by Gary Jonas
“All I brought was an electric.”
“Against the wall behind you. Use one of those. And this time, I want to sing.”
He left the control room, and Helen grabbed the microphone. “You didn’t listen to me. Now he wants to sing. You’re doing too well, Brett. Take a dive. Play badly. I’m serious. Don’t you get it? You’ll be his slave, too.”
“Don’t you get it?” I asked. “I don’t want to go through life without testicles.” I packed up my guitar then eased my way to the back of the room to check out the various instruments. There was a lovely fiddle of gold, but I wasn’t betting my soul, so I moved on to the acoustic guitars. I selected a nice Taylor.
“I tried to warn you,” Helen said.
I ignored her and sat down on the stool with the acoustic. I picked out Mason Williams’ “Classical Gas” for a warm up and to test the playability. Even with the pain in my nether regions, the guitar sounded like heaven.
Apollo entered the room.
“I want to sing with you,” he said. “You’re more talented than I expected.”
“Heal my balls first.”
He chuckled. “Very well.” He snapped his fingers. My pain stopped, and my balls dropped.
The relief was instant. I rubbed my crotch. “Oh, wow,” I said.
“Shut up and get ready to play.”
“What do you want to sing?”
“I want to sing ‘Worship Me.’ Alas, I haven’t written that one yet, so you won’t know it. Start playing something and I’ll join in.”
“You think you’ll know whatever I play?”
“I’m the god of music. I am the source for all songs. If you can play it, I can sing it. Don’t challenge me again.”
“Sorry,” I said, not wanting to have him take my balls back.
I started with “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas.
Apollo had an amazing voice. Yeah, I know, he’s a god. What did I expect? He had perfect pitch, of course, and added flourishes to the song that didn’t distract or seem showy, but added to the emotion. I was impressed.
I played “I Will Follow You into the Dark” by Death Cab for Cutie, and again, he sang flawlessly.
We went through “Time in a Bottle” by Jim Croce, and “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen. I grabbed another guitar set to open tuning and played “She Talks to Angels” by The Black Crowes, then went back to the Taylor and ended with Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven.”
Apollo beamed with pleasure at the end of the impromptu set. “Congratulations, Brett Masters, you are now part of the band so I don’t have to kill you. Bring me your bass player. I already have a drummer and I’ll play keyboards myself when necessary.”
“My bass player is a vampire.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
He nodded. “Helen told me. Tell him if he plays for me, I’ll cure him of his vampirism.”
“You can do that?”
“I’m a god.”
He patted me on the back. “We’ll write our first hit tomorrow, record it on Wednesday, and deliver it to radio stations across the country on Thursday. By Friday, we’ll have the number one song in the nation, and we’ll play a concert in New York City. From there, we’ll take the world, and I shall have the adoration of billions!”
If anyone else had said that, I’d have been filling out papers to have them committed to the local asylum after making a couple of Carl Sagan jokes. When Apollo said it, I worried that he might be right. Twisting the world to do things it normally couldn’t was the kind of thing gods did on a lazy afternoon.
“Okay then,” I said.
“Buck up, champ,” he said. “Play your cards right and you’ll be playing with me for all eternity, and you might get to partake of my cast-offs.”
“And if I don’t want a permanent job?”
“Then I eat your soul and you die.” He patted me on the head. “My way is better. You’ll have more women than you’ll know what to do with.”
“Get laid or die?” I asked.
“Essentially. You may have to service me from time to time as well.”
“Wait. What? I trust you mean carry suitcases, run errands, and that sort of thing.”
“Sure, that too. But I think you know what I really mean.” As he whispered the last, he put his thumb to my mouth and traced my lips.
Maybe I should have given up my balls.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Dude, where are you?” I asked when Michael answered the phone. I stood outside the studio. Kevin placed my guitar in the backseat then sat on the hood of the car to watch me. I paced the lot. A warm breeze blew in off the coast carrying the salty scent of the sea.
“I’m having dinner with Sabrina before we head over to see Demetrius,” Michael said. “She went to the ladies’ room, but she’ll be back soon. What do you want?”
“We have a gig.”
“Sounds good. Where and when?”
“We leave on Friday. It’s going to be a major tour. Worldwide.”
“Oh, well, that could be problematic. Transport for my coffin, for one. Teddy’s job, for two. And don’t forget about Chuck’s wife. On top of that, Sabrina isn’t as excited about singing these days. She wants to do something else. She signed up for a class on painting auras or something.”
“Sabrina, Chuck, and Teddy aren’t invited.”
“I don’t know, man.”
“I don’t know either, but I’m kinda trapped here. We need to talk because this thing could be a freight train roaring into hell.”
“You make it sound so glamorous.”
“It could also include a cure for vampirism, but it’s wonky and I don’t want to make any promises.”
“Nice try. Dude, I gotta let you go. Sabrina’s coming back.”
“But we need to talk.”
“Later.”
And he hung up. Maybe I should have led with the vampirism cure. Not that he’d have believed me that way either. I wasn’t sure I believed it. But I needed a plan.
“That went well,” Kevin said.
“Don’t start,” I said, pointing at him. “Get in the car.”
“We can talk about it, Brett. I’ll have better suggestions than your vampire friend. I’ve dealt with gods before.”
“Apollo doesn’t even like you to be in the same room with him.”
“You should be so lucky,” he said and hopped into the car.
I slid into the driver’s seat, closed the door then pounded on the steering wheel.
“You’ll make good money,” Kevin said. “So you have to blow a god every now and then. It could be worse.”
“Don’t go there,” I said.
“You’re right. I have no idea what kind of kink he’s into. He’s been around for millennia. I’ll bet he’s into some really weird stuff. I wonder if he has centaurs in his dungeon.”
“Stop,” I said.
A tapping on my window made me jump. It was Helen.
“Wait here, Kevin,” I said and got out of the car. I closed the door and faced Helen.
“You moron,” she said. “I warned you to take a dive.”
“He’d have gotten a different guitarist.”
“He can play any instrument, Brett. He doesn’t need you.”
“Then why does he want me in his band?”
“Because you made fun of his lyre. Because he thinks you have a pretty mouth. Because I was stupid enough to think you wouldn’t insult a god.”
“I couldn’t go through life without my manhood.”
“Even if that was permanent, you’d have been better off. Now you’re a slave to a god. Your friend Michael is a slave now too.”
“And you?”
“I’m bound by the contract, but I’m not going to remain his slave. I still have some power of my own and he’ll have all the men and women he wants.”
“Good. There are plenty of people way hotter than me.”
She rolled her eyes. “He knows you don’t swing that way, Brett
.”
“Even better.”
“Not really. It means he won’t get tired of you that quickly.”
“Okay, I’d like to wake up now.”
“You’re not dreaming.”
“Don’t say that. Tell me to slip on some silver shoes, click my heels three times and wish myself home or something.”
“Sorry.”
“So I’m an eternal slave?”
She nodded.
“What about Lakesha?”
“Apollo has no problem with Lakesha. She didn’t insult him. She can go run her store and if she ever wants to come to a show, she’ll have free tickets. You’re the one he wants to torment.”
“But she was…” I stopped myself. I took a deep breath. “No. I’m glad she’s safe.”
“Wow, maybe you’re growing as a person.”
“Or maybe I’m just glad it means her damn cat won’t be under foot all the time.”
“I’m going to take that as a joke.”
“It was a joke,” I said. “But I still won’t miss the cat.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next day, I met with Apollo and Helen at a rented house in Jamaica Beach, a fancy village of beach houses on Galveston Island. The house was just off Buccaneer Road right on the beach. Kevin wasn’t allowed in the house, so he had to wait in the car, which was just as well.
A maid answered the door. She was in her early forties, and had a bit of meat on her bones. She looked healthy and strong. Gray highlights streaked through her hair, and she had a kind smile.
“Mr. Apollo is expecting you, sir. He’s on the deck out back. Please follow me.”
I followed her through the nice house. The floor was imported onyx, and the rooms were filled with antique furniture, all dark woods polished to shine. The kitchen was immaculate without a speck of dust in sight. The house looked like a show home instead of a place people lived.
The deck had an amazing view of the Gulf of Mexico, and the backyard didn’t have any grass at all. It was just sand leading right out to the waves rolling in on the shore. A few herons waded through the water, and a seagull soared overhead looking for fish.
Apollo wore only a pair of blue shorts, and Helen wore a white bikini.
“There’s the man of the hour,” Apollo said. He didn’t get up. He reclined in a banana lounge chair.
Helen sat in a regular plastic chair, and motioned to one just like it beside her. “Have a seat, Brett.”
“Cool.” I had swim trunks on under my shorts, and I wore my favorite Iron Maiden T-shirt from the Number of the Beast tour in the early 80s. It was a gift from my uncle Paul, who claimed to have been at the concert, but I suspect he stole the shirt because stealing is his favorite pastime. The shirt was faded, but Eddie still looked cool having Satan dance as a marionette beneath his outstretched desiccated hand.
“Interesting shirt,” Helen said.
“I like it. Nice bikini,” I said. The white material was thin, and would no doubt be see-through if it got wet. “Makes you look mighty ticklish.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“You’re safe. But we should go for a swim later.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
I certainly hoped so. Even dry, the bikini didn’t leave much to the imagination, and I found myself distracted. Her bored look told me I wasn’t likely to get her in the water and even less likely to get her into bed. Maybe I was losing my touch. Or maybe Kevin had something to do with it. Oh well.
“We can all go for a swim after we write a hit song,” Apollo said.
“Right,” I said. “You still want it to be called ‘Worship Me,’ or can we make it more of a love song to someone else instead?”
“Everyone should worship me.”
“But telling them to do so in a song is a bit on the nose.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“What if we call it ‘Let Me Worship You,’ so when people sing it, they’re singing it directly to you.”
“But they might think I worship them, which is not the case,” Apollo said.
“You’d be singing the song to the woman you love or at least the woman you want to sleep with, so worship is something you’d be saying to flatter her to get her into the sack.”
Helen shook her head, disgusted.
“I think it sounds too Christian,” Apollo said. “I hate that guy. Too many people in your country worship him when they should be worshipping me.”
“As long as it doesn’t sound like Gospel music, I think it’ll be fine.”
“I don’t want it to sound like something to his father either. It’s annoying. I should never have fallen from popularity. I managed to keep my name with both the Greeks and the Romans. My parents couldn’t even do that. But Yahweh takes a generic name like God and it lasts thousands of years. It’s not right.”
“Whatever, dude.”
“I met Christ once,” he said.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You were at the crucifixion.”
“No. I met him when he was just a carpenter. He didn’t seem that special to me.”
“People can surprise you.”
“Not often. Shall we write our hit now?”
“Sure. Want to start with the chorus?”
“Worship me, I’m all you can see.”
“Uh, no,” I said.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I told you. If people sing that, they’re the ones expecting to be worshipped.”
“No, the song is mine.”
I stood up and sang the words to him. “Worship me, I’m all you can see. Worship me.”
He frowned. “I see your point.”
“Maybe something like, oh baby, you know that it’s true, all I wanna do is worship you. Let me worship you, I’m down on my knees. Let me worship you, I’ll be all that you need.”
“Need doesn’t rhyme with knees.”
“Close enough for a pop song.”
“I don’t like it.”
I sang out, “Let me worship you, I’m down on my knees. Let me worship you, and I’ll try not to sneeze.”
“I am not the god of patience.”
“Warning taken,” I said. “What rhymes with knees? Bees, keys, fleas, peas, these, please, cheese, wheeze, seas?”
“I don’t care if they’re down on their knees. Come up with something else.”
“Let me worship you, I’ll make you happy. Let me worship you, this song is crappy. Sorry. Let’s see. Let me worship you, you’re all that I need. Let me worship you, I think I just peed. No. I rode in on a steed. No. I do not like greed. No.”
Apollo glared at me.
“I don’t want to bleed,” I sang. “No. Uh, I want to smoke weed. No. Don’t look at me like that, Apollo. It takes time to get things right. Do you like the first part?”
“The banal line telling baby she knows it’s true? No.”
“It’s a pop song. It doesn’t have to be original. It just needs to be done with a catchy tune.”
Apollo leaned to the side to look over at Helen. “What do you think?”
“Hey, I’m just singing backup. My part is probably just something like, I’ll worship you, I’ll worship you.”
“Do you have any ideas for a chorus?”
“I don’t care about the chorus. I don’t care about the verses. I don’t care about the bridge. I don’t care what key it’s in.”
“Well, we want it to be in a major key,” Apollo said.
“It’s your song, Apollo. You and guitar boy can figure it out. I’m just going to get a tan.”
“Dude,” I said. “Don’t overthink this. Helen is going to use her siren song to hook people subliminally. The words of the song don’t matter that much.”
“They matter to me. Perhaps I should summon the muse.”
“A woman can be a muse,” I said. “We could use that. Maybe something like, you’re all that I want, you’re all that I choose, you know my sweet darling, th
at you are my muse.”
He stared at me like I was a total moron. “I’ll summon her before you try to write a sequel to ‘Yummy Yummy Yummy.’”
“Wait. How about this? Baby baby baby, I worship you. Baby baby baby, you that it’s true.”
“I see why you do cover songs,” Helen said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Apollo snapped his fingers and a muse stepped out of the house. She wore black leather from her thigh high boots to her mini skirt to her bustier. Her jet black hair was pulled back into a braided ponytail, and she wore a collar with silver studs around it.
“You summoned me, my love?” she asked, and her voice sounded tight and irritated. The look in her eyes said she was ready to spit nails, and anyone on the receiving end had better like it. I didn’t see a whip, but I guaran-damn-tee you she had one in her dungeon.
“I did indeed. We need inspiration for a new song.”
“Inspire yourself,” she said.
“Now, now, Euterpe, I brought a mortal in to write me a number one hit, but he needs motivation.”
She gave her head a sudden turn and looked me up and down, then looked back at Apollo. “And here, I thought you wanted to play.”
“Work your magic.”
Euterpe placed one booted foot in front of the other to sashay toward me. She licked her ruby red lips and stared at me with her eyes half-closed.
“So you’re a muse?” I asked.
“I am the giver of delight.”
“Painful delight, I suspect. I’m not a fan of pain.”
“Pain feeds life and flows through all the best music, literature, and poetry. Inspiration comes through heartbreak, young man. The truth of loss resonates because everybody hurts.”
I unconsciously retreated a step. “Yeah, well, REM already did that song.”
Euterpe stepped up to me. She reached out, placed a finger under my chin and raised my head to meet her gaze. She stood a good six feet tall and I had to look up a bit. Her tongue darted out like a snake and she circled around me, running her finger over my shoulders and back. She leaned close and sniffed my neck.
“Magic flows through your blood.”
“Not my fault.”
She grinned, and looked ready to take a bite out of me.
