"Oh? I thought you guys were supposed to be all ego. And shouldn't you be appearing in the form of a bull or something?"
"Hey, don't be confusing me with my dad. That whole 'carry off the maiden in bull form' was his favorite pastime." He rolled his eyes. "Every Wednesday night."
"It's a wonder Hera put up with him," I said, humoring him. I took a few Classics courses in college, myself.
"Well, when you're the goddess that people come to for blessing their marriages, you have to put up with a lot. And being married to the king of the whole pantheon is likely worth something to her."
"She must have a lot of issues."
"She's just my stepmother, so we hardly talk much. I believe you Americans would call it a dysfunctional family. Last I heard, she'd been elected to the Senate."
"Ah," I said. He settled into his chair and just smiled at me. If there were a god of awkward moments, he'd have been at the table, too. "Well, I'd better be going." I stood up so quickly as I gathered my things together that I had to make a grab for my pen before it fell to the floor.
"You didn't answer my question," he said.
"Question?" I replied and shoved my folder into my bag. "Oh, sorry about that. I really need to run. Table's all yours." Pulling my coat off the back of the chair, I strode out quickly before he could say any more.
The café was even more crowded the following night. I was standing on the top of the landing, waiting for a table to clear when his voice spoke up beside me. "You're really playing with hubris, you know."
I struggled to keep from groaning and turned to face him. He had snuck up when I wasn't looking and was now leaning on the railing beside me in a formal tuxedo. "Hubris, eh?" I asked, adding, "Nice tux."
"Walking out on a god when he comes to visit. Just a trifle prideful, wouldn't you say? I have to be a little more patient nowadays, but even a god's patience has limits. Three thousand years ago you'd have gotten an arrow in your rump. And yes, it is a nice tux."
I continued my watch of the tables. "Yeah, well, I guess godhood isn't all that it used to be, huh?"
"You're telling me. Some of us aren't even in the business anymore. Christianity really knocked the bottom out of the market. Now there's a monopoly. Hermes doesn't even bother nowadays. Didn't see the point once the Internet got going. Hestia got out a long time ago. And Hephaestus, mighty god of the forge? He says they don't need him anymore with all the assembly lines." He suddenly grinned and elbowed me. "Then again, you get married to the goddess of love and you suddenly want to stay home a lot more, eh?"
"Aphrodite?" I asked. "Did she hang it up, too?" I couldn't resist being just a little amused at the concept.
"What, are you kidding?" he answered. "She also deals in lust and beauty, you know. Almost your entire entertainment industry is a living temple to her—if you don't count PBS. Only Hades and Ares are doing so well. Oh, she's still at it, make no mistake."
"Mm," I grunted.
"You've still not answered this god's question from last night."
"Which was that again?"
He scowled. "People used to come from miles and miles to my temple at Delphi to hear my words. They would not forget them so easily."
I'd had enough. "Look, if you're really a god, prove it. Can't you wave your hand and get us an open table?"
"You are being exceedingly demanding for a mortal," he replied. "And, alas, such a thing is beyond even me. The availability of open café tables is the purview of the Fates alone, whom not even Zeus will challenge."
I had to laugh at that. "Good answer. Convenient, too."
"I only speak the truth."
"So no table."
"I'll agree to tell you how soon one will open up if you answer my questions from last night."
"My memory's not that good. You'll have to repeat them."
He sighed. "How is your writing coming, and have you heard back from any of the four agents you queried in the past month?"
Okay, that was weird. "If I tell you, will you tell me how you knew I'd queried four?"
"Alright," he agreed. "But I can't promise you'll like the answer."
Oh, goodie. I didn't see a point in arguing about it. "I've finished my first novel and I'm working on the second. But lately, I'm trying to get some short stories published to better attract an agent. Unfortunately, the blank page you saw me staring at last night is the sum total of the story ideas I've come up with to date. As for my agent queries, two said I wasn't what they're looking for, and the other two haven't gotten back to me, yet." I paused to take a breath. "Now how did you know it was four?"
"I'm Apollo," he said with a perfect smile. I didn't bother to hide my scowl from him. "I said you wouldn't like the answer."
I scanned the café again for a seat. If I didn't see one soon, I was leaving. "I thought you guys weren't omniscient?"
"We're not, but that doesn't mean we don't pay attention to things. I've been watching you."
"So you're stalking me."
"Well that's hardly complimentary. I was going to offer you my help."
I tried not to be rude. "No, thank you. I'm fine."
"What about your blank sheet of paper?"
My writer's insecurity flared in me and the defenses went up. "I don't want any help!" I whispered. "I especially don't want the help of some nut with a god-complex!"
He suddenly seemed to grow taller, and for a moment his eyes flared, burning down at me. I had just enough time to curse myself for attacking the delusions of a madman before the glare evaporated a moment later.
"Things were so much simpler three thousand years ago," he said almost wistfully. "There's an open table."
I blinked in surprise a moment before following his shifted gaze to a table along the wall whose occupant was packing his things.
"Thank you," I said with finality and started forward. "I'd prefer to sit alone, if you don't mind." It was more assertive than I usually was, but after what I'd already said to the man, it didn't seem like that mattered. Without waiting for a response, I moved towards the table.
After crossing through two study groups, I arrived at my desired table as the current occupant stood up to leave. I nodded a greeting to him as he gathered up his jacket and then glanced back behind me to make sure my deity friend hadn't tried to join me. To my relief, he had apparently left altogether.
The young woman I bumped into when I turned back to sit down had the reddest hair I'd ever seen.
"Oh, geez," I stammered. "Sorry, I didn't know you were— I mean I didn't see you and then I turned around and—" I stopped, feeling like a bit of an idiot.
She laughed in an almost lyrical fashion. "Looks like you're trying to steal my table," she joked with a smile.
"Your—? Ah," I managed.
"I was over there waiting for it," she continued pleasantly, indicating the café counter. "But I don't need much room. Want to share?"
I sighed with a bit of relief. "Thank you," I told her. Sharing a table with a delusional, middle-aged man was one thing. Sharing it with an attractive woman was quite another. Was that a form of sexism? I watched a moment as she set a Douglas Adams book on the table and then turned to fish in her bag in a way that brushed the ends of that fiery hair across her neck and shoulders. Perhaps not sexist as much as socially selective. I decided I should probably say something before she got too engrossed in her reading.
"It's crowded tonight," I tried. "I just spent about ten minutes on the landing talking to a guy who thinks he's a god."
"Yes, I saw you waiting there," she laughed as she pulled out a pair of glasses. "Which one?"
I looked around. "Oh, I think he left," I told her. "He was the one in the tux. Kind of hard to miss in here."
She chuckled. She seemed to do that a lot, though not in an off-putting sort of way. Maybe she was just nervous. Something gave me the impression that she was more than just amazing hair and a laugh. Perhaps it was a side effect of the glasses.
"No." She s
miled. "I mean, which god?"
"Oh." My turn to chuckle. "Apollo."
"Apollo," she repeated, sounding impressed. "Helpful guy to have around."
"Oh, if he were the real thing, sure. I'm trying to get a book published. I could use a little divine intervention. I'm Greg, by the way." I added.
"Thalia," she returned. "So you need help with your writing?"
"I could certainly use some inspiration, yes. I'm trying to work on some short stories, but after concentrating on a novel for so long, it's hard to shift gears."
"And those silly agents won't even give you a second look if you're not published somewhere." She smiled compassionately.
"There's a little hope. I'm still waiting to hear back from two of them, but . . ." I trailed off.
"You're afraid they'd say the same thing as the last two?" I nodded and was about to go on complaining when something occurred to me. "How'd you know about the last two?"
She giggled uncomfortably. "Well, you said you'd had trouble getting an agent, so I assumed you'd already sent to some . . ."
"Actually, I didn't. You brought the agents up."
"Really? I could have sworn—"
"And you knew I'd sent to four this month."
"No, really," she stammered. "I . . . oh, zut! I'm just not good at this whole subterfuge thing!"
I sighed. "The man in the tux sent you, didn't he?"
She pouted. "Oh, if I come out and tell you, he'll be upset with me. It's just not fair! I'm not a spy, that's not what I do. I think it's terribly unfair of him to ask me to do this without telling you, don't you? I mean, honestly, it's positively unheard of!"
"Do you want to let me in on just what's going on here?" I asked. I was trying to put as much irritation as I could into my voice, but watching this woman pout right in front of me was keeping me from doing it well.
"Oh, this would be so much easier if you'd just start writing, you know. Why don't you try that right now? Maybe you'll get an idea?"
There was something of an urge to write in me then, but that urge was overshadowed by a surge of irritation over what business it was of either of these two. "Who are you?"
"I'm Thalia!" she cried, as if that explained everything. I continued waiting for more until she rolled her eyes and continued, "Thalia! The muse?"
"Oh!" I declared. "Thalia the muse! Well why didn't I think of that? I met Apollo, now I'm talking to a muse! I suppose that dog on a leash outside the store is Cerberus? I mean, he's missing two heads, but what do I know, right?"
"Apollo said you wouldn't believe me if I told you. And now I've blown it and you don't believe in me, either and . . ." Her eyes softened as if she were suddenly on the verge of tears. "And now it's just ruined, it's all ruined!"
The look on her face tugged at my sympathy and I couldn't help wanting to calm her down somehow. "Alright, alright. It's okay. Which one are you?"
"What?" she said, dabbing her eyes with a napkin.
"Well, it's been a while since I took a class on this, but don't the nine muses each cover a different sort of writing?"
She nodded. "Comedy and science fiction," she said with a little smile.
I blinked. I was doing that quite a lot lately. "Comedy and . . . science fiction? I wasn't aware the ancient Greeks did sci-fi."
Her face continued to brighten slightly. "Well, of course they didn't, silly. But when the modern genres started popping up, we muses had to take on more responsibilities."
"Uh, huh. And how's that going for you?"
"Oh, it takes some getting used to. For centuries I was a specialist. Doing both at once took a bit of juggling. But I've . . . mostly got it down now." She paused a moment and blushed.
"Mostly?"
"Well . . ." She was giggling nervously again. "Sometimes . . . just every once in a while, understand, sometimes I forget which I'm doing—just for a minute, you see—but then it's too late and they both run together."
"I don't follow."
"I mean, it's like making lasagna and chocolate cake in the same pan. Separately, they're great, but mixed together, neither of them come out right." Her voice started to shake and she began to tear up again. "But it was just a little slip up," she said. "It's not my fault it was the prequel to the most successful sci-fi trilogy in the history of cinema! It was just one character! How much can one character do!"
"Are you saying . . .?"
"I gave him the inspiration for Jar-Jar!" she blurted.
My eyes widened. "That's your fault?"
She burst into tears. "Don't say it like that!" she sobbed. "I just made the suggestion! George is the one who wrote it down!" Her voice was rising higher and louder, word by word, until she finally shrieked out, "And—and now everybody hates me!"
An entire café's worth of heads turned our way as I sat and tried to figure out what to say to this hysterically delusional woman. Before I could think of if or how I should comfort her, she grabbed her things and stood up in such a rush that she nearly knocked the table over. "I can't do this!" she burst, choking back tears. "I don't care what he says. You've got me upset and I can't create when I'm upset. Maybe Melpomene can, but . . . I just have to go!"
She dashed out as I stood up, leaving me to watch her blazing hair bounce down the stairs and wonder just what in the name of Hades had happened.
I didn't go back to the café the next night. I told myself I'd had a long day at work and I just didn't have the energy, but to be honest, I was so afraid of running into one of them—either of them, 'god' or 'muse'—that I almost stayed home the following night, too. But my pride finally got the better of me. That was my café, and I wasn't going to let two bad nights keep me away.
Nine o'clock found me bounding up the stairs and passing three women going down who thankfully did not claim to be The Fates. (They weren't even carrying scissors.)
I found a seat right off and, as money was a little tight, sat down with just an oatmeal cookie and a glass of water. That night I wasn't feeling like writing and instead leafed through a writer's magazine looking at contests.
"Wouldn't you need to get over your writer's block before you enter any contests?" I knew who it was. I didn't even look up at him.
"I'm looking for inspiration," I said. "Go away."
"A contest inspired the Trojan War," he continued. "Dreadful business."
"Yeah, I know all about it," I said, turning a page in the magazine. "I read The Iliad, too."
Golden light suddenly blazed forth from where the man stood. Every sound in the café ceased. Every movement stopped.
"I was there." His voice was thick with power.
He sat down at the table with me. The tux of the previous night had been replaced with an Armani suit. His eyes settled on me with a weight I could feel. It wasn't an oppressive weight, but more like the sense you feel when standing in a great stone cathedral or temple. Age, history, and the massiveness of the architecture—all of those same feelings fell upon me in that simple café.
"It's much better in the original Greek," he added in a voice that had softened slightly from a moment before. "Though I don't suppose you've studied Greek."
My mouth opened. At least I think it did. At the time, my brain was too occupied with trying to get a handle on the situation to come up with something to say. Everything had stopped. Cups of unmoving liquid were held poised before anticipating mouths. Faces were frozen in mid-sentence. The silence was complete but for his voice and my own breathing (I only just then had remembered to tell myself to breathe). Either the cookie had an extra-special ingredient, or I was actually sitting with a god.
"Uh . . ." I managed.
"Impressive trick, isn't it?" Apollo asked. "Take my advice. Don't bother trying to comprehend it. It's not worth thinking about."
"How . . .?"
"I'm a god. I told you not to bother thinking about it." While I kept thinking about it, he paused a moment before continuing. "If you'd only been this silent the other night when you me
t Thalia. Do you know it took her a full day just to stop crying? That whole movie is a very sensitive subject for her. She's better now, of course, but don't bring it up again."
I suddenly stopped gaping and defended myself. "Well, she's the one that brought it up!" I shot. "And why didn't you do this before?"
The god's eyebrows arched. "Do which? Stop time?"
"Uh, yeah!" I said with a glare until I thought better of it. "Well, I mean— I didn't mean to yell at you there, but. . ."
"Ah, so it seems you're learning a little respect at last!"
"Um, well, you know what they say: Never yell at live dragons. Or something like that."
"Dragons? My dear mortal, there are no dragons!" he chuckled. "Though I suppose your imagination deserves applauding."
There came from behind me a giggle and a familiar voice. "Definition of irony: a god telling a mortal there are no dragons."
"Oh, come now, Thalia," Apollo told her, "that would imply that we gods don't exist."
Thalia walked up to us holding a bottle of cranberry juice. Her red hair blazed over shoulders left bare by a simple black dress. "That's what he thought a few minutes ago."
"So . . . you're really interested in my writing?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," said the god. "We who live on the peaks of many-ridged Olympus all have our responsibilities. We're all gods of something, you see. If we don't keep our houses in order, we fade. I'm the god of music and poetry, among other things. Do I have to paint you a picture?"
Thalia pulled a chair out for herself and sat. "He tried to help you before, but you wouldn't have him. Then he sent me to attempt to inspire you, but we all know how that turned out."
"I didn't take you seriously! If you'd just done this in the first place . . ." I waved my hands at the frozen patrons.
Apollo looked at the muse. I did too. (Hey, she was nice to look at.) "He doesn't get it."
"George was like this too," she said with a frown. She turned to me. "You're a writer. You conjure people and worlds out of thin air. You can create so much and all you need is the imagination to do it."
"It was a test," I said, beginning to understand.
Mythed Connections Page 3
