Last God Standing

by Michael Boatman

  My girlfriend was constantly learning new ways to disarm, disable or disembowel people. She regularly attended self-defense seminars, and had earned an instructor’s certification in Savate by her fifteenth birthday.

  She’d grown up in an upper middle class suburb of London, the eldest daughter of Magnus Moloke, Ethiopian soccer legend and entrepreneur, and Marian DotsonMoloke, an attaché to the American Ambassador to the UK. Now she sat astride me: the Amazon Triumphant; beautiful, intelligent and capable of killing a water buffalo with her bare hands.

  “Judo,” she said, breathlessly. “The principle of using your attacker’s momentum against him. It’s brilliant!”

  “Can’t… breathe.”

  “Oh, my god! I’m sorry, babe! Do you need your inhaler?”

  Surabhi shifted her weight while still holding her position. I didn’t mind, now that oxygen was flowing to my brain.

  “Not anymore,” I laughed. “Hi.”

  Surabhi smiled. “Hello, loverman.”

  She kissed me. And everything – the fight with Zeus, the battle with Hannibal and my fears about a satanic takeover attempt – downsized themselves on my list of priorities. We were good. As long as that never changed, everything else would work itself out.

  “I need you to change.”

  “What?”

  Surabhi reached over and grabbed a plastic garment bag off the back of a nearby chair. Inside the clear plastic bag dangled an expensive-looking dark suit complete with a crisp new shirt and tie. In the other hand she dangled a pair of freshly polished, even more expensive-looking, leather shoes.

  “I need you to wear this.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  For our big moment I’d selected the dark brown suit I’d purchased for my college graduation. It was a little snug in places – that was to be expected since it was seven years old, but Classic never goes out of style. For color, I’d added an excellent black T-shirt featuring Boris Karloff as Frankenstein’s monster. The exact matching T-shirt in Surabhi’s size featuring Elsa Lancaster’s “Bride of Frankenstein” was folded neatly inside my satchel. I’d planned to present it to her before dinner, and taken the time to have the date stenciled across the fronts of both shirts to commemorate the occasion. I’d used some of the advance Herb gave me to buy a new pair of lime green All Stars to top off the ensemble.

  “My parents are here,” Surabhi said. “My father’s gone completely mental.”

  Her London accent was lightly tinted with the Midwestern twang she’d picked up over the last five years living in Chicago. I loved her voice; it was rich, dark; exotic without being ostentatious.

  “When did they get here?”

  “Two hours ago. My mum’s here on UN business and Daddy tagged along. Daddy says he has good news, but he’ll only spill it when we’re all together. They want to meet you. I’m afraid they won’t take no for an answer.”

  “No! Not tonight!”

  Surabhi winced, took a deep breath.

  “Calliope told them we’ve been sleeping together.”

  “What?”

  “My dad said, ‘Either I will sit down to dinner with the man who violated my daughter, or my brothers and I will hunt him down and beat him until he begs for the release of death’.”

  “Why would your sister do that?”

  “Calliope’ll do anything to sleaze her way into my parents’ good graces. I recommended a personal trainer to her in New York and she got all pissy. They showed up here unannounced. Dad wouldn’t come in until he was sure you weren’t here. He stood there in the hallway pouting while my mother dragged in the suitcases. Even then he checked under the beds and rifled all the closets; hunting for my stolen innocence.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Dad’s old school,” Surabhi said, ignoring my admonitions about people with British accents using hip hop jargon. “He’s still pissed about my not marrying Alex Thessenden.”

  “You told me he gave you his blessing when you told him you didn’t believe in arranged marriages.”

  “It wasn’t really an arranged marriage, babe. More like an informal agreement between him and my Uncle Shad when they became blood brothers back in Addis Abbaba.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “You’re not Ethiopian. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. I already know who I’m spending the rest of my life with.”

  “But that’s the point,” I said. The little velvet box in my pocket seemed to throb in time with my heartbeat. “Tonight was supposed to be about us.”

  Surabhi had been tucking away money from her job as a French and English teacher at a small community college in the south suburbs. My planned proposal would not come as a complete surprise; only the time and the date had been left up to me. I’d tried to mislead her with a few false leads over the last few months, hoping to keep her off balance until I was ready for the big moment. Calliope had ruined months of planning.

  “You don’t mind do you? About the suit and everything?”

  “Mind? Of course not. Your father wants to hack my head off for ‘violating’ you. What could I possibly ‘mind’ about that?”

  Surabhi gently laid the suit and shoes across her small kitchen table. I got to my feet.

  “I’m serious, Surabhi. I’m putting my foot down. Tonight is off limits. You and I have serious matters to discuss.”

  “‘Serious matters.’ Sounds incredibly important. What exactly did you want to talk about, Mr Cooper?”

  “I’m not going to talk about it here. We have reservations. I made plans.”

  “Reservations? I think I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t change the subject. Look. You’re always telling me that I don’t plan. Look.”

  I reached into my backpack and produced the menu I’d taken from L’Ethiope.

  “See? Table for Two. L Cooper. 8.15pm. I even pre-selected the menu. All our favorites.”

  “But my parents made reservations at Henri Lumiere’s.”

  “Henri Lumiere’s? No. No!”

  “Lando, I don’t know… exactly what you were planning for tonight, but you’re forgetting one really important thing you have to do before we can move forward.”

  “What…? Oh no.”

  Surabhi nodded. “You’ve got to have a ‘man to man’ with Magnus Moloke if you expect to go on ‘violating’ his daughter in wedded bliss.”

  I’d grown so accustomed to operating as a nurture-free agent during the alien shooting match that was my upbringing I’d forgotten that some families actually care who their offspring might marry. It had been all Herb and Barb could do to keep from selling us off to a work farm.

  “Your father expects me to…”

  “…ask for his blessing. And his permission. I think. Although that’s largely ceremonial. My mother’s already onboard. She trusts my judgment. At least about this.”

  “And he wants to do this tonight?”

  “Yep. Then, assuming you don’t totally cock it up… they want to meet your parents.”

  “No!”

  “Of course, babe. They want to examine the gene pool from whence any future grandchildren might arise.”

  “But they can’t meet my parents.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my parents are insane.”

  “They’ll have a lot in common.”

  “I’m serious, Surabhi.”

  “No you’re not. But my parents are leaving tomorrow, so that gives us a little more time to bring our lovely families together. That is if you don’t cock it up tonight.”

  “You’ve got to stop saying that.”

  “Babe, it’s not the end of the world.”

  “You don’t know my parents.”

  “Of course I do. Your dad’s a scream...”

  “…screaming maniac...”

  “And Barbara’s lovely.”

  “She’s on good behavior when you’re around! She’d have tried to kill you by now if I hadn’
t stepped up the dosage on her anti-psychotics.”

  Surabhi punched me on the shoulder. Hard.

  “You’re terrible. Your mum looks at me with real affection.”

  “Because she’s trying to decide which part of you she’s going to cook first. Owww!”

  “You’re mean to your parents.”

  “Believe me… they can take it.”

  “But why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you so angry at them?”

  Thirty seconds later I was surprised to realize that I hadn’t answered her.

  “Hello? Anybody home?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You and your parents. You’re obviously harboring a huge amount of resentment toward them.”

  “Well… It’s not that I’m really angry…”

  Surabhi made a noise that was similar to the noises Herb makes when he’s had one too many Muy Macho Cheesy Meat Burritos from Tangy Taco.

  “You’re the most passive-aggressive person I’ve ever met. At least when it comes to your mum and dad. The question is: why?”

  “Well…”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not like they haven’t given me plenty of reason to…”

  “Hate them?”

  “I don’t hate my parents, I…”

  “Mmhmm?”

  “I mean I… really… admire… the way they…”

  “Oh dear,” Surabhi sighed. “Go on.”

  “They abused me.”

  Surabhi’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of abuse?”

  “It was sexual. Owww! Stop hitting me!”

  “Stop it, Lando.”

  “When I was fourteen they forced me to watch them making love. At least that’s what they called it.”

  “Lando!”

  “I just remember my father bent over on the bed…”

  “God! You’re the worst!”

  Surabhi enjoyed playing armchair analyst to a host of girlfriends, celebrities, and random passersby, speculating about the obvious clinical depression of the waiter with the resigned smile, the suicidal leanings of the middle-aged new mom with the expensive stroller. She loved what she called the Story, the hidden truths she believed made up the lives of people she would never know. But lately, she’d been focusing the spotlight of her curiosity on me with increasing frequency.

  I had hidden one of the world’s deepest mysteries from everyone who mattered in my mortal life. No great accomplishment: who would believe I was the Judeo-Christian Divine Embodiment? I had allowed the sheer improbability of my situation to preserve my secret. Most of my family believed I was an idiot. That was fine with me. Hiding in plain sight made my dual existence that much easier.

  But Surabhi was different.

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “What?”

  “Whenever we talk about you, about your past, you make a joke, or you get this faraway look in your eyes.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “You do. It’s like you’re looking back at me from someplace unimaginably distant. I hate that look.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m here. With you.”

  “Your body’s here with me. I just get the feeling that…”

  “That what?”

  “That you’re hiding something.”

  Vertigo. A feeling similar to standing atop a skyscraper with no walls or windows to separate you from the wind; fear and exhilaration tinged with the secret desire to step off into open air and fall, mortal and defenseless, toward the earth below.

  You could end the whole charade right now.

  I could do it, reveal myself – one minor miracle and I could expose the truth to the woman who loves me… the real, human me.

  “I…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, the truth is…”

  I gave up the power of a god to be here. Now.

  “My God, Lando. You’re doing it right now.”

  “How can you say you love her if you can’t tell her the truth? If you can’t tell her Who you really are?”

  “Quiet, Connie.”

  From her small corner apartment in my medulla oblongata, Changing Woman clucked disapprovingly.

  “Have you thought about your children?”

  “They’ll be completely normal. You know that.”

  “I’m not talking about the power, I’m talking about truth, Lando.”

  Connie, aka the Golden Lady, aka Changing Woman, always sang loudest when I was faced with an ethical dilemma. At that moment she was a short, roundish, heavy-breasted woman with shoulder-length black hair and stars where her eyes should be. In this Aspect, Connie communicated through song. And she was always pregnant.

  “I’m talking about the false pretenses under which you seduced Surabhi.”

  “What ‘false pretenses’?”

  “What?” Surabhi said. “What are you on about?”

  “Yes, the lies you’ve told in order to pass yourself off as a mortal.”

  “I haven’t lied to her.”

  Surabhi frowned. “Lied to who? What do you mean?”

  “You’ve lied by omission,” Connie continued, shifting into a lower key. “You’ve taken unfair advantage.”

  “No, I haven’t!”

  “Lando, you’re freaking me out.”

  “What kind of lives will your children lead if they don’t even know where they came from?”

  “Come on, Connie…”

  “Who’s Connie?”

  “What?”

  “I mean where they really came from.”

  “I said, who’s Connie?”

  Surabhi was staring at me, hands on hips.

  “You called me Connie. Since my name is Surabhi – pleasure to meet you I’m sure – there’s clearly been some misunderstanding. So, distant stranger who hopes to win my undying affection but is currently cruising for a major beatdown, I’ll ask you one last time: Who… the… hell… is… Connie?”

  Connie chuckled from deep inside my tortured brain.

  “Humanity: how’s that working out for you?”

  “Look just… shut up!”

  Surabhi’s eyes took on the bloodlust sheen they got right before she took somebody to the mat.

  “Oh, hell no. No, you didn’t just tell me to shut up!”

  “No! I mean… I wasn’t talking to you!”

  “I don’t see anybody else around.”

  “I know…”

  “So who the hell were you talking to?”

  “I…”

  “And who the hell is Connie?”

  “Connie is a Native American fertility goddess who lives in my brain who volunteered to act as a temporary conscience – like a sort of moral regulator – until I mature enough to operate independently while also being the best possible boyfriend I can be and right now she’s yelling at me for not being honest with you about her even though I love you so much because a lot of confusion could have been avoided and you’re incredibly beautiful when you’re pissed and it’s really irritating because she sings everything – she doesn’t have the greatest voice – and I have a splitting headache and I love you more right now than I did ten seconds ago and can we please change the subject?”

  Surabhi stared at me, a wary smile twitching at the corner of her lips.

  “Fertility goddess? Is that meant to be me? Is this your incredibly weird way of seducing me?”

  “Yes!”

  “Was all that part of your act?”

  “Maybe… did you like it?”

  “It was cute. Especially the part about me being beautiful when I’m pissed.”

  I grabbed her around the waist, pulled her in close.

  “I believe I said ‘incredibly beautiful’.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  We kissed.

  “That was really weird though,” she said, when we came up for air.

  “It’s been a weird day.”

  “No weirder than my agreeing to mar
ry you against the disapproval of my feminist sensibilities.”

  “Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are when you’re railing against a male dominated society?”

  For the next hour or so, all the mysteries that had plagued me faded to a dull whisper. And I wandered, basking in the warmth of Surabhi’s smile.

  And the deeper mysteries of her embrace.

  CHAPTER IX

  MAGNUS AND MARIAN

  After centuries of close association with the human mind I can tell you: it’s a very strange place. Getting one of my own made that even more glaringly obvious. But of all the wonders to which I had been witness, of all the mortal terrors I had observed, none of them ever scared me.

  Then I learned to drive.

  Driving is the one thing humans do that leaves me flabbergasted. Millions of years of natural selection have culminated in the human ability to operate heavy machinery under a variety of dubious circumstances. I passed my driver’s license test after seven tries. It took seven tries because of my certainty that every car that careened toward my parents’ car would slam into it, killing me, the driving instructor and the dreams of a teeming humanity. After understanding that oncoming traffic posed no threat to the continuation of human evolution, I’d calmed down enough to pass the test. But I didn’t like driving for the simplest reasons: you can’t control the other drivers.

  I’d gotten along perfectly well using Chicago’s fantastic public transportation system. But for dinner with the Molokes I decided to make the effort. Which was a mistake.

  We were late, of course. Surabhi’s Volkswagon Bug came equipped with a GPS navigation system, but it insisted on giving us directions to a falafel stand in northern Dubai. And to add insult to anticipated injury, both our mobile phones mysteriously lost signal seconds after we got into the car. It was only after we’d gotten hopelessly lost, hunted down a working payphone, called the restaurant and gotten directions that we finally arrived an hour late. Surabhi was nearly frantic.

  “We’re here!” she announced as we tumbled through the front entrance of Henri Lumiere’s. A worried looking maître d’ met us in front of the greeter’s podium.

  “You’re late,” he hissed. “Your party has been waiting.”