noise all the time, or just when he ran his heater or air conditioner. Kathleen Proctor told the homecoming queen she could borrow a t-shirt and some size two jeans. The homecoming queen said she was a size one. Joseph Stalin posed with Jacob Stenzler’s ashes, as did Mary Ann fromGilligan’s Island, as did Sonny Bono. “Ashes are ashes,” said Darren Schnellenburger, dismissively. Bull Jaworski said he had size one women’s jeans in a variety of popular styles and brands in the trunk of his car.

Magic Marker

Why did we come to the reunion? What did we hope to learn? What did we hope to achieve? Was the reunion a ritual? A collective commemoration of community, of shared experience, of elapsed time? Was it a contest? Who has a Ph.D., who has a Mercedes, who has Billy Crystal’s cell number, who has an unexpectedly attractive spouse? Was it merely a party? Appetizers, small talk, alcohol, inoffensive music? Or was it something else entirely? Why was the Chandler Room East north of the Chandler Room? Why weren’t the caterers wearing any pants? “The best moment of my life, I was wearing one hundred percent cotton Chinos,” said Edgar Steinhauer. “Can you sign these gym floorboards, you know, for the raffle?” Marsha Feathers asked Illa D-Murder. “Ain’t no thang,” Illa D-Murder said, and asked for a magic marker.

Late

It was late, relatively speaking. We were tired. Many of us were drunk. Some were unconscious, or physically ill. D. Schwartzkopf’s nametag had disappeared from its table. No one was sure if it had been stolen, or had been claimed by the real D. Schwartzkopf. No one was sure if there was a real D. Schwartzkopf. Life was full of uncertainty.

Birk Kaplan said he knew the catering company’s owner, casually. The owner’s younger brother Fletcher owed Birk Kaplan eighty-seven dollars. Birk Kaplan said the owner had probably written the caterers’ pantslessness into their contract. “Why would he have done a thing like that?” asked Greta Honeker. “You really want to get that sort of thing in writing,” said Birk Kaplan.

The prom and homecoming queens had officially withdrawn from the rematch. They were now completely sober. Illa D-Murder had lent them clothing from his own signature line of women’s urban apparel, Illa Girl, and so they were showering in the hotel’s pool locker room. The almost-queens were too furious to shower. They drank hard liquor from the bottle at the bar, and pouted. Johnny Zalewski showed them a sticker that said, “SOLD by Johnny Zalewski, THE REAL ESTATE KING!” and said, “Isn’t that something?” Pete Genter asked them if it was really true that the prom queen could speak to animals. Doug Weisenhut said, “Smile, and also—hold this urn.” Darren Schnellenburger asked them if they wouldn’t mind rubbing their forearms on his salad.

Floor

We started to leave. Marsha Feathers said no, we couldn’t leave, we had to stay for the raffle. Twenty-five floorboards from the old gym were being raffled, five of them signed by none other than international superstar Illa D-Murder. We stayed. Cameron Conlon won a signed floorboard. Diego Piña won an unsigned floorboard, and so did Georgia Smith. “What are we supposed to do with a floorboard?” Georgia Smith’s husband said. “Cherish it,” said Lucia Martin. “Build a birdhouse with it,” said Lance Crowley-Sachs. “Buy a bunch of other floorboards,” said Curtis Hudson. “Receive the proper training. Acquire the necessary tools. Consult the appropriate authorities, and follow the correct procedures. And then, in time, you will have a floor.”

Fin

We left. Marsha Feathers said no, we couldn’t leave, but this time gave no reason why we should stay. Some of us walked to our cars. Others walked straight to our hotel rooms. The DJ packed up his equipment, the caterers cleaned up the Caesar salad, Carleton Chandler stared for fifteen minutes at the oil painting of his great-grandfather, in the hotel lobby. Darren Schnellenburger was carried out—it took three Elvis impersonators to get him out of the Chandler Room. “Where are you staying tonight, Darren?” asked one of the Elvis impersonators. “Trina Samuelson?” said Darren Schnellenburger. “Oh—no,” said the Elvis impersonator. “I just took her nametag.” “You tell your son-of-a-bitch brother Andre that I want my fifty-six dollars,” said Darren Schnellenburger. The Illa D-Murder impersonator roamed the parking lot, offering to sign the raffle winners’ floorboards for five bucks. “Hey, everybody, I’ve got a Cher on the line,” said the Sonny Bono impersonator. “Ready? One, two, three . . .”

Some of us were disappointed by the reunion’s lack of significance. Others were pleased with its wealth of significance. Others were neither disappointed nor pleased. Still others ignored its significance or lack thereof entirely. Bull Jaworski said he had the reunion’s significance in the trunk of his car.

We retrieved our items of sentimental value from the nostalgia table, unless we forgot to. Benjamin Krakauer left behind his Most Improved Outfielder trophy. Cammie Krinkler left behind her five-paragraph essay on the major themes in Beowulf. The reunion organizers argued over what should be done with the nostalgia table’s abandoned items. Everyone wanted to safeguard these important relics of the past, but everyone also had limited trunk space. Kim Youngblood suggested taking archival photos. Nancy Drexler suggested talking to Win Baker about getting a deal on rental storage. Troy Handlen suggested that if the reunion organizers could simply perceive these items as being unimportant, possessing no value whatsoever, then they could just throw everything in the garbage, no problem. Debbie Panzini said, “Brilliant,” and suggested that Troy Handlen chair the next reunion. Everyone agreed. They patted Troy Handlen on the back, got a garbage can, and cheerfully swiped every last item on the nostalgia table into the trash. In the parking lot, they all admired Troy Handlen’s ’99 Chevy Suburban. Everyone was envious of the Suburban’s trunk space.

Epilogue

After the reunion, we returned to our lives. Some of us were pleased to return to our lives, others were displeased. Still others didn’t care either way.

Most of us returned to jobs. Some of our jobs were important, others were not important, others’ importance was unclear. Additionally, sometimes the important jobs weren’t important to the people who did them, whereas the unimportant jobs were very important to the people who did them, but not important to anyone else. Jobs were confusing, and so was the concept of importance. “It’s best not to overthink these things,” Eric Stamos said to the girl behind the counter at Dairy Queen. “What?” said the girl behind the counter at Dairy Queen.

A grand total of forty-seven reunion guests performed sexual acts the night of the reunion. This number has been verified; it is not due to mathematical or clerical error. In all likelihood, at least some of the sexual acts would not have occurred had there been no reunion, but who knows? Life is full of uncertainty. Illa D-Murder said as much after performing a sexual act with the prom queen runner-up.

Some of us were inspired by the reunion. Others were discouraged. Some promised to return in ten years, others vowed never to return, others vowed only to return once the world had learned to fear their terrible power. We ate, drank, slept, woke. We watched television, bought groceries, filed W-4 forms, conceived human life. It was all very important, or else it wasn’t. Terry Pastorelli said he could lean either way. Dirk Knoblaucher said, “Life’s a beach and then you swim.” Lou Francini said, “You don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone.” Steve Heissler said, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.” Barry Orenstein said, “Singapore Sling.” June Carmichael said, “Ma-ma. Ma-ma. Ma-ma. No—Ma-ma.” Darlayne Kleinhoffer said, “I demand to speak to a manager.” Jacob Stenzler’s mother said, “Jacob?”

Cole McCanna said, “It’s not the heat, really, it’s the humidity.” Sam Levinson said, “It’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean.” Madeline Woodford said, “It’s not so black and white.” Elaine Steinbacher said, “It’s not my fault.” The catering company’s owner said, “My wife wore those underpants.” Johnny Zalewski said, “One sweet day.”

The prom queen said, “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.” Rodney Feldmann said, “Port Salut. Oysters Rockefeller. Steak tartare. Foie gras.” Jamaal Gaines said, “Latisha, why you always be trying me?” Rick Douglas said, “Susan! I think I know how to reset the goddamn modem!” Glenn Van Sicklen said, “The best moment of my life, I was wearing 505 Regular Fit Levi’s.” The homecoming queen said, “Why does every used car dealership have so many goddamn American flags?”

Reece Stickler said, “I’m sorry.” Janie Kennedy said, “The key things are volunteer service hours and extracurricular activities.” Lucia Martin said, “Life is beautiful.” Vince Strickland said, “Look, Brandi, I’ve been thinking.” Rusty Cornelius said, “$2.50 convenience fee? Cocksucking Jews!” Carleton Chandler said, “Or as my great-grandfather would say, ‘Please conserve natural resources by reusing your towels during your stay.’”

Isaac Zeichner said, “It makes the clicking noise whether I’m driving or not driving, whether the air conditioner is on or off, whether I’m in park or in neutral.” Oksana Gaznayev said, “Qawishwallanavetum.” Marcus Lepeska said, “The goddamn Brewers have fucked themselves again.” Carl Finkelstein said, “Our lives are mere, insignificant blips relative to the vastness of the ever-expanding universe.” Wally Mulrooney said, “Fuck you, Carl.”

Darren Schnellenburger said, “What’s done is done.” Illa D-Murder said, “Nah, girl, ain’t no thang.” Laurie Baumgartner said, “Unforgivable.” Bull Jaworski said, “What’s unforgivable is what’s in the trunk of my car.” The Martin Luther King, Jr. impersonator said, “I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.” The Joseph Stalin impersonator said, “Жить стало лучше, товарищи. Жить стало веселее.” The Sonny Bono impersonator said, “I got you babe. I got you babe. I got you babe. I got you babe.”

We said, “So, what do you do?”

Schwarzkopf / Illa D-Murder

By six-thirty almost all the registered guests had arrived. Most of the latecomers’ nametags had been stolen by celebrity impersonators, and so the latecomers were issued blank replacement nametags on which they could write their names in magic marker. The one nametag that remained unclaimed on Marsha Feathers’s table said D. Schwarzkopf. No one could remember who D. Schwarzkopf was. Amy Cavanagh thought D. Schwarzkopf might have been that weird kid with the fedora who always ate lunch alone in the science wing stairwell. Lester Yeomans thought D. Schwarzkopf might have been that Goth chick with the choker collar who seemed to be perpetually smoking on the Chancellor Street lawn. Julie Wang pointed out that if D. Schwarzkopf was a woman, Schwarzkopf could be her husband’s last name, in which case our only clue to her identity would be the mysterious letter D. “Diane Perlmutter!” yelled Paulina Barrios. “No, she was in the class behind us, you’re thinking of her sister Tricia,” said Meg Frampton. “Dahlia Khosropour!” yelled Iris Clausen. “No, her husband’s last name is Lundquist, he owes me seventy-three dollars,” said Ivan Duplass. “Dolores Christiansen!” yelled Gerardo Trujillo. “No, she’s not married, she’s sleeping with my supervisor at Applebee’s,” said Mary-Jo Heidecker. “Deirdre Leech!” yelled Tommy Torango. “No, that’s me,” said Deirdre Leech. D. Schwartzkopf wasn’t the only classmate who had been forgotten. There were so many unfamiliar faces, so many unfamiliar names, so many people who asked us, “Remember me?” to whom we replied yes only out of propriety. Sensing this, the celebrity impersonators who had snatched up our classmates’ nametags began impersonating our classmates, in an attempt to avoid being tossed out by reunion organizers and thereby maintain access to the open bar. A Groucho Marx impersonator became Ian Meyer-Livingston by removing his fake eyebrows and moustache. A Barbra Streisand impersonator became Maria de la Espada by removing her prosthetic nose. A Michael Jackson impersonator was asked to leave by a reunion organizer and said, “I am D. Schwartzkopf!” “I am D. Schwartzkopf!” said a Pee-Wee Herman impersonator. “I am D. Schwartzkopf!” said a man impersonating Carmen Miranda in drag. A JFK impersonator became Travis Drozdowicz by dropping his Boston patrician accent. A Madonna impersonator became Alessandra Sarigianopolous by covering up her cone bra with a makeshift tablecloth shawl.

In addition to the fake celebrities, there was a real celebrity at the reunion. We had known him in high school as Dewayne Smith, but the world now knew him as Illa D-Murder. Illa D-Murder had initially gained fame as a rapper, but more recently he had branched out into acting. He was starring as Sam Spade in the upcoming remake of the remake of The Maltese Falcon. Illa D-Murder’s nametag had been stolen, and so he wrote Illa D-Murder on his replacement nametag with blue magic marker.

We assumed this meant we weren’t supposed to call him Dewayne. A member of Illa D-Murder’s posse ordered a three-ounce Dixie cup of Hennessy from the bar and spotted a Liberace impersonator wearing Illa D-Murder’s nametag. “Yo Illa,” said the posse member. “Want me to beat this fool’s frilly lilywhite ass?” “Nah, it’s cool,” said Dewayne Smith. “Can’t blame a man for wanting to be Illa D-Murder.”

Far and Wide

People came to the reunion from far and wide. Amarillo, Virginia Beach, Toronto, Tucson, Cape Canaveral, the Lesser Antilles. They also came from near and thin. Marcus Lepeska came from Maple Street, a few blocks away. He still lived there with his parents. Todd Lombardo came from Room 213. His apartment was being fumigated.

Rodney Feldmann was one of the caterers—he had forgotten to ask off of work. Rodney wore grey Calvin Klein boxer briefs, and carried a tray of tomato bruschetta. Rodney’s manager allowed Rodney to eat the bruschetta off his tray, as consolation, but Rodney only managed a few measly nibbles. Anyone could tell his heart wasn’t really in it.

Setback / Rematch

At six forty-five the reunion suffered its first major setback when the bartender ran out of Dixie cups. Indignation rippled through the crowd. “Unforgivable,” said Laurie Baumgartner to Felicia Walgenbach. “How do they expect us to make it through this thing sober?” Of course, many of us were not sober. And even more of us were resourceful. Kylie LaChance, for instance, drank malt liquor out of a hotel flowerpot. Mark Varese drank Jamaican rum out of a shoe. Glenn Van Sicklen did body shots of tequila off of Daisy Rosenbloom. “Alcohol is alcohol,” said Darren Schnellenburger, who chugged Jack Daniels straight from the bottle. Among the ranks of the intoxicated were the prom and homecoming queens, and their runners-up. The runners-up were intoxicated enough to challenge the queens to a rematch, and the queens were intoxicated enough to accept. The runners-up knew they would never win another popularity contest, and so they demanded that the rematch involve a series of physical challenges. The queens knew they would never win a series of physical challenges, and so they demanded that the rematch also involve a battle of wits. After a brief argument and sporadic profanity both sides agreed to each other’s terms, and former class president Isaac Zeichner was selected as moderator. The first physical challenge was a mile run. Isaac Zeichner borrowed the DJ’s microphone and asked if anyone had a tape measure. Bull Jaworski said he had a metric ruler in the trunk of his car, and Isaac Zeichner said that would do.

The Vegetarian Option / Lake House

At seven o’clock dinner was served. The caterers carried their trays of appetizers to the prep room and reemerged with our main courses slung over their shoulders: rabbit, grouse, squirrel, beaver, turtle, alligator, baby deer. We were horrified. A caterer in blue velour panties deposited a baby deer on one of the circular dining tables, and a small child began to cry. “But what about the vegetarian option?” protested Nyla Zeffirelli. A caterer in plain white Fruit of the Looms said, “Just one minute,” and returned with an armful of pinecones. This was the last straw for Darlayne Kleinhoffer. She angrily swept the pinecones off of her plate and demanded to speak to the caterers’ manager. A caterer in flannel boxers said, “Just one minute,” and returned with a moustache drawn on his face with magic marker. “Oui, bonjour, I am the manager,” said the caterer with a French accent. “Food is food,” said Darren Schnellenburger, who carved himself a healthy hunk of a beaver’s tail.

As we stared perplexedly at our dinner, Jacob Stenzler’s cremation urn was passed from table to table. He was photographed with Joe Lutnick and his new wife Pam; Marian Casales and her two children, Harper and Joelle; Vince Strickland and a woman named Brandi Vince had met at the regional airport. Oksana Gaznayev cried while posing with Jacob’s ashes. She had been Jacob’s prom date, senior year. She and Jacob had never formally dated, but they had shared one magical night together at Jacob’s family’s summer lake house. Oksana still remembered every little detail about that night, except for the name of the lake. All she remembered was that it was an Indian name she had never been able to spell or pronounce.

Mile Run

With no one eating dinner, except for Darren Schnellenburger, who was going to town on an alligator, we headed to the parking lot to watch the queens and almost-queens compete in the mile run. Bull Jaworski had tried to measure out a mile with his metric ruler but then quickly realized he had no idea how many meters were in a mile, and so it was agreed by all four participants that ten times around the parking lot was close enough. Isaac Zeichner, the moderator, provided the starting signal.

The signal was Isaac Zeicher saying, “Go!” even though Bull Jaworski had said that if Isaac wanted the race started properly there was a pistol in the trunk of his car. We sat in the parking lot, on traffic islands and on the hoods of cars, and watched the queens and almost-queens run. They ran barefoot, as the only shoes they had were three-inch heels. Carl Finkelstein said that you could get worms by running barefoot. Wally Mulrooney called Carl a liar.

“No, really, they can burrow into your skin in between your toes,” said Carl Finkelstein. “Then they travel through your bloodstream to your lungs. And then they end up in your intestines.” “Bullshit,” said Wally Mulrooney. “Let’s settle this with a fight.” “You can’t settle science with a fight,” said Carl Finkelstein, and Wally Mulrooney popped him in the jaw.

Tensions

There were tensions at the reunion. Tenzin Tonpa wouldn’t speak to that self- righteous asshole Donny Bloomfield. Zoe Wesenburg wouldn’t speak to that uppity bitch queen Michelle Kay. Jamaal Gaines wouldn’t speak to that ten-cent ho Latisha Jackson. Latisha Jackson wouldn’t speak to that worthless fuckstick Jamaal Gaines.

Some tensions were old; others were new. The old tensions stretched back as far as twenty years—name-calling at recess, birthday party invitation snubs, amphibians stuffed inside the waistbands of pants—while the new tensions originated as recently as Tuesday. Backstabbing, double-dealing, cheating, slandering, blackmailing, thieving. “Don’t believe the smiles in the class graduation photos,” Eric Stamos said to Daphne Herbstreit. “What?” Daphne Herbstreit said. There were subtler tensions, too, of course. Rick Douglas and his wife Susan bickered intermittently about their high-speed internet provider. Carla Sheffield fished out a cigarette after catching her boyfriend Randy staring at Carol Potemkin’s ass. Cole McCanna and Robbie Savage both went out of their way to not acknowledge the one magical night they had shared after the cast party for The Music Man. Instead they spoke to each other very amicably about the weather and professional sports. It was agreed by both that the goddamn Brewers had fucked themselves again. All-Cheese The homecoming queen runner-up won the mile run, and everyone went back inside to the Chandler Room. Darren Schnellenburger was still there, tearing apart a squirrel carcass with his hands. “Have some respect for yourself,” Dana Stratmeyer said to Darren. “Mmgh ghhm grhmmm mrh grhmhmm,” said Darren. Darren’s mouth was full of squirrel. Since no one except Darren was touching the dinner, Illa D-Murder offered to order everyone pizza. We said no, that’s okay, but Illa D-Murder insisted. “Ain’t no thang,” he said. “How do fitty large half-pepperoni, half-sausage sound?” “But what about the vegetarian option?” said Nyla Zeffirelli. “And twenty all-cheese, for my sexy veggie mamas,” said Illa D-Murder, although it was assumed that men and unsexy women would be allowed to eat the all- cheese pizzas as well.

Julia Cranshaw

While we waited for the pizzas to arrive, the caterers took turns posing with Jacob Stenzler’s ashes. Some thought this was in poor taste, as the caterers weren’t wearing any pants, but Doug Weisenhut said it’s what Jacob would have wanted. Rodney Feldmann, the caterer and alumnus who had forgotten to ask off of work, had played on the varsity football team with Jacob. They had never won a game, but they had still done well with girls. “Look, Ruth van der Waal’s here,” said Rodney Feldmann to Jacob’s ashes. “And Kaki Klauss. And Mandy Fitzgibbon. And . . . is that Julia Cranshaw?” Rodney remembered the one magical night he had shared with Julia Cranshaw, in a Dairy Queen he had broken into after closing, and started to cry. Doug Weisenhut snapped his picture. “Perfect,” Doug said, handing Rodney a tissue. “Just what Jacob would have wanted.”

Condiments

After the queens and almost-queens had hydrated themselves following their mile run, it was time for the second physical challenge. The second physical challenge was originally going to be Jell-O wrestling, but Nadia Jasmani protested that Jell-O wrestling was sexist. “How about, instead of Jell-O, romaine lettuce?” suggested Isaac Zeichner. Nadia Jasmani said romaine lettuce would be okay, and the caterers carpeted the Chandler Room floor with Caesar salad. “Where was the Caesar salad during dinner?” Samantha Schulz-Singer asked the caterers. The caterers shrugged and sprinkled the four contestants with croutons and parmesan cheese.

The queens and almost-queens were still in their little black dresses, and were extremely sweaty. Their faces were red, their feet bloody, their hair disheveled, their thoughts consumed with victory. “Hey, I never agreed to condiments!” said Nadia Jasmani as the caterers doused the contestants with Caesar dressing, but it was too late, the queens and almost-queens were already oiled up from head to toe. “Go!” said Isaac Zeichner. Bull Jaworski shook his head. He had a wrestling bell in the trunk of his car.

To be concluded in Part Three

“No.”

“Bruce?”

“No?”

“Chuck?”

“No.”

“Todd?”

“No.”

“James?”

“No.”

“Jim?”

“No.”

“Jimmy?”

* * *

“So this was an oral contract?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing written? No paper trail?”

“No.”

“Letters? Receipts? Cocktail napkins with scribbled—”

“No, no. Nothing like that. It was real informal.”

“Okay. So then it’s basically your word against his.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. We can . . . that’s helpful.”

“It is? Oh thank God. So you think you—”

“Except—the Little Guy, he can still spin straw into gold?”

“As far as I know.”

“So he’s going to be able to afford a real bang-up legal team, then. Bobby Zabrewski. Whit Goldstein. Freddie the Swede.”

“Freddie the who?”

“The Swede. Sneaky sonofabitch. Won $20 million in punitive damages for some dumbass emperor duped into buying invisible clothes.”

“$20 million?”

“Fraud, breach of contract, mental anguish, public humiliation.”

“Wow.”

“Yep. Slimy as a sheep frog. But sharp. $20 million.”

“That’s just—I can’t believe— ”

“Yep, the Little Guy’s gonna hire the Swede for sure.”

“. . .”

“So how are you and Petey doing with that list of names?”

* * *

“Joseph?”

“No.”

“Joey?”

“No.”

“José?”

“No.”

“Yusuf?”

“No.”

“Giuseppe?”

“No.”

“João?”

“No.”

“Jo-Jo?”

* * *

“So what does the King think about all this?”

“. . .”

“I mean, doesn’t he—”

“The King doesn’t know.”

“. . . You’re kidding me. So you haven’t—”

“You think I want the King all up in my business?”

“But—”

“Knowing I ain’t worth a damn? That some midget has dibs on my firstborn?”

“But—”

“That my dumbass daddy was just blowing smoke about me and straw and gold? No. Petey knows and now you know. But no one else. Okay? Christ, Tom. The King catches wind of this, and I’m dropped like a sack of rocks.”

“Okay, okay.”

“The King, Tom. The King. Same King who threatened to kill me.”

“Yeah, but you’re queen now, I’m sure that’s all water under the—”

“Of course I bring that up now, you think he apologizes? Gets down on bended knee? Hell no. He acts like it never happened. Like he never scared me shitless. Like he never locked me in that cellar, with that straw, and that spinning wheel, and told me if it wasn’t twenty-four karats—”

“Alright. Understood. I got you. So if you want to keep this under wraps, then maybe we should consider arbitration.”

“. . . Arbi-what?”

“Arbitration. We get a third party to help you and the Little Guy reach an agreement. Keep this out of the courts. Off the public record. Away from the Swede.”

“And that’s . . . allowed?”

“Sure, sure. People arbitrate all the time. Quicker. Cheaper. Easier. Typically.”

“And you think we’d win?”

“Well, the perfect scenario is—you’d both win. You know, compromise. That’s what you’re shooting for, ideally, with arbitration.”

“I don’t see how we both win.”

“Of course, not every scenario is a perfect scenario.”

“Straw into gold. My dumbass daddy.”

* * *

“Phil?”

“No.”

“Hank?”

“No.”

“Lester.”

“No.”

“Chet?”

“No.”

“Skip?”

“No.”

“Mahershalalhashbaz?”

“No.”

“Doug?”

“No.”

“Stu?”

* * *

“You think maybe you already guessed his name?”

“What do you mean?”

“Say his name is Stan. And you say, ‘Stan?’ What’s to stop him from saying, ‘No’?”

“Stan . . . Stan . . . have I tried that one yet?”

“But you see what I’m saying, right? Unless we want to risk him fleecing us, stringing us along, there needs to be some third-party oversight. Some outside verification.”

“The Little Guy ain’t going to cotton to that.”

“We arbitrate, maybe he cottons.”

“He ain’t going to cotton.”

“You’re being negative again.”

“Oh for Christ’s—”

“And I understand, angel, I understand your negativity. All you’ve been hearing lately is no, no, no, no, no, no, no. But it only takes one yes. One. Remember that.”

“Aw, Tom, you’re so goddamn sappy.”

“C’mere.”

“Aw, Tom—”

“. . .”

“You know, come to think of it, I haven’t tried Stan yet. Or Stanley. Or . . . what else?”

“Stanton. Stanwood. Standish. Stanislaus. Stanford.”

“Stanford? That’s a— ”

“Also Standford, Stamford, Stanfield, Stansfield.”

“Oh Jesus Christ.”

“Hey, that’s a good one. Write that one down.”

* * *

“Godfrey?”

“No.”

“Godwin?”

“No.”

“Goddard?”

“No.”

“Godthaab?”

“No.”

“Godin?”

“No.”

“Godet?”

“No.”

“Godot?”

* * *

“My daddy’s always been ashamed of me.”

“That’s not true.”

“He has. Thinks I ain’t worth a damn, so to save face he tells all those lies. ‘Oh, your daughter can play the lute? My daughter invented the lute.’ ‘Oh, your daughter is studying medicine? My daughter raised a family of four from the dead.’ ‘Oh, your daughter made you a charm bracelet out of macramé? My daughter can spin straw into gold.’”

“That’s a reflection on him. Not you.”

“A miller’s daughter. That’s all I was supposed to be. And now I’m queen but to tell you the truth I feel even less . . . I mean, my daddy’s right, I ain’t worth—”

“Come on, you know that’s not—”

“Craziest thing is since we got married the King’s never once asked me to so much as touch a spinning wheel. Like after the initial thrill of that cellar-full of gold wore off, he got bored or something. He gets bored easily, the King. Was all gung-ho about having the kid—heir to the throne, preserving his line, spreading his seed, etc.—but since I gave birth he’s barely seen the girl. I know he wanted a son, but—”

“Angel, listen to me. You are so—”

“I’m not stupid. I know what they write about me in the magazines. Hark! Ladies in Waiting. The Fairest of Them All. You know where they ranked me on ‘The Monarchy’s 35 Best and Worst Beach Bodies’? You know what they say about the King and that pale hussy dating Prince Charming?”

“Aw, nobody takes those rags—”

“And you keep telling me this whole arbitration thing’ll be kept confidential. But what if the Little Guy leaks to the media? Huh? You ever think of that?”

“Look, if you’re going to worry about every little—”

“Aw, Christ. Those peckerheads’ll have a field day.”

“Okay. Calm down. Relax. Take a deep breath. I say, what we focus on now is preemptive action. Meaning, you guess the Little Guy’s name, and we don’t have to worry about arbitration, or the magazines, or any of that. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess, but—”

“Right. So, first, tell me everything you know about this guy. Where’s he from? Does he have any family? What are his interests? Where does he hang out?”

“I don’t know anything. I mean, I know what he looks like. Late fifties. Beard. Stupid hat. Pointy shoes. Four, maybe four-and-a-quarter feet tall. From his accent, I’d say he’s from out east. Smells funny. Sometimes talks in rhyme. Not a looker. Does any of this help?”

“Maybe, maybe. Find Petey, tell him everything you know, be as specific as possible, and who knows? Maybe Petey finds something.”

“How is Petey doing, anyway, on the list?”

“Last I checked, he was one-third of the way through the census records. Found some real good ones, too.”

“Such as?”

“Llywellyn. Ríoghbhardán. A’amakualenalena. Shoemowetochawcawewahcatowe.”

“We’re never gonna guess that little bastard’s name.”

* * *

“Richard?”

“No.”

“Richard, Jr.?”

“No.”

“Richard, Sr.?”

“No.”

“Richard I?”

“No.”

“Richard II”

“No.”

“Richard III?”

“No.”

“Richard {all integers ³ 4}?”

* * *

“It’s not like I really ever loved him.”

“I know that.”

“This is a man who wanted to kill me, remember?”

“Yep, I do.”

“But when you’re just this little peasant girl, and the King asks you to marry him  . . . and you know how I wanted to get away from my daddy.”

“It’s okay, angel. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“And as for conceiving the kid, believe me, that was far from romantic. God. It was nothing like—”

“Really, it’s okay.”

“But I love the kid, of course, how could I not? Her little nose, little hands, little feet, little mouth, little—”

“Look, you’re going to keep her. Okay? I promise. No way am I going to—”

“This past year has been so strange. So confusing.”

“It’s been a confusing time for everyone.”

“Just looking back, from the first day my daddy met with the King, nothing makes any sense. I mean, I can sort of understand why he said I could spin straw into gold. He was trying to butter up the King, like he butters up everybody. Daddy’s always been a liar. But then when the King locked me in that cellar, said he was going to hang me if I didn’t prove my daddy right, why didn’t my daddy admit he was lying? Why did he leave me in there to die? He knew I wasn’t worth a damn with a spinning wheel. Or did he not? Did he maybe convince himself . . . do you think, all this time, he’s believed every one of his own—”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

“And as for the King—who threatens to kill some poor peasant girl because her daddy’s a liar? Right? Talk about cruel and unusual. And then, better yet, after she turns him a massive profit with his excess straw, thinks to himself—Hey, this chick’s not so bad after all. Maybe I should ask her to marry me. I’ll bet she’ll have no hard feelings about me locking her up in my musty cellar for three straight days and putting the hangman on call for her execution.”

“But you did marry him.”

“Right, I thought I just explained—”

“Angel, c’mere.”

“And they say men are logical, women are illogical. Yeah. Right. And as for the Little Guy—okay, if he asked me to screw him, that I could understand, but he asks for my firstborn child? And he knows I have to say yes; the King’s going to kill me, what else can I say? And then this whole name thing . . . I’ll bet it ends up being a complete cop-out, like his name is an unpronounceable symbol or something, or it has an accented vowel I didn’t emphasize quite right. God, I could just kill that little—”

“Petey thinks his name starts with R.”

“. . .”

“Said he saw him outside the Gruel and Brew. The Little Guy. Tanked. He kept muttering to himself. Kept referring to himself in the third person. Petey swears it was him. Says the Little Guy called himself the ‘R-Dog.’”

“. . . The R-Dog?”

“You know, like, someone’s name is Sam, and all his friends call him the ‘S-Man.’ Or a guy’s name is Polonius, and all his pals call him ‘Master P.’”

“And Petey is sure it was the Little Guy?”

“He’s positive. Said the Little Guy was like, ‘R-Dog’s on the prowl! R-Dog’s gonna get him some tail! Ladies watch out for the R-Dog!’”

“He was just hanging out in front of Gruel and Brew?”

“Apparently. ’Til security kicked him out. Petey said the R-Dog got pretty lewd by around nine-thirty. I mean, with his body mass, one ale’s got to just about—”

“The R-Dog. Huh.”

“I think we can guess it, by the end of day three. Petey’s compiling all the R names he can think of, as we speak. Real trooper, Petey. Hasn’t slept since Thursday.”

“Reggie. Ricky. Raymond, maybe? He doesn’t really look like a Raymond.”

“We got this, angel. We got this S.O.B.”

“‘R-Dog’s on the prowl. Ladies watch out for the R-Dog.’”

* * *

“Ridley?”

“No.”

“Ramsay?”

“No.”

“Randy?”

“No.”

“Randall?”

“No.”

“Raymond?”

“No.”

“Rainer?”

“No.”

“Rashaun?”

“No.”

“Ray?”

“No.”

“Ray-Ray?”

* * *

“But what really gets me, more than anything else, is the not knowing. So much, riding on a guess. It’s making me . . . I just feel crazy.”

“Petey’s got some good leads. I’m sure, by morning, he’ll—”

“It’s just so . . . what’s the word? . . . arbitrary. But that’s how life is, right? This one’s poor, that one’s rich. This one lives, that one dies. This one loves you, that one—”

“Why don’t you get some sleep? You’ve got to be exhausted. By morning, trust me, everything will—”

“I’m tired of guessing. I want to . . . know, you know?”

“You’ve done all you can. Petey and I will—”

“I remember thinking, when I was a little girl, that there was a reason for everything. An order. That everything could be explained. I’d ask my daddy what thunder was, and he’d say, ‘It’s the angels bowling.’ I’d ask him where rain came from, and he’d say, ‘It’s the angels crying.’ Everything I asked, he answered. But then I got older, and I realized my daddy didn’t know his ass from his elbow. He didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. For years, I had imagined the angels up in heaven weeping every time they failed to convert a spare or bowl a strike, and then, one day, it dawned on me—that makes absolutely no sense. None. Bawling, bowling angels? Yeah. Right. And soon enough, upon further review, everything else my daddy told me fell apart. As well as everything my friends told me, my daddy’s friends told me; my neighbors, the nuns, the vicars. I finally realized almost everything everyone says makes no sense. Almost everything everyone does makes no sense. Read the magazines. ‘Kissing the Right Frog: 20 Tips on Finding Prince Charming.’ ‘Cinderella’s Dark Secret Exposed: Coachman is Rat, Coach is Pumpkin.’ ‘Don’t Eat That House!: Hansel and Gretel’s Can’t-Miss Consumer Report.’ We live in a world composed of senselessness.”

“. . .”

“And what if I do guess it? Huh? What happens then?”

“. . . Meaning?”

“You and me?”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“. . .”

* * *

“Randwulf.”

“No.”

“Rögnvaldr.”

“No.”

“Rościsław.”

“No.”

“Rasputin?”

“No.”

“Ramakrishna?”

“No.”

“Raskolnikov?”

“No.”

“Rumpelstiltksin?”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“No.”

“Royal?”

“No.”

“Romulus?”

“No.”

“Rabelais?”

“No.”

“Rainbow?”

Odysseus: Hail Zeus! After ten long years, Troy is finally sacked. Come, my fellow Achaeans, let us set sail. Let us return home to our wives and children.

Achaean: Not so fast, Odysseus! Aren’t you forgetting something?

O: Tell me, comrade.

A: Why, a balanced breakfast, my king! Which is why we’ve looted a thousand daily rations of Kellogg’s Special K® Red Berries Cereal. Filled with succulently sweet strawberries, crispy rice, and whole grain wheat flakes, Red Berries Cereal packs ten essential vitamins and minerals into each and every bite! It’s the perfect way to start a homeward voyage—a voyage that’s positively ripe with possibilities.

O: Well . . . okay, surely the men are hungry after yesterday’s brutal and bloody conquest.

A: Kellogg’s Special K® Red Berries Cereal. A berry special part of your daily balanced breakfast.

* * *

Odysseus: Come, men! Cease your pillaging of the Cicones, and let us flee! They are far greater in number, and are clearly skilled in the art of war. Forget their booty, their women. Let us leave at once, to Greece!

Achaean: What if I told you that you didn’t have to leave at once?

O: Brother, there is no time to argue. If we do not flee, we shall surely perish.

A: What if I told you that the Burlington Coat Factory’s 30% Off Sale is extended until Sunday!

O: This concerns me not.

A: Aviator jackets! Trench coats! Bubble vests! 30% off!

O: Gentle Achaean, I implore you, let us make haste.

A: Peacoats! Bomber jackets! Fleece hoodies! 30% off!

O: Dost thou not hear? Their chariots approach!

A: Look at this Multi-pocket Washed Leather Jacket from Calvin Klein. With a 100% genuine leather shell, military-style epaulettes, and carefully distressed finish, it’s the very definition of classic cool. And through Sunday, it’s only $125.99!

O: Yes, truly this jacket is of the finest quality, but unfortunately now is not the . . .

A: And this Ladies’ Single-Breasted Coat from Hawke & Co., with its five-button front, gun flaps, belt with harness buckle, and charming tiered skirt. A fabulously feminine way to keep warm this fall!

O: It is true, this coat’s beauty is unassailable . . . and it would delight my beloved Penelope so . . .

A: And through Sunday, only $55.99!

O: Oh, curses . . .

A: And this Infant Athletic Bubble Jacket from London Fog . . .

O: Fine, fine. It is decided. Men, take one coat each. But swiftly, swiftly! The hour of our doom is at hand!

A: Burlington Coat Factory—we’re more than great coats!

* * *

Odysseus: We have tarried here in the Land of the Lotus-Eaters long enough. Think of your families, how they must pine for you. Let us proceed homeward. Let us not delay here another moment.

Lotus-Eater: Stressed out? Fed up? Monday’s got you down?

O: No, good sir, I simply wish to hasten our departure. My fair Penelope awaits me in Ithaca.

L: Never fear, relief is here: Bath & Body Works’ stress-relieving Eucalyptus Spearmint Bath Salts.

O: My sincere apologies, friend, but unfortunately we must now take our leave.

L: Part of Bath & Body Works’ unique Aromatherapy line, our bath salts’ patented formula contains a unique blend of essential oils and skin-soothing sea salts to nourish both the body and the mind.

O: Your offer is enticing, but if you knew my Penelope you would understand that every moment I am away from her is like an eternity.

L: And for a limited time only, buy any two amazing Bath & Body Works Aromatherapy products and get one free!

O: You are too generous. But, sadly, we must . . .

L: Lavendar Chamomile Pillow Mist! The natural lulling effects of chamomile combined with the sleep-enhancing properties of lavendar!

O: Men! The time is come. Into the ships!

L: Lavendar Vanilla Dream Bath! With aloe to nourish and rejuvenate skin!

O: Men! Do not defy my orders!

L: Orange Ginger Energy Sudsing Scrub!

O: Men!

L: Black Currant Vanilla Sensuality Body Wash!

O: Men! Men! Men!

L: Stressed out? Fed up? Monday’s got you down?

O: In truth, sir, it could be said—yes.

L: Then never fear, relief is here.

O: Men!

L: Relax. Unwind.

O: Men!

L: Let go. Be.

O: Men!

L: Aromatherapy, by Bath & Body Works.

* * *

Polyphemus: Help! Help! Nobody is hurting me!

Odysseus: Men! Quick! Tie yourselves to the bellies of the cyclops’ sheep, and let us escape to the ships.

P: Aiiieeeeeee! Help!

Other Cyclops: Polyphemus, who is hurting you?

O: Good, men, we’re almost there.

P: Nobody! Nobody hurt me. Nobody blinded me!

O: Patience, just a little farther . . .

OC: Well if nobody blinded you, then cease your crying and go back to . . .

Wilford Brimley: It wasn’t nobody who blinded you. It was Odysseus, Son of Laertes, King of Ithaca.

O: Comrade, be silent!

W: And I’m Wilford Brimley for Liberty Medical.

O: Are you crazy, man? Hold your tongue!

W: I’m a diabetic.

P: Odysseus? Wilford Brimley? What men are these?

W: Did you know that diabetes is the number one cause of new blindness in adults? And that people with diabetes are 40% more likely to develop glaucoma, and 60% more likely to develop cataracts?

P: Whence come their voices, diabolical and strange?

O: Master Brimley, be still! Or is your desire suicide?

W: Now, I know how serious this disease is, but I also know a way to control it.

OC: Polyphemus! The sheep! They are hiding themselves beneath the sheep!

W: Check your blood sugar, and check it often.

O: Men! Now! To the ships!

W: Liberty makes that easier.

P: Brothers, kill them! Destroy them! Devour them!

W: If you’re sixty-five or over, on Medicare, and diabetic, call Liberty right now.

O: Row, men! Row! Row!

P: But leave me the ones who call themselves Odysseus and Brimley. On those I shall mete my own revenge.

W: They’re the country’s largest Medicare mail-order diabetic testing supply company, and they make things simple. They bring your supply right to your door.

OC: Polyphemus, alas! They have escaped. Their ships are beyond our reach.

W: And Liberty bills Medicare and your insurance company. That’s right—no money up front, and no more forms to fill out.

O: Brimley! Stop, I implore you.

P: Father! Poseidon! The raven-haired, Earth-Enfolder!

W: Diabetes doesn’t have to take over your life. Check your blood sugar. Check it often. See there’s just no reason not to.

O: You shall only enrage him further.

P: If indeed I am your son, if indeed you declare yourself my father, grant that Odysseus the city-sacker may never return home again; or if he is fated to see his kith and kin and so reach his high-roofed house and his own country, let him come late and come in misery, after the loss of all his comrades, and carried upon an alien ship; and in his house let him find mischief.

O: This bodes not well, Brimley.

W: And call Liberty. They’re professionals and they can help you live a better life.

* * *

Eurylochus: Odysseus! Take heed! Circe, the woman of the wood, is an evil witch-goddess! She has laced her food with a magical potion and transformed your men into swine!

O: I am grateful for your counsel, dear Eurylochus. I shall gather the remaining men and set out to rescue our comrades at once.

Hermes: Hold it right there, Son of Laertes.

O: Hermes! The great messenger of the gods!

H: Tired of the same old, boring barbecue sauce?

O: <sigh> This is growing tiresome.

H: Then say hello to Kraft Honey Mustard Barbecue Sauce!

E: Hmmm . . . tangy.

Achaean: So flavorful!

H: Different, right? That’s the Kraft difference.

Achaean: You said it, Hermes. Mmm mmm. Now if only we had something to . . . wait a second, you know what this would go great on . . .

O: No. No. Speak not another word.

A: Eurylochus, that Brimley guy? Did he get transformed?

E: Yes, he has been transformed into a particularly delectable swine.

A: Come on, O-Dog. What do you say?

O: My sweet Penelope, shall I ever again gaze upon your beautiful face?

H: Kraft Honey Mustard Barbecue Sauce: Taste the Excitement!

A: Wooo pig! Wooo pig! Soooey!

Wilford Brimley: Oink oink oink oink oink!

* * *

Odysseus: Dearest Circe, the year I have spent with you has been full of pleasure, but I cannot remain here forever. The time has come for us to part.

Circe: No, lover, I pray—stay.

O: I shall always remember you fondly, but my heart belongs to another.

C: Your wife Penelope.

O: Yes, Penelope, Queen of Ithaca, my home.

C: I see. And Penelope, she applies K-Y Touch™ 2-in-1 Warming™sensual massage oil and lubricant to your aching neck and shoulders every night?

O: She does not.

C: But, she cooks you delicious, healthy meals on a George Foreman Champ™ Grill, yes? The grill whose patented sloped design and George Tough™ nonstick coating helps unhealthy fat and excess liquids drain away from you food?

O: No, we do not have such wonders in Ithaca.

C: But, surely, she teases you in bed with lacy thongs, hiphuggers, and fishnet panties from Victoria Secret’s Sexy Little Things® collection?

O: She wears a tunic and cloak in the traditional way.

C: But you like the K-Y Touch™ 2-in-1 Warming™sensual massage oil and lubricant, yes?

O: Yes, I like the K-Y Touch™ 2-in-1 Warming™sensual massage oil and lubricant very much.

C: And you prefer my meals cooked on the George Foreman Champ™ Grill to your meals in Ithaca, do you not?

O: I do, the George Tough™ nonstick coating truly is a cause for marvel.

C: And if you could choose, you would prefer your woman to wear Victoria’s Secret erotic Sexy Little Things® lingerie rather than a drab, heavy wool cloak in bed, is that right?

O: Witch-goddess Circe, you do easily discern my thoughts in regards to the Victoria’s Secret Sexy Little Things® lingerie.

C: So then . . . why does your heart belong to Penelope again?

O: I love her.

C: Such a shame, dearest Odysseus, for Victoria’s Secret has recently launched a new collection of sheer babydolls, corsets, and teddies—the Sirens® collection—and I was so looking forward to modeling them for you . . .

O: Well . . . perhaps I could stay one more night . . .

* * *

Siren: Bad credit? No credit? No problem!

Odysseus: Untie me from the mast!

S: Side effects may include . . .

O: Untie me from the mast!

S: This Christmas, come see the movie that Joel Siegel of Good Morning America calls . . .

O: Untie me from the mast!

S: Fares, taxes, fees, rules, and offers are subject to change without notice. Other restrictions may apply.

O: Untie me from the mast!

* * *

Calypso: Honey!

Odysseus: Yes, dear?

C: Clumsy me, I spilled grape juice all over our new carpet! Now it’s ruined!

O: Ruined? Oh honey! Not if Spot Shot® Instant Carpet Stain Remover has anything to say about it!

Spot Shot® Instant Carpet Stain Remover: Odysseus, you must leave this place.

O: What’s that, little buddy? Did you say that you eliminate the toughest carpet stains—even old stains?

S: You have been trapped on this island for seven years.

O: That you work great on pet stains, coffee, spaghetti sauce, grease and oil, marker, wine, and more?

S: You must return home. To Ithaca.

C: Wow, so you just spray on Spot Shot® and blot the stain away. No need for rubbing or scrubbing.

S: To your wife, Odysseus.

O: Yes, it’s that simple.

S: To Penelope.

O: And the stain-eliminating power of Spot Shot® is available in both an aerosol can and a trigger spray bottle!

C: Hail Zeus!

S: Penelope. Dost thou not remember faithful Penelope? The Queen of Ithaca? Your one true love? The mother of your child?

C: Oh honey! Look! The grape juice is gone!

S: Dost thou not remember her face? Her soft, rosy lips? Her star-kissed eyes?

O: Gone? With Spot Shot® Instant Carpet Stain Remover, it’s like the stain was never even there!

S: Say her name, Odysseus.

C: I can’t believe it! Thank you! Oh, thank you, Spot Shot®!

S: Penelope. Penelope. Say it.

O: Look for Spot Shot® in the household cleaning section of your favorite supermarket, drugstore, or club store.

S: Penelope. Penelope. Penelope.

C: Oh honey, I’ll never cry over another stain again.

S: Penelope.

O: Stain? What stain?

S: Penelope.

O: Spot Shot®.

Previous installments of Mt. Olympus, Miami

“Belief. What is belief? Beyond belief. ‘What a Fool Believes.’ You don’t believe in me; I don’t believe in you . . .

“People will believe anything. Paul is dead. The moon landing was a sham. God has a beard. Why always a beard? And I quote from Genesis: ‘So God created man in His own image, in the image of God created He him.’ And yet, ninety percent of the time, Adam is depicted as being clean-shaven. What does he shave with? Rocks? Animal teeth? Specialized thistles? And why shave? This is pre-Fruit of Knowledge. Does he have head lice? A job interview? He’s oblivious to the concept of nudity, but he’s still self-conscious about a little bit of chin stubble?

“God’s beard—I guess I can see the logic there. A beard tends to give one a certain gravitas. It’s hard to imagine God creating the heavens and the Earth with a soul patch, or a Fu Manchu, or mutton chops. But who knows? God knows. He is all-knowing. Surely he knows about the Norelco 7810XL. The Braun 790CC. The Remington MS5200. Adam’s shaving with squirrel incisors, while God can’t be bothered for even a light trim. Mysterious ways. ‘Do you believe in miracles?’ ‘I Believe I Can Fly’ . . .

“Angels. People believe in angels. My issue with the angels is why are they always playing harps? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against harps, but I feel like at some point the angels would get tired of being pigeonholed. I feel like, one angel, he gets issued his harp, and he’s like, ‘No thanks, I want to play the electric guitar. What do you have in a ’69 Telecaster?’ . . .

“Genies. People believe in genies too. They’re in the Koran, supernatural beings made of smokeless flame. In Western culture, they’re lamp-dwelling wish-dispensers. Me and this girl were talking genies the other day, and she brought up the issue of airport security. Stay with me, now. Let’s say you travel to Qatar, rub a lamp, acquire a genie. Great. Now you have to fly back to the U.S. If you put the genie in your checked baggage, you’re probably okay. But what if the plane goes down? Or your flight’s hijacked by terrorists? You’re going to want that genie in your carry-on, right? But then you have to get the genie past security. First off, if there’s any liquid in the lamp—residual oil, etc.—you’re screwed, unless the lamp’s less than three ounces, which—not likely. Second, remember, the genie’s made of smokeless flame. You think the TSA is going to go, ‘Oh, it’s alright, it’s just smokeless flame’? The obvious solution is to wish for a magic carpet, of course. But carpet-based travel . . . I don’t know, it doesn’t seem like the optimal means of transportation to me. What if it rains? You’re soaked, and the carpet gets damp, and sooner or later you get that mildew smell. Why do male genies live in lamps, and female genies live in bottles? What happens if a genie bottle gets recycled? For people who believe in genies, are lamps and bottles continual disappointments?

“People believe in love. What does that mean, exactly? ‘I saw her face, now I’m a believer.’ Knowledge is a type of belief, but not the only type. We can believe what we do not know. ‘Don’t Stop Believin.’ Why? What if we all stopped believing? What if we just knew? I know that this Heineken is two for one until 6 p.m. I know that Heineken is a 5% abv pale lager, brewed by Heineken International since 1873. But how do I know these things? Someone told me. They could be lying to me. But I believe them. But what if I stopped believing? Now what do I know? You smell terrific. Can I buy you a drink?

“I don’t believe you.”

To be continued in Part Seven: We’ll Always Have Brownsville

Previous installments of Mt. Olympus, Miami

Photo by Travis Nicholson on Flickr

While regular columnist M. Randall Withers recovers from non-specific head trauma, “I Will Now Advise You on the Following Matters” will be written by a series of guest authors and experts. This week’s guest columnists are Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, Greek personifications of destiny and noted motivational speakers, whose new book Of What Use Are Twelve Indispensable Management Strategies In Your Final Hour? (HarperCollins, $26.95) is out now in hardcover.

Landing Your Dream Summer Internship

Clotho: Your dreams trouble us.

Lachesis: Spiders, maggots, fax machines, murder, filing cabinets.

Atropos: Beware of administrative assistants bearing release of liability forms.

Hitting the Realty Investment Jackpot

C: Who do you think you’re kidding?

L: “Spare a quarter?” says the man outside the 52F / 250M mixed use development.

A: Cherry, cherry, cherry, plum.

Spicy Mexican Skillet Chicken in Thirty Minutes or Less

C: Everyone’s trying to outrun time.

L: Chopped fresh cilantro, if desired.

A: Hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait.

Getting That Jessica Alba Look

C: Your best years are gone.

L: The downward half of the parabolic curve.

A: Bronzer, blush, volumizing shampoo.

Maximizing Floor Space, Minimizing Clutter

C: Look at all that you require.

L: Wire partitions. Magazine racks. Trundle beds.

A: I saw the best minds of my generation installing recessed shelves.

Becoming a Total Man-Magnet

C: Ñ × B = 0

L: Eye contact. Smile. Small talk. Mystery. Make the first move. Hold a drink. Artificial scent. Bare shoulders. Vertical lines. Klonopin. Xanax. Liquid concealer. Don’t move.

A: External electric fields.

To be continued in Part Six: Now Is the Hialeah of Our Discontent

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

Dear Oracle,

Two weeks ago I met this amazing guy. Okay, not just amazing—perfect. He’s smart, funny, attentive, sweet, gorgeous . . . He likes the same films as me, the same TV shows, same music, same musicals, same drinks, same foods . . . He loves animals, he wants kids, he’s an amazing cook and an even more amazing lover . . . He’s kind, generous, humble, athletic, sensitive, charismatic, down-to-earth, six foot two . . . Do I go on? He’s trilingual. He has the bluest blue eyes. The cutest smile. The sexiest Greek accent. Really nice hair.

So after a few dates I introduce Mr. Perfect to my friends, and they fall head over heels for him as well. “Oh my god,” they all tell me. “This is it. He’s perfect. He’s the one.” I’m already imagining the wedding at this point. Imagining the honeymoon. The rings on our fingers. The wood grain on our future baby’s crib.

But then this one friend, I’ll call her Sylvia, tells me she thinks Mr. Perfect is too perfect. She suspects he’s not what he seems to be. She says she has this other friend, I’ll call her Latriece, who met the perfect guy—handsome, flawless personality, same interests, shared aspirations and dreams—but after a few weeks of showing off Mr. Perfect to her family and friends Latriece discovered an inconvenient truth—that Mr. Perfect wasn’t a man. In fact, he wasn’t even human. He was a god. A god who apparently really loved the ladies.

So—ridiculous, right? Except then Sylvia tells me all the juicy details. She says that Latriece said that this god, who enjoyed numerous conquests with mortal women, had an incredibly jealous goddess wife. And when this wife discovered her husband’s infidelities, she tended to take her anger out not on her husband, but on the women. And this goddess did not play around. She tricked one woman into asking the god to reveal his true form, which caused the woman to instantly burst into flames. She tied the legs of another woman in knots in an attempt to prevent the birth of her bastard child. She turned women into monsters, she murdered their children, she drove their children insane so that they murdered their own children, she sent gadflies to sting them as they wandered the earth for all of eternity. She was not a woman to be scorned.

So, I have mixed feelings about all of this. One the one hand, I am not thrilled about potentially having my legs tied in knots, or my children murdered, or gadflies sent to sting me for all of eternity. But on the other hand—what are the chances of any of those things actually happening? What are the chances that my Mr. Perfect really is a philandering god with an ultra-jealous, ultra-sadist, ultra-vengeful wife? Apparently Latriece survived just fine, although Sylvia says that Latriece only avoided the goddess’s wrath because she dumped her Mr. Perfect before Mrs. Perfect grew wise to the affair. But then again, what if my Mr. Perfect is a god? Is any man worth the possibility of a terrible curse, an eternity of suffering, an agonizing death? Help me out here, oracle! Am I being ridiculous? Or is Mr. Perfect really too good to be true?

Paranoid in Pembroke Pines

Dear Paranoid in Pembroke Pines,

Now your statues are standing and pouring sweat. They shiver with dread. The black blood drips from the highest rooftops. They have seen the necessity of evil. Get out, get out of my sanctum and drown your spirits in woe.

335 Comments

Turd Ferguson

Firsties!

Infinite Gist

canceraids.

dances with wolf blitzer

MYCSTP¹

YouNoob

MTGDYITWPW.²

Phil

[Owen Wilson walks out.]

Jenny R

im going through right now the same thing at first the guys hes perfect, nice car, nice close ,good teeth, and then today i find out the cars a rental and hes not really an orthodentist and i think also hes been using my credit card info to susbscribe to porn. all men even “perfect men” r PIGS! all u ladies BEWARE!

The sound of muzak

“orthodentist” LOL

Street Fighting Mannheim Steamroller

I’m going through right now the same thing too

WITH MY COCK

leaderhosen

Tits or GTFO

Ringtones

Very interesting! I’m impressed! Ringtones for Motorola Ringtones Ringtone polyphonic ringtones Nextel ringtones Mp3 ringtones…………….Free nokia ringtones Free mp3 ringtones Free mobile phone ringtones Download free ringtones Cingular ringtones

Debra

HEY BARRACK HUSSAIN OBAMA IS THIS WHAT WE GET FOR HAVING A MUSLIM AL-QADA FOR PRESIDENT? 72 VIRGINS ARENT ENOUGH SO THERE GODS COME DOWN TO RAPE OUR WOMEN AND KILL THERE CHILDREN AND TIE THERE LEGS IN NOTS? WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ONE NATION UNDER GOD? GOD NOT GODS! BARRY LOOK OUT IN ‘12! GOD WILL PUNISH THE WICKED, AND BEFORE HE DOES WE WILL!

Athena, Goddess of Wisdom

@Debra – Islam is monotheistic. Muslims, like Christians and Jews, worship one god.
Bring Me the Head of Luther Vandross
TYPING IN ALL CAPS WILL GIVE YOU AN ERECTION!
3×1-1
CAPS LOCK CURES AIDS!
Street Fighting Mannheim Steamroller

CAPS LOCKS CURES CANCERAIDS!

qwertyuiop
ROTFL
Da Nuge

@Debra

YWDCAAAYRWBPCBMB³

Jenny R

how cum love hurts so much?? how cum no matter how hard u try to forget someone there always in ur mind? oracle if ur reading this i have a question should i get back with darrell cuz he hurt me so bad but i cant stop thinking about him also he has my first 4 seesons of lost on dvd oracle plz comment back thx.

TheOracle

Cum love hurts so much

IN THE BUTT!

Janie’s Got a Peter Gunn

Cum love is a many-splendored thing.

Ironic Hipster Douchebag

Cum love will tear us apart

Call me Ishmael but don’t call me late to dinner

Can you feel the cum love tonight?

the sound of muzak

Cum love hurts

Janie’s Got a Peter Gunn

All you need is cum love

Hot Lesbian Kissing Contest

She will be cum loved.

the sound of muzak

tainted cum love

Tony Danzas with Wolf Blitzer

I want to know what cum love is.

lovrnotafightr

@asfjk Foreigner FTW

the sound of muzak

Your cum love’s been a long time coming.

john brown’s booty

Tits or GTFO

Alan

WOW! I found Rhianna’s HOT video is here: Http://clk.gs/3x8jf

Alan

WOW! I found Rhianna’s HOT video is here: Http://clk.gs/3x8jf

Alan

WOW! I found Rhianna’s HOT video is here: Http://clk.gs/3x8jf

Ted

Heres one for the oracle,,,,

Our Manufacturing jobs are gone overseas to India, China, Philipines, Tiwaun,,,

We/I are unemployed,,,,,

Our unemployment insurance has run out,,,

After 30 years in Manufacturing Trades we are competing for jobs such as stockroom helpers at places like Wal-Mart (not that well get these jobs anyway),,,,

The Gulf of Mexico has become a toxic disaster,,,

Our own Government will not pass legislation to help us,,,,

Gods are seducing our women, tying their legs into knots, and make them burst into flames,,,,

And this is CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN?

Jimmy J

Palin/Paul 2012!

John Wayne’s World of Warcraft

@Ted and Jimmy J
Go kill yourself
Bruce

“Go kill yourself”

Typical lib response

U cant handle the truth

I cant wait til 2012 …. bye bye Barry!

DontTaseMeBro

@Ted, Jimmy J, and Bruce

Go suck off Beck, O’Reilly, and Hannity, and then kill your yourself.

Gary K

“@Ted and Jimmy J

Go kill yourself”

“@Ted, Jimmy J, and Bruce

Go suck off Beck, O’Reilly, and Hannity, and then kill your yourself.”

It’s go kill yourselves.

Pronoun/antecedent agreement, F*#!&-holes.

Scott

@John Wayne’s World of Warcraft and DontTaseMeBro

Go double-team a Starbucks barista and jack off to a Shepard Fairey Hope poster and eat out Arianna Huffington and then go kill yourselves.

blurstoftimes

YSMWYOMASWYOHTBOYOS⁴

Athena, Goddess of Wisdom

@Everyone

Your frustration is understandable. Your anger is palpable. But let neither hatred nor cynicism into your hearts, but love. The causes of your pain are manifold and complex. Let the blame not fall on one man, two men, a nation of men. Let this pain not multiply with hatred and vitriol. Let love guide your paths. Let truth and virtue show you the way.

the sound of muzak

@Athena, Goddess of Wisdom

Will you still cum love me tomorrow?

William H. Macy’s Day Parade

Firsties!

Who wants brisket?

Fail

Ironic Hipster Douchebag

Epic fail

Film or TV Reference

Canceraids canceraids canceraids

The Sound and the Furies
ITROTDYWBABADCEWWDYLFAOE⁵
InfoGraphx

Good site, thank you!
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Jenny R

i dont understand whats wrong with me. everytime i meet a guy its teh same. oracle tell me tell whats wrong with me, why noone likes me, why no one cares why im crying all the time plz comment back im getting desperate, why cant annyone love me i just cant take it anymore, plz plz plz plz plz plz.

Bring Me the Head of Luther Vandross

“I just cant take it anymore”

That’s what she said!

the sound of muzak

Zing!

Tony Danzas with Wolf Blitzer

LOLZ

Street Fighting Mannheim Steamroller

I’ll love her

IN THE BUTT!

Don Henley and the Philadelphia Eagles

Double zing!

Phil

` ROTFL

TheOracle

I will always cum love you.

kevin costner and bryan adams making out in sherwood forest

TheOracle FTW!

Okra Winfrey

ROTFLMAO

Athena, Goddess of Wisdom

Jenny, you are loved. The world is not as cruel as you think. The cruelty that surrounds you is borne of the same frustration, pain, and self-doubt that you yourself feel. Dwell not on this cruelty—it is only a thin veneer, obscuring the great beauty and truth that lies beyond. Do not lose heart. Your day will come. Even in your darkest hour, you are loved. Even when cruelty suffocates you, when every voice assails you, when every heart is against you, when hatred and fear and violence are all you see, you are loved. Believe, Jenny. You are loved. You are loved, you are loved, you are loved.

Mix Master Martin Luther King Jr.

@Athena, Goddess of Wisdom

Tits or GTFO

Robert Redford’s Plain Text Validation Engine

@Mix Master Martin Luther King Jr.

MTGDYITWPW

¹ May your crops succumb to pestilence.

² May the gods destroy you in the worst possible way.

³ You will die cold and alone and your remains will be picked clean by marauding beasts.

⁴ You shall mate with your own mother and shed with your own hands the blood of your own sire.

⁵ In the realm of the dead you will be awaited by a dagger-clawed eagle who will devour your liver for all of eternity.

Previous installments of Mt. Olympus, Miami

Photo by PelionClimber on Wikimedia

“I’m reliable. Punctual. A hard worker.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I’m bilingual, English and Greek.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Trilingual, really, if you consider Ancient and Modern Greek to be . . . which of course you should; they obviously . . .”

“But no previous restaurant experience?”

“. . . Well, I slew the many-headed hydra.”

“Fast food, maybe?”

“I obtained the girdle of the Amazon queen Hippolyta.”

“Bartending? Washing dishes? Bussing tables?”

“I briefly held the dome of the sky upon my shoulders and retrieved the fearsome Cerberus from the land of the dead.”

“Very good. Unfortunately, right now we’re really looking for someone with more . . .”

“How about this. If I can lift that salad bar over my head with one hand, then . . .”

“I’m sorry we can’t offer you anything at this time, but . . .”

“How about the deep fryer?”

“We do of course appreciate your interest in joining the Ruby Tuesday family. It was certainly a pleasure to . . .”

“I’ll lift the salad bar with my left hand and the deep fryer with my right.”

“We have your contact information, so . . .”

“Okay, here we go, one, two . . .”

Labor #36 – Attain a Lasting and Mutually Satisfying Relationship

“So . . . this place is fun, right?”

“WHAT?”

“This place is fun, right?”

“SORRY, I CAN’T . . .”

“I said, ‘THIS PLACE IS FUN, RIGHT?’”

“THE MUSIC, IT’S [unintelligible] . . .”

“THIS PLACE! IS FUN! RIGHT?”

“EXCUSE ME, [unintelligible], I NEED TO FIND ONE OF MY FRIENDS.”

“OKAY! NICE TALKING TO YOU!”

“. . .”

“This place is fun. Right?”

Labor #49 – Make Informed Choices About Dietary Intake

“Quick question—is the Hollandaise sauce gluten-free?”

Labor #25 – Gain Meaningful Employment [cont’d]

“So I’m looking at your application, and under Personal References you wrote      . . .”

“Hades.”

“Right, Hades. Whose address is also . . .”

“Hades.”

“. . .”

“Yeah, that always confuses people. His name is Hades and he also lives in Hades.”

“I see.”

“Kind of like how George Washington lived in Washington.”

“. . .”

“Or how Flo Rida lives in Florida.”

“And this . . . Hades, his title is . . .”

“Lord of the Underworld.”

“But he has no phone number?”

“No, unfortunately—it’s the underworld, you know? The cell phone reception down there, as you can imagine . . .”

“I see.”

“Sure, sometimes the telecom companies make noise about expanding their service areas beyond the realm of the living. But then they start figuring out the logistics—the infrastructure costs, the crossing of rivers of fire and sorrow, the reluctance of subcontractors to forfeit their immortal souls . . . I think Verizon’s in talks with Hades and his legal team right now, but we’ll see. I’m certainly not holding my breath . . .”

“No email address either, huh?”

“Nope. The second personal reference should be easy to get a hold of, though.”

“Lil’ Bones.”

“Except don’t call him before noon. He’s not so receptive to phone inquiries that early in the morning.”

“I see.”

“Actually make it 1 pm or later, just to be safe.”

“Okay. And Lil’ Bones’s email address is . . .”

“LilB0neDezeBitchaz@hotmail.com.”

“I see.”

“Oh, and ‘Bone’ is actually spelled with a zero, not an O.”

“Of course. Well, we have your contact info, so . . .”

“That always confuses people.”

Labor #19 – Change Lanes on I-95

“Letmeinletmeinletmeinletmeinletmein . . .”

[Cars honking.]

“Letmeinletmeinletmeinletmeinletmein . . .”

[Cars honking.]

“HEY! SAME TO YOU, PAL!”

[Cars honking.]

“Letmeinletmeinletmeinletmeinletmein . . .”

Labor #36 – Attain a Lasting and Mutually Satisfying Relationship [cont’d]

“How about ‘Hero Seeks Heroine’? Is that too . . .”

“That’s a little . . .”

“Okay, we’ll figure out the subject line later. Let’s start with your description.”

“So, like, age, height, weight, that sort of thing?”

“Exactly.”

“Alright. Over two thousand years old . . .”

“How about we just put ‘Mature’?”

“Okay. Mature. I like that. Mature, 1.83 meters . . .”

“Six feet.”

“Fine. Mature, six feet tall . . . so weight in pounds then?”

“Right.”

“210 pounds, pure muscle.”

“Good. Or, ‘Athletic build.’ Now maybe list some of your interests, pursuits . . .”

“Interests, huh? Let’s see . . . I like quests.”

“I’ll put ‘Enjoys long walks.’”

“Feats of strength.”

“I’ll put ‘Sports fan.’”

“Slaying chthonic beasts.”

“I’ll put ‘Loves animals.’”

“What else?”

“I think that’s enough, for you. Now let’s focus on the woman. What you’re looking for, what you expect. Et cetera.”

“Okay. For starters . . . she should be pretty.”

“Of course.”

“But not too pretty. I don’t want any wars started over her.”

“I’ll put ‘Seeks attractive, real woman.”

“I’m too old for that shit.”

“What else?”

“She should be smart. And funny.”

“Good.”

“And kind. And compassionate. And loyal.”

“Good, good.”

“And she should never jealously poison me with centaurs’ blood.”

“Um . . .”

“And she should be immortal.”

“. . .”

“Because otherwise, why bother, right?”

“Well . . .”

“I mean, even if she’s perfect—especially if she’s perfect—I’ve got, what, fifty, sixty years, and then she’s gone. But I’m still here. The memory of her, the absence of her, gnawing at me every minute of every day.”

“Of course. I understand completely. But unfortunately . . .”

“I’ll want to die. I know I will. Like those old couples, how when one dies of cancer the other dies just weeks later, from a broken heart.”

“How about I put . . .”

“But I won’t die. That’s the bitch of it all.”

“You know, with the right diet, and the inevitable medical breakthroughs . . .”

“But then again, immortality is no guaranteed cakewalk either. Case in point my marriage to Hebe. Goddess of youth. What a disaster that was.”

“. . .”

“Oh who am I kidding? Right now I just really need to get laid.”

Labor #17 – Reach a Customer Service Representative

[Smooth jazz.]

“. . .”

[Smooth jazz.]

“. . .”

“Due to unusually high call volume, we are experiencing longer than normal wait times.”

“Cocksu . . .”

[Smooth jazz.]

“. . .”

[Smooth jazz.]

“. . .”

“Your satisfaction is important to us and we appreciate your patience.”

“Motherf . . .”

[Smooth jazz.]

“. . .”

[Smooth jazz.]

Labor #67 – Replace Ceramic Tile Tub and Shower Surround With Cultured Marble

“How my heart yearns for violence and blood.”

To be continued in Part Three: Ain’t No Party Like a Pembroke Pines Party

Photo by David Hoshor

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

Previous Lewis and Clark installments

Zach Danesh is a 23-year-old artist from a small town near Boston. Zach lived in Miami for half a decade and now resides in Brooklyn, NY. Zach’s debut graphic novel, Little Black Box, comes out in January, and samples of his previous work can be viewed at www.zachdanesh.com.

Previous Lewis and Clark installments

Zach Danesh is a 23-year-old artist from a small town near Boston. Zach lived in Miami for half a decade and now resides in Brooklyn, NY. Zach’s debut graphic novel, Little Black Box, comes out in January, and samples of his previous work can be viewed at www.zachdanesh.com.