The Complete Zagzagel Diaries

by Bryl R. Tyne

  “Kinda chilly out tonight,” he said, hands still tucked inside his pockets. “Was thinking ‘bout heading to the canteen…uhm…your family again?”

  Bret looked away, toward where I stood, invisible, waiting. “No family is more like it. Not anymore.”

  I let out a long-held exhale, as Eric withdrew his pocketed hands.

  He removed his suit jacket and draped it across Bret’s shoulders. Bret embraced him with the same intensity that had touched me moments earlier. Despite the pangs of envy that recoiled my insides, I rallied. Just do it!

  Bolder, with a sense of urgency, Bret leaned up and kissed him. Lips searching, tongue seeking, hands reassuring, as if to confirm both men stood, in the flesh, on that windswept rooftop—as if to confirm he was truly alive. Eric accepted the desperate move with a smile as they parted.

  About Bret’s boss—I was right. Wasn’t I always?

  “Hot chocolate?” Eric asked, securing Bret under arm. “It’s on me.”

  Heh. Hot chocolate. Apparently, he knew Bret almost as well as I did. Almost.

  “Offer still stands,” he said. “Got plenty of room…” He led Bret inside.

  With the shut of the steel door, the two disappeared, looking quite comfortable in each other’s company. Relieved beyond measure, a good part of me was, but another part, a much larger part, was rent into pieces of resentment laced with an edge of bitterness. Did I mention I hated my job?

  Ensuring my armaments intact, I set off for counsel with Big Papa. Regardless his majesty’s apathetic stance, I knew he’d revel in every detail—each moment-by-moment replay.

  Damn it. I had one hell of a lot of explaining to do.

  Denial

  Swear to God…

  I closed my eyes, certain Deena had not meant the thought.

  Though Big Papa frowned on reason, I made note to later offer the most valid one I could conjure on her behalf. One never knew with him. Maybe this time he would relish me with praise for my show of compassion. Then again, maybe not. My halo did hang a bit askew, according to the Big Cheese; that is, if I’d choose to don the ridiculous thing, which I never had and, if I continued to have my way, never would.

  From my vantage point, perched atop the wrought iron fence a couple of yards outside her john’s window, I was privy to Deena’s thoughts—and her mood, which radiated as strongly as her latest john’s stench from the situation, both consuming the lavishly furnished bedroom. I only hoped she took him for a pretty penny.

  Panties on, she threw on her blouse, buttoning from the top down, while trading blow for verbal blow with the man stretched across the bed. Other than the coyness in his jibes, I was sure from his leisurely repose, he basked from one rather enjoyable evening—thus far.

  “I don’t care, Tom. I make the rules.” After fastening the last button on her shirt, she wriggled some blood-red number up and over her hips. One yank on the zipper and the skirt, which appeared no more than a four-inch strip of leather, was secured in place.

  In my entire existence, I’d never witnessed one of my charges adorn clothing this fast. A loin cloth covered more; of that I was certain. The party looked to be just warming up… I settled back on my haunches, preening my feathers.

  Heels on, matching jacket whipped into the air, one arm in— “Damn it, Tom.” She tugged on half the jacket still in her possession—her john reciprocating the tug with a bit stronger force. “We don’t have to go through this again, do we?”

  “Don’t we?” His toned mocked hers to the extreme as he tugged harder on the empty sleeve.

  Apparently, success didn’t equate to class.

  She fell against him and, with a huff, squirmed out of the jacket, shoved away, and headed for the door. Her jacket swayed back and forth in his grip. “Oh, come on, Deena.”

  Humans…such a complicated lot.

  Why hadn’t I leapt to her assistance, you ask? Give me a break. At any moment, the former self-defense instructor, which resided tucked neatly away, would resurface. Trust me. I’d seen this human female in action, many times. Tough was an understatement, but she was no less vulnerable, especially to herself.

  “Come on. Just one kiss.” With his body, her john barred the door.

  Mere feet from him, Deena halted her exit without a word, removed a bobby pin from her hair, and placed it between pressed lips. Stupid fucker, her only thought.

  Once again, her thoughts proved more vivid than her words. Priceless. I’d enjoyed the past twenty-six years over this one. Though she was utterly clueless—as are most humans; though don’t get me wrong—a dull moment around Deena was often hard to find. Damned if watching her didn’t evoke the strongest urge for an old-fashioned bucket of movie popcorn. As always, she put on one hell of a show. Rivaled the great Cleopatra—you know, the queen of ‘de Nile’? If only Deena knew.

  After smoothing her shoulder-length mane, she gathered and twisted it into a fancy knot behind her head. “Get out of my way, Tom.”

  “What’s wrong with asking for—?”

  “Enough! We’ve been through this. Every time I’m ready to leave, you—Listen. I’ve had enough.” Hair in place, she held out her hand, beckoning for her jacket.

  Ooh…that painted glare could rattle Medusa’s serpents.

  “Boundaries, Tom. Rules.” With an exasperated sigh, she grabbed at her jacket—the tug-of-war rekindled full force.

  “You’ll swallow, but you won’t kiss! Give me a fucking—”

  Holy Mother of—She gave it to him, all right. Even as battle-seasoned as I was, I cringed at the force her roundhouse kick inflicted.

  Healthy war-wound the side of his temple, her john lay out cold to the right of the door. Whoever had proclaimed heels a disadvantage, didn’t know my Deena. She retrieved her inadvertently discarded jacket, flung it over her shoulders, and opened the door. With a disgust-filled expression, she gazed upon her john with a scornful, final exhale. “I’m afraid we will no longer be doing business.”

  * * *

  They say there’s a first time for everything, but with wind-battered wings and G-forces jostling me to and fro on each turn, my attempts to remain concealed took great effort. I vowed, I’d never hitch a ride in another convertible—hardtop retracted—as long as I…well, for eternity if you wanted to get technical.

  In the passenger seat, silent and invisible to any human eye, I remained as Deena screeched her Ferrari California into its designated spot. Unmoving, with a hand on the wheel, the other on the shifter, she stared out over the hood. One second later, she smacked the wheel proclaiming, “Stupid Bastard!” and the next, she snatched up her pocketbook and rummaged for—

  Cosmetics?

  Like I said, never a dull moment.

  Powder fresh, she untwisted the mascara brush from its tube, gave it a couple of dips, adjusted the rearview mirror, and then began stroking the gooey thickener onto her lashes. She continued, undisturbed, until a movement from under the building’s shadowed eaves caught both her and my attention.

  Her makeup returned to the pocketbook in typical Deena fashion—at lightning speed. Morphing from don’t-fuck-with-me tough to unbridled terror, in less time than it took her to blink, her gaze fixed on the figure moving rapidly along the walkway and in our direction.

  “Shit!” She whispered the quiet exclamation, but an exclamation nonetheless, as she threw her pocketbook my way.

  I deflected the stuffed bag onto the floorboard as the figure emerged beneath the glow of a fancy street lamp. Deena was correct. Oh, shit. My turn to silently exclaim, as I materialized to stand outside the car just as Deena ducked, her head landing in what would have surely been my lap had I not taken the evasive action.

  Deena’s upscale neighbor of about a year, a creature who took pride in her Rubenesque figure, strolled past, her evening gown’s layers of deep violet flowing with each elegantly heeled step. She entered her Audi S3 and exited the gated lot without commotion. Of all things earthly, I knew my cars. Though Deena�
�s ride by far outclassed her neighbor’s, apparently, that didn’t compensate for their owners.

  Unscathed, Deena arose from both her Ferrari and the incident, but I failed to understand her flightiness. Security card in hand, she entered the apartment building and raced to the elevators. If not for my wisdom, I would have made my exit, with my ward now safe at home for the night.

  But, no.

  Against my better, however personal, judgment, I followed, joining her ascent in the elevator. Though Deena polished her cold-hearted presentation for the world, I knew her needs and her better than she knew herself. Still…how I would handle the forthcoming situation adequately while adhering to Papa’s don’t-touch—don’t-tell rule, I hadn’t a clue. Knowing Deena and her need to speak with her touch, I wouldn’t come away clean. Not with this one. Chalk one up for the Big Guy. Why he insisted on entrusting me with the most difficult wards, to this day, I wondered.

  I left her cursing and fumbling with her keys as I entered her penthouse apartment. No doors needed, not for me. One of the many advantages I held over these lesser beings. Admittedly, though, the opportune time hadn’t arrived to make my appearance. Deena wasn’t ready…not yet.

  With a slam of the door, she kicked off her heels, then retrieved and stashed them in her closet-just-for-shoes, alongside her thousands of others. I don’t think I’ll ever comprehend the human quest for bigger—better—best, but enjoying the city view through her wraparound windows, I reckoned this place was near heavenly.

  Two glasses of wine downed, blouse and hose discarded to the carpet, leather skirt slung over the back of a chair, she poured a third glass and retrieved her PDA. Nothing spectacular, from her perspective or from mine—but don’t get me wrong. While her features were admired as well as envied by many, she just wasn’t my type, as you humans say.

  As my time ticked away, her readiness to receive me loomed closer. She padded into her bathroom, verifying her appointments as she cranked on her sauna-jetted pool of a tub.

  With the tub full, she slipped out of her panties and, with unfinished business on her PDA in one hand—a glass of wine in the other, stepped into the tub.

  I slipped into the bubbly warmth at the opposite end, wings held high and out of the water’s reach. Nice…. Been a long while since I’d partaken of a hot bath, of course my feathers could always use a good steaming—

  Horror etched across her brow as her foot brushed mine, my cue to appear. “Water and electronics seldom mix. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Her wine flew one direction and the electronic instrument she found so encompassing moments before, her PDA, made a distinct, wet plunk as she leapt up and out of the tub with the speed of a retracting cobra.

  “What the—Who the—Get. Out!” She screamed, snagging a towel from the stand.

  Sorry, was the one word I should have used at the time, but I knew a single jar, no matter how abrupt, would not put as much as a dent in the walls Deena had so carefully devised.

  “Get out of my apartment! Now!”

  Hated to inform her, but no can do. I arose from the water, braving increasing decibels of panic. “You need me.”

  A moment of stunned silence was all my statement earned.

  “I’m calling the police,” she said, marching from the room.

  I met her in the main room, handing her the pocketbook and the dripping, dead PDA from my perch on the lounge. “Captain’s name was highlighted as one of your favorites if I recall.” The look in her eyes as she grabbed the items told me we were almost there…. “Good tipper, was he?”

  Incensed, belongings and towel forgotten on the floor, she struck. I parried, toppling from the arm of the lounge, but regained my footing. With a growl of contempt, leg straight and high, she whirled…

  …and arms to her side, the bared flesh of her back pressed to my chest, incapacitated by my embrace, she screamed through clenched teeth. “Damn you! What do you want with me?”

  “I told you. You need me.”

  From her sudden stillness, I thought maybe she’d been broken; maybe my presence had begun to sink in.

  “I don’t need anyone…but, you already knew that about me, didn’t you?”

  Her shift in tone sprung all available red flags, but I was hard-pressed—not literally—though, one minute longer pressed firmly against and moving in sync with those well-practiced gyrations and MISSION FAILED would be scored permanently across the annuls of her history and mine. “I know you don’t really want this, Deena.”

  “You sound awful sure, for someone in your position.” Her words continued as controlled as those wicked, wicked hips—all lines between charlatan and jezebel blurred.

  Papa help me…. I released her, stepping away. My sudden departure left her staggering offbeat, sinking lifeless to the carpet. No outburst. No rehearsed comeback. She curled, almost fetal-like, and softly wept.

  I retrieved her robe from the bedroom and covered her. “Come on, young one—Up. Get up.”

  As she rose, she turned her tearful, raccoon-masked gaze to mine. “Why?” she asked, voice trembling in the mass of confusion as she awkwardly slipped into her robe.

  A box of tissue set on a side table. I handed it to her. “You’re not meant to be unhappy.”

  She motioned, her arm sweeping the room. “Do I look unhappy to you?” She hiccupped, dabbing at the streaked makeup before blowing her nose…. “Never mind—Don’t answer that.”

  Introspection was good…so was a quick recovery. I hoped, in this case.

  On her feet, tissue discarded, she retrieved two wine glasses from the cupboard and filled them both to the rim. “Care for a drink?”

  How long had it been since the fermented fruit touched my lips? I couldn’t recall but accepted her offer. I sipped, and from her seat at the bar, she threw it back, but I understood.

  “Who are you, again?”

  She was ready. “Name’s Zagzagel. But friends call me Zag.” With pride, I proclaimed one of the few lines that held none of Big Papa’s inhibitions.

  “And you’re here to…?”

  “Help you find truth.”

  She balanced on the base of the stool, stretched over the bar, and retrieved a pack of smokes and an ashtray. Go ahead, baby…. Lord knows—hell, I knew, she was going to need the calming effects.

  “Do you mind?” she asked, already lighting one up.

  “Not at all.”

  A plume of exhaled smoke rose in the air as she turned my way. “So? Spit it out.”

  If it were only that easy. “Listen, Deena…it’s not like—”

  “I get it. Okay?” She crushed out the cigarette with a heavy sigh. “You’re an angel of God sent here to warn me about my evil ways—that I will surely go to hell for my whoring around—yada, yada, yada….”

  My shoulders drooped, just a little, as I shook my head. I’d never hear the end of this from Big Papa. He wouldn’t understand her need—the human need—of touch; much less, would he try. But as I met her gaze, I didn’t care if I ended facing him head on, like two rams butting horns. “Come here,” I said.

  She stood, only a hint of trepidation on her face, and met me in front of the sheer-paneled windows. “What?”

  Arms outstretched, I beckoned her. “Come here, Deena.”

  She melted into my embrace but did not return it. I held her, rocked her gently. “Feels good, no?”

  With a slight nod, she relaxed in my arms.

  “Why do you do what you do, Deena?”

  “I don’t know.” The whispered untruth flitted over my skin.

  “Why do you degrade yourself so?”

  Her body stiffened, but she didn’t pull away. “I don’t know.”

  I brought her head to nestle under my chin. “You do want love, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” The simple answer sounded choked as it left her lips.

  I hesitated, meaning to soothe. “But not with a man, right?”

  “How’d you—” In an instant, she pulled out of
reach. “I mean, no—” She adjusted her robe, gaze heavy. “I mean….” She began to pace. “I don’t know.” Her clipped answers were more than expected.

  I fell in step. “But you do know, don’t you, Deena?”

  Without breaking stride, she turned on me and shoved me square in the chest. “Who would want this?” She made a sweeping motion over her lower body, then whipped around to face the main room. “I didn’t get here by shaking hands. What woman would want me?” She whirled around, but shock and confusion marred her expression, for I was no longer there.

  “Zag?”

  “Those who matter, won’t mind…now, get dressed.”

  Her movements out of sync, she’d donned a pair of khakis and a tank top just as her cell phone beeped. She answered with a quick hello. “I’m headed down, now.” Then she snapped the phone shut, slipped into a pair of flip-flops, and hustled out the door.

  * * *

  Hood dented, paint scratched, windows shattered, Deena gaped at her Ferrari left in shambles.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. A Miss Karen Porter,” the police officer motioned to Deena’s neighbor propped against the quarter panel of a cruiser, blanket about her shoulders, hand bandaged, “says, you’re the owner?”

  With a quick ‘Yes,’ Deena headed for the cruiser, leaving the officer scratching his head.

  “What—Are you all right?”

  Deena’s neighbor let out a raucous chuckle. “Sorry about your car. If I’d gotten home sooner—”

  Her neighbor’s hand softly held, Deena brushed over the bandaged knuckles. “What happened?”

  Despite a brief protest from the attending officer, Karen shrugged off the blanket, stretching the fingers of her bandaged hand. “Stupid bastard breeched security…must have something against Ferraris.”

  Though Deena knew to which “stupid bastard” her neighbor referred, she stood, numb, unwilling to expound on her assumption.

  “Thought he’d turn his crowbar on me when I confronted him, he did. But to his chagrin, I’m sure, I got one helluva left hook.”

  From her haughty speech, I concluded that I needed to rethink all I knew of the vehicle—owner relationship. Heels abandoned next to the cruiser, Karen swung an arm around Deena’s back. “Between you and me—” She leaned to Deena’s ear. “That crowbar came in pretty handy. Won’t be on his feet anytime soon, I’ll guarantee you that much.”