Sirens of DemiMonde

by N. Godwin

  “It’s thirty-five times heavier than the fifth quark,” the older one is telling the other men.

  “Yes, absolutely massive,” the young engineer seated beside him says while I try and size up what this pasty-white, man-cub (in glasses that make his eyes appear five times bigger than they really are) would actually eat. He barely looks seventeen.

  “One trillionth the size of a strand of hair is still not massive by most standards,” the uniformed man jokes as I stare at the young engineer momentarily confused by whether he ate out of necessity or for fun? I need to let him speak again before deciding.

  “Well, they were idiots; it took them seventeen years to find it!” he argues back.

  Ah, necessity. I figure him to be the tofu on whole wheat and place the plate in front of him as he ignores me entirely.

  “But you forget the size was deceptive because of the energy required to produce it,” the kind older one says. “Good God, these shrimp and grits are to die for,” he says and closes his eyes as he takes another bite.

  I inadvertently set the tabooli salad and gumbo in front of the soldier as he begins to speak. “Only because the subatomic particles took--”

  He stops mid sentence and when he looks up at me he appears to be as surprised as I am. I’m unsure why he’s startled me because I don’t really know the guy, just saw him once at the beach and named him Apollo. He called me smart then because I look like such a genius in my bikini.

  “Well, hello there, Helen,” Apollo offers with a brilliant grin as I scowl back at him.

  The annoying teenager suddenly appears back in front of me. This time he is jittery and nervous and I can tell he’s got big bucks riding on this outcome.

  “Okay,” he says to me in rapid fire, ignoring the men seated at the table. “I got me a hundred bucks burning a big hole in my pocket right alongside my big-ole Johnson.” He pauses to snicker then in after thought quickly shields his face and ducks. “So far so good,” he says as I stare at him while he lowers his hands and straightens back up. “Okay, so if you’ll just even walk out the door with me for, hell, five minutes even, I’ll give it to you. Sound good?”

  “How old are you?”

  “You ain’t gonna slap me again are you?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Twenty-two,” he lies, standing his tallest.

  “You’re wearing thin,” I say, “very thin.”

  He looks back at his group of friends and begins to fidget. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you just gimme a phone number. Come on,” he coaxes, “a hundred bucks to buy yourself something pretty.”

  I rap my nails against the top of the table and find myself getting downright ornery. I think about smacking him again just because then remind myself I am a pacifist. “Sure,” I say and reach into my apron for a pen and paper. I hand him the number.

  “Sweet!” he exclaims and thumbs up his friends. He reaches over and gives me a big wet kiss on the side of my face and lets his crisp hundred dollar bill float down onto the table. “I’ll call you later, babe!” He rushes back over to his friends who are high-fiving each other and jumping all over the place.

  I keep rubbing my face, rubbing it hard. I can still feel the slimy burn from his saliva on my skin. I inadvertently run my hand across the damp surface of a glass of water on the table and wipe the cool condensation across my cheek as I rub harder, as hard as I can.

  “Hobie!” I yell above the noise as I grab the money from the table.

  “Yeah, girlfriend?” Hobie asks swooping by the table with an empty tray of beer mugs.

  I hold out the money. “Please put this in the donation jar,” I say and rub the last residue of slim away.

  Hobie sees the hundred dollar bill and smiles big and nods his head. “Suckers!” he laughs as he takes the money and heads back inside.

  I hear Roy Orbison and momentarily close my eyes listening to his sad prophetic words, trying to clear my head. Sometimes when everything in my head spins carelessly out of control, clarity is achieved through music. But his song about lost love being beautiful makes no sense to me. I open my eyes and as I start to move away Apollo addresses me again. I had forgotten they were here, watching and listening to everything.

  “That phone number you just gave him,” Apollo says with an amused smile, “local prayer line?”

  “Nope, Rid-a-Pest, our bug man.”

  The table breaks out into a round of laughter, all except for the young pasty engineer who surveys me with a critical frown. “That wasn’t fair!” he insists.

  “It was literal.” I shrug.

  “Literally feminine!” he scoffs.

  He observes me with scorn as I study him and tap my finger against my lip. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Harold would it?” I ask slowly, deliberately.

  “No. Jeffrey. Why?”

  “You look more like a Harold.”

  “What does a Harold look like?” Apollo wants to know.

  “Like him, obviously.” I shrug, “Do y’all need anything else?”

  “So, you wait tables here, Helen?” Apollo seems interested in my answer because he’s leaned his huge body back in his chair as he studies my every detail, my shoes, my note pad, my paperback tucked in my apron pocket.

  “Is there something wrong with waiting tables, Commander?” I guess from his stripes, noticing his missing name tag, the gold insignia eagle and trident pin across his broad chest, but mainly I notice just how massive this man is.

  “It’s Lieutenant Commander.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I’ll bet waiting tables drains you. It doesn’t seem to suit your chemistry somehow,” Apollo says shaking his head. “Too much outside inter--”

  “Sorry, but the role of misogynist engineer is being played by Jeffrey this evening,” I say as Jeffrey sputters in my direction. “And by the way, Commander –“

  “Lieutenant Commander.”

  “Uh huh, there are no Helens working at the DemiMonde. I have a name. It’s--”

  “Ssh,” he whispers as he raises his finger to his lips. “Don’t tell me. I prefer to think of you as Helen.”

  As I sigh over his particular nonsense the other two men go back to their discussion about the length of time the top quark is visible. I tune into the sailor seated before me, thinking how his powerful body belies the calm in his eyes. His large hands grip the arms of his chair as he waits for me to speak. I’ll admit I am intrigued so I cock my eyebrow to signify this.

  “Helen?” I finally ask.

  “Yeah, you look like you could start a war, or two.” His black eyes twinkle with the taunt but his handsome face is serious, too serious.

  I laugh anyway, good and loud and can’t seem to stop myself. “It’s just— it’s just--” I begin and break off.

  My laughter seems to intrigue him and he takes a long gulp of his beer as if expecting me to continue, which I won’t because how in the heck can I tell him that I’d gone and named him Apollo? The gods are up there howling tonight. As I control my laughter his engineer buddies are staring at us again.

  “Anyway,” I say bringing my laughter back under control, “Helen wasn’t to blame for that war, Commander. Menelaus was at fault for being so dull. As a Greek he should have known better than to marry a goddess then bore her to death. What other outcome could he possibly expect?”

  “How absolutely like a woman to over simplify an entire war,” Jeffrey says. “Next she’s going to tell us that Ulysses wasn’t the victim of a woman’s scorn and simply got lost.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and looks around the table for support.

  I pick up the wine bottle and begin to open it. “You mean Odysseus, don’t you? Ulysses was the Roman version of the myth. Odysseus was the Greek, as was Homer, its author. So, if you’re referring to The Odyssey it should be Greek, technically speaking.” Heck, even I know that. I pop the cork and hand it to Apollo for his inspection.

  Apo
llo silences them with a laugh fit for his namesake. I can picture this dude rolling around Mount Olympus on silk pillows being fed grapes by a gaggle of naked nymphs. Yuck. Now that stupid image is stuck in my head!

  Before giving his approval of the wine, he shakes the cork at me and offers another taunt. “What about Paris? Wasn’t he the least little bit to blame for the Trojan War?”

  “Hum,” I say. “He contributed as a certain timely, albeit aggressive, vehicle. But ultimately Paris was just another pretty face, surface matter. Gets old fast, don’t you think?”

  Apollo leans forward in his chair and clasps his hands together resting his chin on them, giving my words careful consideration. “Yes,” he answers slowly. “Yes, I do.”

  “So you’re saying Paris was at the right place at the right time?” The nice older engineer wants to know.

  “Oh no! I’d say he was at the wrong place at the wrong time,” I insist then pause contemplating one of nature’s biggest mysteries. “I am continually amazed at the caliber of man who will die for a little…sex.”

  “Why, Helen, what an enlightening choice of a verb,” Apollo allows looking at my face but not my eyes. “Although some might call it… love.”

  “Hum? Equally enlightening, Commander, although some might call your verb a noun.”

  Finally, full unadulterated eye contact with Apollo. His eyes are dark and keen, the eyes of a skilled warrior toying with his inferior adversary, just like this guy likes it, just like this guy’s probably always had it. Except for one thing, his cheeks are flushed and for a moment a flicker of something else crosses his face, and I step back.

  Jeffrey bangs on the table: “Lieutenant Commander, this is precisely the problem!” he rages. “One moment we’re debating the secrets of the universe then along comes a beautiful woman and we start talking war!”

  “Yeah,” I laugh. “Ain’t it great?” I turn to leave them chocking on their beer.

  “No, wait, Helen,” Apollo says standing slowly. He pulls out the chair beside him, motioning to me. “Please join us.”

  “Please,” the nice engineer insists with a wave of his hand. “We’re discussing the sixth quark. What are your thoughts on it?”

  “Yeah,” Jeffrey laughs. “Tell us your opinion.”

  “Tell him, dear,” the other engineer says, “Einstein here doesn’t think a woman’s capable of anything that he is. Tell him you know what we’re doing.”

  I look at Jeffrey’s beady, hungry eyes and can smell my own blood as Blue begins to howl. He knows he’s my intellectual superior, he can smell it all over me. I can’t seem to move and I’m breathing funny.

  Do I know what they’re doing? No! They’re doing everything I can’t! Do I know what they’re doing? Oh yes, I most certainly do.

  “You’re talking to God,” I say softly as I bend down and scoop up Blue from around Apollo’s ankle and walk away as fast as I can.

  “What the hell did that mean?” I hear Jeffrey ask.

  “It means you lost that round, too, Einstein!” Apollo laughs.

  “Wait, come back!” the nice engineer pleads. “You’re wonderful! Come back, Helen!”

  Genie steps in front of me quickly, blocking my easy exit. “You stole my table!” she accuses angrily.

  “And you may have it back,” I say putting down the cat who immediately begins to howl and to try and wrap himself around my ankles.

  I wind my way around the tables but Genie wants to follow me in a rage. “I ain’t sharing--”

  “I’m not sharing.”

  “--my tip with you!”

  “Keep it.”

  “Bitch!” she says. A moment later she crashes into Hobie.

  “That b-word is going cost you five dollars!” Hobie laughs at Genie, holding out his palm. “Put five big ones in the swearing jar, again.”

  “Cocksucker!” Genie explodes.

  Hobie’s smile broadens: “Ten dollars.”

  “Cocksucker ain’t cussing!”

  “Sure it is, huh, Jimmy-Sue?”

  “It’s vulgar,” I say as she gives us a loud raspberry.

  Eunice is flagging me down and wants me to change the CD because Roy Orbison always makes her cry and she wants some Neil Diamond, or Kenny Rogers, or Air Supply instead for pity sake! While I look through the CD sleeves trying to find something to soothe Eunice (and not make our customers leave), Mandy jumps in front of me and begins giggling.

  “Do you think, giggle, that maybe, giggle, Genie and I can go to the Shaggy concert Wednesday night at La Vela?”

  I calculate the difference between rockabilly and Neil Diamond and slide in Frank Sinatra instead then turn to give Mandy my best scowl. “Girlfriend, you’re only fifteen. La Vela is a night club.”

  “Oh, I know,” Mandy giggles. “But we have fake IDs.”

  “I…see?” I cock my eyebrow.

  “It’d be awesome, a real killer. And Genie and I could wear our matching slip dresses we bought yesterday, red and blue and so beautiful. And we promise not to be bad and drink or anything, cross our hearts, and shoot, I’ll even finish reading the weird book Killer’s got me reading,” she says all this in one breath. “It’s this dumb story about some girl my age who works at a diary farm milking cows and everybody’s mean to her and I think she’s gonna die or something.”

  “Ken’s got you reading Tess?” I ask. “Tess? What a bummer of a book. I would have chosen the Bronte sisters or maybe even a little Dickenson, but Hardy?”

  “Uh huh,” Mandy interrupts, “but about that concert--”

  She goes on and on and I look around for Genie. She is nowhere to be found. I look out into the parking lot.

  “Ooh, Ken,” I say, pointing outside.

  “Should I ask?” he wants to know as we head out into the night.

  “It’s Genie again,” I sigh.

  He sighs too. It doesn’t take long to spot the car Genie’s in because the windows are all fogged up and the Mustang is rocking back and forth with Garth Brooks blaring on the stereo. I don’t even look in the window as I open the passenger door.

  “Get out,” I tell her firmly, “now!”

  The guy in the cowboy hat begins to yell at us so Ken bends down to explain the penalties involved with statutory rape in Florida. Genie steps out and puts her panties back on while I make a mental note not to allow her to wear dresses or skirts at work until Hades freezes over and fire shoots out of the North Pole. Of course, Genie wants to make a big scene and Eunice hates scenes.

  “I hate you! I hate you all!” Genie screams. “I can do whatever I want!”

  “Genie, were you even using protection?” I ask.

  “You don’t have any protection here!” she screams back.

  “So you think you’re mature enough to handle sex but you’re not mature enough to protect yourself.” I notice the back of her dress is caught up in her panties.

  “You buy it for me and I’ll use it!” she shouts stepping back away from me as I try to attend to her dress.

  “Brilliant answer,” Ken offers, “real brilliant. There’s a convenience store next door.” She lets him fix her dress and seems to listen to him. “Girl, you’ve got to learn to take responsibility for yourself. Nobody else can do that for you.”

  “Sex is not allowed here,” I say with a heavy sigh. “Its No-No number--”

  Genie screams at me at the top of her lungs, “I hear sex ain’t--”

  “Isn’t.”

  “—allowed anywhere in the vicinity of you, because you’re some frigid weirdo! I know all about you, you uptight bitch!” she hisses at me. “You think you’re absolutely perfect ‘cuz you stood up in your crib when you were two and started singing opera!”

  “She’s was four, and it’s called a child prodigy,” Ken says firmly, slowly as if teaching her a new word.

  “Whatever!”

  “Idiot savant is more accurate,” I say as Ken tries to argue with me. “And technically speaking it wasn’t opera, just so
me ancient dialect.”

  “Even more prodigious,” Ken insists.

  “See!” she screams and stomps. “You think you’re so smart, Jimmy-Sue Maddox! Nobody really likes you! And you don’t like nobody--”

  “Anybody.”

  She stomps her foot and groans. “I heard you ain’t— haven’t,” she corrects herself noticing my curled eyebrow, “ever even been kissed because you’re scared to death of men on account of your wacko religion! And if somebody touches you it makes you cry!”

  “Ah, Genie,” I sigh and shake my head. “What am I supposed to do about you?”

  Her tears have made her skin blush like a ripe tomato in vivid splotches all over her face. She shrugs at me and begins to tremble.

  “This is your third and final warning,” I say, holding up three fingers. “You are welcomed to stay as long as you live by the house rules and exercise a modicum of self control. We can’t help you if you won’t help yourself. No sex! Do you understand?”

  I soften my voice as I lead us away from the quickly retreating Mustang. I mean she’s just a kid after all and without us she’d be homeless. “And, Genie,” I say, “I do like people. I’m even trying to like you.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she sobs. “I won’t do it again! Honest I won’t. I don’t know why I do that. I honestly don’t!”

  “It’s okay, girlfriend,” Ken pats her back and soothes her. “Doc Marvin will be here on Monday.”

  “And I really do like it here. It’s way cool! I even like the stuff you make me learn even if I don’t know what half of it means. And, Jimmy-Sue, everybody likes you, respects you, really. Hell—yikes! I mean heck, all those rumors about you probably ain’t—yikes! aren’t even true. About you being frigid and all. You’ve probably had a ton of boyfriends. Huh?”

  “Ah Genie,” I sigh burying my face in my hands.

  I look at her through my open fingers. Apollo is sitting directly behind her in my line of vision, lounging back in his chair, listening to every word we’ve shouted or said. He has an odd expression on his face and he changes it quickly when he realizes I’m watching him. He leans back in his chair, sipping his wine, his eyes never leaving my face, and he smiles like the devil.