by N. Godwin
Sirens Of
DemiMonde
The HalfWorld Trilogy
Book 1
By N. Godwin
Copyright © 2017 N.Godwin
All rights reserved.
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Table of Contents
HalfWorld
A Sunday in the Life of Jimmy-Sue Maddox
7 Deadly No Nos
The DemiMonde Café
Something to Consider
True Colors
Hide and Seek
Two Weeks Before the 4th
What’s in a Name?
Fireworks!
What You Should Know
Sheer Poetry
Truth or Dare
Fight or Flight
Secrets
Something More
Hubris
HalfWorld
June 7, 2001
Eunice never moves. Cross my heart. She merely sits in that corner over by the TV and the noisy ice machine, staring at the door. She’s always sitting there when I open in the morning; she’s always sitting there when I close up late at night.
Eunice sits in her cane chair, lobstered in her corner; ignoring, immobile, majestic in anti-drama. That she stares at the door has been the stuff of local legend for longer than most anybody can remember. You seldom hear the same story twice. Most claim her past is one great exclamation point. I tend to lean more towards a comma in repose, waiting for the last letter to surface before she decides.
Nobody who works here talks to Eunice but me, period. I am her mediator to life.
I know she has an apartment over the café because I deliver her laundry there and empty her occasional garbage. We all know she can walk though. We know this because she stands once a day to attend to her morning constitutionals and such. You know, go to the ladies room. Every morning at precisely 11:20 someone always pushes number 6 on the jukebox and plays It Don’t Come Easy, and Ringo Star readies the world for the sublime moment when Eunice pushes away from the table and stands to go ride the porcelain bus.
Killer-Ken’s even working on a composition about her remarkable consistency to sing for us over Labor Day weekend. Don’t let Killer’s name confuse you. Remember this; names can be decoys, cross my heart. See, Killer-Ken’s name is at the top of my Labor Day list. I mean this as the highest tribute because his heart is pure.
That’s Killer-Ken over there, plucking viciously at his trusty guitar while several of the girls from the strip-mall next door listen with flushed, adolescent skin. Ken won’t sing that ode to Eunice now though, not with her listening.
Eunice thinks she is precisely within her own right to sit, never moving, in her own “Jiminy-Cricket restaurant!” And that is precisely the song Killer is setting to music.
Most people don’t get Ken’s humor, but I do. I’ve spent months on end trying to figure out why that is exactly and have finally decided it’s just another one of life’s great mysteries, because there are many mysteries in my life I am not meant to understand. So, all I know is this: Killer-Ken was placed right here, right now in my life for a reason. Call it an omen, or fate, or circumstance by a higher design.
Some things are just simply beyond human reasoning, I know this first hand. Take blood for instance. Heredity can’t explain why one brother is so utterly different from the other, nor can environment. Every doctor, millionaire, or scholar I know has some dim-witted yahoo of a brother driving his lawnmower to church naked.
Some people blame the heat for all our many eccentricities. Ken thinks it’s on- account of where we’re placed. He says the reason we locals all prefer wide-open spaces and the feel of wind in our face is because of living here on the coast, with all this vast, endless sky and water, just gives people all sorts of interesting ideas, for better or worse.
Coastal people are a hard-working, hard-playing lot who’ve seen just about everything from the tourists who drift in and out to touch our beaches and stare out over our everlasting horizon. Due to our approximation to three major military establishments patriotism has never been lacking here. The more vocally patriotic of the crowd often have a Smith and Wesson displayed proudly on their coffee table. Coastal people are great crowd- parters. Stir a generous heaping of Southern tradition in the potion and all types of independent thoughts arise.
This is the real McCoy here, the flag-waving, baby-kissing, no taxation without honest-to-God representation. Life is day to day, tourist season to tourist season. Issues are wrong or right, and Elvis was Jesus’ second cousin, twice removed. Here, we seem to be a little lost without the communist threat looming over our heads anymore and are genuinely confused by the hot winds blowing in from the east. We’re a year into this new millennium now and I see too much change on the horizon which I don’t think I’m going to like much.
Here is where gospel and Hank William’s spent their teenage summers. Here is where the leader of the free world is often decided, which could explain why most people seldom get my humor, either. Like Eunice, to them I am this mystery of sound and sight, an untouchable freak of nature.
Killer-Ken once wrote a song to spread the rumor that he and I were co-captains on our high school debate team because we like to debate various topics of our day for no good reason other than to add clarity to the chaos around us. But I think everyone knew Ken was just being kind because I’m pretty-much stupid. Figures of authority have long thought so.
I like to think Ken and I have matured in the two years since high school. He tells me that college is not for me, that it isn’t meant to be for everyone, and that I should pack up, hit Australia or Tahiti and utilize my sublime contradictory advantage.
Randy thinks both Killer-Ken and I are odd ducks. Ah, Randy, piss and vinegar that one, with mere hints of redeeming qualities hiding in there, somewhere deep down, real deep. Randy is a glaring juxtaposition to Killer Ken’s awesomness. Randy is also unable to see the sublime in Eunice’s simple refusal to budge. Of course, Killer has never tried to kiss me. Randy tries all the time. Fortunately, I don’t have to put up with Randy too often. In real life he’s a copy-reader at the Herald, so he only works the hot months, on weekends and every single, solitary holiday. We accept this dreaded certainty with surprising humor. I suppose because everyone knows Randy is alone and has no family to speak of. Well, none who aren’t quadrupeds. He’s into dogs. Randy’s wallet is full of pictures of his dogs, both living and dead. He believes they are his closet kin. He believes that he is perfectly sane and charming. He sleeps with 6 dogs. He is number 6 on my Labor Day list, seeing how his contrary nature makes him a natural born contender and all.
Randy tells me that I’m too stupid to do anything except multiply and be fruitful. He and Killer-Ken detest one another, mainly because Randy can’t understand why someone with an IQ of 175 has no desire to play the market, beat the house in
Vegas, or have sexual relations with every girl on the beach.
Randy has even written a poem about Ken and threatens to read it at the next poetry bash; every week, same threat. Let’s see, it goes something like this:
Weird and lanky silent dude
Nothing’s more important to you
Than food.
Easy to see why your folks kicked you out
You’re nothing but an over-rated lout
“Killer” this
“Killer” that.
Think you’re brains are all
Squished flat.
Ride that wave, catch a thriller
Such a friggin’ airhead, Killer.
Anyway, it goes in that direction.
Killer just doesn’t care about nonsense. He is the coolest person I know, even though during a conversation he seldom says more than “Killer” (hence his nickname), unless he’s singing. If he has anything important to say (and he has some doozies), it usually comes up in one of his songs eventually.
Ken refused to speak to Randy from the very start. Now, at least Ken will acknowledge Randy with a nod and a “Killer” on most occasions.
“Afternoon, Ken.”
“Killer.”
“Yo, Ken. What’s your opinion on this technology rally? Bubble or--”
“Killer.”
“Hey, Ken. Had me a hot date into this morning with--”
“Killer!”
This goes on for hours sometimes until Randy slams down something or other on his bar and stalks outside to smoke. Don’t bother telling Randy he’s just jealous or something because he’ll always reeducate you with your most obvious flaw, like you’re stupid, or zit-encrusted, or fat, because he always goes for the obvious. He is not the brightest bulb in any socket. Never-the-less, I’ve sworn not to allow prejudice to cloud my judgment. Like it or not, Randy’s on my list. I’m sure I’ll get brownie points in heaven or something.
Randy first showed up here when he was fifteen, back before this place was the DemiMonde, and he just keeps on coming back. We’ve never figured out why exactly. It certainly isn’t for Eunice because they barely acknowledge one another. We don’t let him sleep here anymore or anything. God’s knows he’s got to be pushing forty! We all just tolerate him. I think that’s why he keeps coming back.
Randy has these plans. He’d kill to get published, just one little word even. We know he tends our bar to pay off all his creditors, and God knows he owes lots of angry people money in a typical week, but, still, he’s got these plans.
Killer-Ken is going to Princeton this fall on a full academic scholarship, right down to room and board and stipend. Killer, huh? He’s actually kept them waiting for two years while he wallows around here taking every course imaginable at the local community and Vo-Tech colleges so he can hang out a while longer with us, with me and the Halflings while he tracks some undiscovered cosmic anomaly through the heavens.
Princeton for pity sake! Wouldn’t his parents get a kick in the pants over that one? See, they moved away when he was thirteen and somehow forgot to wake him up and take him along.
The classic throw away scenario. That’s how Ken came here to the DemiMonde and became our resident sage and my best friend, because, because darn-it all to Hades and back, I’m allowed to have friends!
Right?
Either way, I’m doing it.
So, anyway, college decided against me. I’m amazed they let me graduate high school. Once I was finally allowed to go to public school I never took one math class, not a single solitary class because I’d previously had the misfortune of being introduced to algebra when I was thirteen. Frankly speaking, things have gone downhill ever since. I have hated algebra as much as algebra has hated me. It’s a neon sign you know, flashing and sparking and singeing the oxygen right out of the room. Yeah, even I get it.
I’m told I take everything too literally, literally. My simple mind wants to take every miniscule detail and pick it to death until my right side has confused my left side, and power surges mount and flicker and the warning signals pulsate beet-red just behind my corneas, which, of course, cause a circuitry overload until I want to swear!
Figures of authority do not appreciate these power surges. So, I just read and listen. But, it’s okay; I’m organizing a game plan. Otherwise, apparently, it will be organized for me, and who in her right mind would want that?
Sometimes I piss off Eunice. She tells me I have to make arrangements for myself, that the world is just plumb gaga over women nowadays and I need to plug in.
Is that ripe, or what?
Eunice says I need to embrace the world and that God won’t smack me dead if I do, and that she’d “kill to be free, white, and almost 21.” I don’t even know which one of those to address first.
Eunice doesn’t like to debate with me or with anyone for that matter. Her opinion is gospel, she doesn’t care what you think, so you can see how it isn’t much fun presenting her with your point of view and all. Not like it is with Ken since we pick a new topic every week, research it then have at it, always striving for the subtle, for the sheer intelligent poetry of words without the hurt. Because deep down into our souls we know that whoever said words can never hurt you was a liar.
And sometimes, when the wind is on our side and the moon weaves a taunting shadow over our little corner of the beach, our Halflings will surprise us and join in our game of words, then we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that God’s still in His heaven and alls right with the world.
Which is always nice and all, until my alarm clock rings. Because, back here in my world, I turn over in my sleep and my Halflings come. God in heaven, how they come. It’s not like Eunice has a 9 line or anything, they just intuitively seem to know to come here, lead by intuition, desperation, or divinity. It’s anybody’s guess.
Nobody knows for certain when Halflings first started showing up here. It’s another one of those mysteries, yet more speculation as we seem to be the stuff of speculation. Which I accept as our destiny of sorts, but sometimes, when I relax control for a moment (which is very dangerous), what I sincerely wonder is whether or not, just maybe, we’ve always been standing right here in the shadows of our own ghosts. Seriously, what if the names may change but the faces really do remain the same?
That’s Freckles-the-beer-man over there talking with Eunice. He’s number 5 on my list. He is one kind and funny guy. He always tells us jokes, clean humor which is rare. He’s the original Good Samaritan. I’ve seen him slip a week’s pay into the donation jar when he thought nobody was looking. He’s shown up here over the years with a dozen new Halflings, ones he finds in the saddest of places. He even adopted a down-syndrome baby from Dothan who turned around and died on him two years later. They say his wife went crazy after that baby-boy died and, true to Freckles form, he takes care of her now, too.
Freckles devotion to the Halflings must cost him. I’ve seen him on more than one occasion sitting outside in his truck, sobbing like a baby. But his eyes are always dry when he comes back inside.
Freckles is, like, the understanding father that none of us ever had but legend insists exists. We watch him with careful fascination.
Have you ever seen so many freckles on a black guy in all your life? Randy say’s Freckle’s has to be part white on account of all those freckles and because he’s so soft-hearted and all. Randy insists that no full-grown black man is capable of liking kids since they are genetically incapable of being monogamous. On the other hand, he says black women just love babies, which is why they have so many for him to support. I write Randy’s paycheck, he can barely support himself let alone a village.
Eunice confuses Randy. But, then, you know Randy. If you’re not white and male your reason for existence is suspect. And since Eunice is neither and couldn’t care less about kids, red, white, or blue, she’s got him totally baffled.
Good old Freckles (bless his heart) just blows all of Randy’s asinine theories straight to Hades and back.
Even if Freckles weren’t one fine dude, I’d love him for that reason alone.
We see Freckles often. Even though we’re just a small café, this place goes through massive quantities of beer. Locals love this place. They come to eat, drink, and leave their quarters in our jar. Most of them feel sorry for the refuse Eunice takes in. Since we seem to be a barometer, many locals come here to take the pulse of the outside world. Some come to ferret out easy prey or check the battered faces for a familiar smile or two.
Human nature is nothing if not symbiotic, host and parasite. I’m only twenty but I ask you again and again, which is which?
Many tourists come to the DemiMonde expecting synthetic smiles to go along with their hand-patted cheeseburgers and fried shrimp. What they find here is real life served-up instead and they leave as fast as they can. They don’t want to see our mess on vacation. But many stay on to buy the convenience store next door, the dive shop down the road, or one of the new condos stealing our light and wind.
I think the DemiMonde represents Florida in all her tacky, razzle-dazzle glory. Florida is the hip, the now, where you’re being carried without even knowing it. The café isn’t really just a café, literally speaking. It’s under the radar, to be sure, but it’s a mega-spot, a communion of sinners who would be saints, and a licensed sanctuary. Everyone says the DemiMonde has a surreal feel to it, with neon lights, a consortium of confused music blaring from jukeboxes or the overhead speakers, or a random musician who blows in with the fickle winds and out on the constant tides. There are bicycles and motorcycles and Mercedes and pickup trucks parked in our oyster shell parking lot at all times. The menu is a little of this, a smidgeon of that, with plenty of Southern cuisine and local seafood. It smells like it was marinated in Budweiser for fifty years with a heaping of garlic and shrimp thrown in for good measure, and it smells like home to me.
This place had no name until I darkened the doorstep here that chaotic summer day five years back. One step ahead of that storm, it’s true, but something called out to me then, literally, and wind propelled me inside this particular door at that particular moment in time. There was something in the air that night, too, something off-kilter, with lost and hungry people crowding every nook and cranny, just standing, waiting for someone to attend them, waiting for something besides the surly bartender and beer. From that first moment I’d stepped inside this half world, the air was cool and inviting and I could breathe for the first time in my life. Like me, here were kindred spirits on a journey to somewhere else, and I knew I’d found sanctuary.
