by Paul Neuhaus
“Right.”
“That’s a good fucking book right there.”
“I feel like maybe we’re getting off-track...”
“‘Some pig’. She wrote it in her web. Saved the little pig. That was one righteous spider.”
“Okay, sure, but—”
I got up and walked toward the trailer. “I’m gonna smoke a bowl in honor of that fucking spider.”
Hope sighed, an echo-y sound from inside the pithos. “No, don’t smoke a bowl. I— We’re talking here, and, if you smoke a bowl, you’ll just— Oh. There she goes into the trailer. To get her drug paraphernalia. You’re an addict. Do you know that? A rummy.”
I came back out of the trailer with a baggie full of weed and my favorite pipe. “A rummy’s a drunk. Specifically, somebody’s who’s drunk on rum. Thus, the name.” The pipe looked like a little man. The stem was his oversized Johnson. Every time I looked at it, it made me chuckle. I looked at it. I chuckled. I sat down at the table, pushed away my half-eaten food and unrolled the baggie.
“Don’t you think you ought to at least finish your dinner? You shouldn’t be doing that stuff on an empty stomach.”
“Don’t worry. In about half an hour, I’ll be eating us out of house and home.” I was especially eager that night. Cranium Core Collective had just unveiled a new Sativa. Codename: “Frodo’s Finger”. I put the plastic bag to my face and inhaled. It smelled like a foot. But not just any foot. Like an elderly black man’s foot. An elderly black man with gout. Perfect. I packed the bowl, jammed the porcelain dick in my mouth and took out my lighter.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“I know,” I said. “I know you wish that. Do you know what your problem is, Hope? You can’t stand to see other people happy. Not unless it’s on your terms. You’ve got control issues. You’re like that dude.”
Another echo-y sigh. “What dude?”
I held the lighter to the Sativa and inhaled. It started to glow a beautiful pinky orange. “You know. That dude in that movie.”
“I need you to be more specific.”
“That old dude. That actor. That really great actor with the really great voice. Also, a director. You know the guy. The Maltese Falcon guy. He fucked his granddaughter.”
“John Huston? John Huston did not fuck his granddaughter.”
“No, in the movie. Chinatown. Remember?” I put on my best John Huston voice. “‘Mr. Gittes, most people never have to face the fact that at the right time and the right place, they're capable of anything.’ That was awesome.”
“Yes, it was awesome. Can we change the subject?”
I was up to my fourth or fifth inhale and I was feeling it. The spirit of John Huston continued to inhabit me. “‘'Course I'm respectable, Mr. Gittes. I'm old. Politicians, ugly buildings, and whores all get respectable if they last long enough.’”
“Are you going to run through all the ’74 Best Picture nominees?”
“No, no I am not. Fucking Towering Inferno. Can you believe that shit? I got poops’d make better movies than Towering Inferno.”
“Let it go.”
“I’m still not over it. That and Dr. Doolittle. Best fucking Picture nomination. Clearly the Academy had some of this fine Sativa when that little turd sailed through.”
“Is there any way at all I can get you to hear me out on this Evil? The Evil you’re honor-bound to capture and imprison?”
“Yes.”
“Yes? So, there is a way?”
“Yes. Say it to me in a John Huston voice. I swear you’ll get my full and undivided attention.”
“Fuck you.”
I giggled, took the pipe out of my mouth and pointed at the pithos. Hope never swore. Once in a millennia. “Oh! You said a no-no word! You—”
“He’s a pedophile.”
That stopped me short. If there’s anything I hate, it’s a kid toucher. Lowest form of life as far as I’m concerned. My eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
“He’s inside a school janitor. A possession. It’s been going on for years in another city. The guy—and his passenger—just moved into the vicinity to avoid the law’s long arm. Right now, he’s perfectly placed and avoiding suspicion.” Hope had the uncanny ability to sniff out Evils. She was both my recon and my early warning system.
I sighed. “I really don’t want to. I mean I really don’t want to. I’m out of the game. I’m soft. Also, I’m super apathetic.”
“Pandora, he’s a pederast.”
I sighed again. “I know. Let’s talk about it in the morning. After I’m straight.”
“I’m holding you to that. During your narrow sobriety window, you’re gonna be hearing a lot from me.”
“I can’t wait. Why don’t you—?”
A voice from behind interrupted me. “Is now a bad time?”
I spun on the picnic bench. When I’m sober, I’m pretty hard to sneak up on. Problem is, I’m rarely sober. I brandished the pipe dick like a weapon and probably looked all wild-eyed and freaky. I needn’t have worried. It was just Pan.
Pan shook his head and took a seat on the opposite side of the table. “Never debauch alone. It’s not a good sign. You’re halfway to an intervention, girlie.”
“I got no one to intervene me,” I replied sourly.
He nodded. “Mmm. Sad. You gonna finish this?” He meant the cremated lamb.
“Knock yourself out.”
He pulled the paper plate to himself and dug in. “Wow. Terrible.”
“Me and Hope are gonna go to Krispy Kreme in a minute. You wanna come? For dessert?”
“I’m not going to Krispy Kreme,” Hope said. Me and Pan ignored her.
Pan stood up, still holding a kebab. He was wearing a t-shirt that said, “Don’t Blame Me, I Voted for Bush”. Other than that, he was naked below the waist. He had hairy goat legs and cloven hooves and I could see his dick. “Look at me,’ he replied. “Do I look like Krispy Kreme material to you?”
“Depends on the night. Saturdays in Santa Monica can get hairy.”
Pan sat back down and changed the subject. “How you doing, Hope?”
“Same as always. But I try and stay positive.”
“Well, sure.”
Confession time: Pan and I have some of that weird history I mentioned. I’ve done things with Pan when I was drunk or high I would never have done when I was sober. He was, on more than one occasion, a booty call. Let me tell you why that’s problematic: Pan stinks and he’s gross. He’s the very definition of “slumming it” in the Greek mythos. I’m not proud of what I did but why I did it’s a part of me I can’t deny or run from. I guess you could say I’m a bit of a skank.
Anyway, I got annoyed with Pan for paying attention to Hope instead of me. Yes, I can be that petty. “What do you want, goat boy?”
Pan smiled. “What is that? Is that Sativa? You know Sativa doesn’t agree with you. Sativa makes you mean.”
“It reveals the real me.”
“Have it your way. I’m not here to argue.” He scratched his head. The tips of his little horns were just visible under his scraggly Jew-fro.
I passed him the pipe and he took a hit. He looked funny sucking on the little pipe man’s big glass schlong. “There you go. Be chill,” I said. “You’ve always been easy to get along with. Unlike some people I could name.”
Hope ignored me.
The satyr handed me back my pipe and waved the lingering smoke away from his face. “I’m glad you think that, Dora. As empty and meaningless as our relationship has been you’re the closest thing to a friend I have left.”
“Thanks. I think. What the hell’re you talking about?”
“Let’s face it... It’s not like we’re on each other’s Christmas card lists. I come down out of the hills every couple of months, you’re lonely, you’re high, so we fuck. It’s not like I have a lot of options, you know? Hell, I didn’t have a lot of options back in the day. I got a lot of nymphs, but they’re all forest-y and shit so it’s i
mplicit in the relationship. Free love and all that. But it wasn’t like they liked me for me. Every so often a goddess or demigoddess would wander over to the wrong side of the tracks and make the worst mistake of her life. You think I didn’t get wind of the scandals? You think it didn’t hurt?”
My head shrank down into my shoulders. “Jeeze, Pan. I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “I know you are. Deep down, you’re a good kid. But, even to you, I’m nothing but a bad habit.” I started to protest, but he cut me off. “Did you know I collect commemorative plates? You didn’t know that, did you? Did you know my favorite book is The Great Gatsby? I bet not.”
I looked down at my pipe. The fire in the bowl was going out. “I guess I didn’t know you were looking for something more serious. You’ve got a rep, you know? Party Man. Nature Boy. I thought you were all about the cheap thrills.”
He nodded and surprised me by taking my hand. “I know. It’s my fault as much as it is anybody else’s. You put on a mask. You pretend to be who people want you to be even though the real you is a thousand miles away. I just, um, I just came down one last time to let you know I’m going.”
I looked up at him. Damned if his brown eyes didn’t sparkle in the moonlight. “You’re going? Going where?”
“I’m gonna fuck off, Dora.” Before, when I mentioned the Olympians had fucked off, that wasn’t just an idle turn of phrase. It’s what we all called giving up on the mortal world and going... wherever it is people like us go.
“Oh, Pan. For real? You’re gonna leave me here to wallow in my own crapitude?”
“‘Fraid so. Lately I’ve been thinking that, if you stop moving, you’re dead. I’ve stopped moving. I’m tired, and I think it’s time.” He stood, and his hooves made clacking sounds on the asphalt. As he walked by me, he brushed my shoulder with his fingertips.
He was a few yards away when I called after him. “Hey, do you want a goodbye fuck? One for the road?”
He looked over his shoulder. “I’m good,” he said. “Take care of yourself, kid.” I watched him until he was no longer visible, and then I turned back to face the surf. Suddenly, I wasn’t feeling so hot.
For a long time, Hope and I sat there saying nothing. Finally, I broke the silence. “You ever read The Great Gatsby?”
“Oh, yeah. Jazz age melodrama. First world problems.”
“Any good?”
“Meh.”
The next morning, I woke up on the floor. I’d made it to my bedroom, but I hadn’t made it onto the bed. I was lying on the carpet completely naked except for one pink sock. I felt around under myself. At least I hadn’t pissed the floor. Again.
The effects of the Sativa and eight Budweisers still lingered. I sat up and grabbed a sweatshirt from the bed. The one with Hello Kitty. Fortunately, it was big enough to cover my nether regions. I yanked it over my head, pulled myself off the floor, sat down on the bed, and realized I had a decision to make. One sock or no sock? No sock. I flicked Pinky off with a dexterity that surprised me.
I padded into the kitchen and took a carton of orange juice from the fridge. It was one of those cartons with the plastic lid on top. Gods, I fucking love those cartons. So easy, so convenient. I twisted off the cap and poured the O.J. directly into my mouth. It was a touch rancid, but I figured that might cure my hangover. Looking from the kitchen into the office (it’s an open floor-plan), I realized something was missing. Hope wasn’t on the desk. I panicked and ran outside. Sure enough, I’d left her on the picnic table. “Thanks a lot,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I guess I was more blasted than I thought.”
“After Pan left, you smoked the whole bag.”
I winced. “I did? That was supposed to last the rest of the week.”
“Did you know it rained last night? If I mildew, you’re never gonna hear the end of it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I picked her up. Before I could turn back toward the trailer, I heard catcalls from the direction of the beach. I looked and saw two frat bros giving me the thumbs up. Hello Kitty had ridden up on me and my big Greek ass was out and reflecting the noonday sun. I waved at the bros and went back into my aluminum castle.
I sat Hope down on the desk and pulled up one of the Naugahyde chairs. A thought had been running through my head ever since I’d regained consciousness. “Remember last night?”
“Better than you do.”
“Pan was here, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And he was gonna fuck off, right?”
“I never liked that inelegant way of putting it, but yes.”
“And did he or did he not give us his reasons for bailing?”
“He did. In his own coarse way.”
“He said, ‘If you stop moving, you’re dead’.”
“Right. Like a shark.”
For a moment, I flashed back to my fantasy of being torn apart by enthusiastic Great Whites. I had to shake my head to banish it. “Something about hearing that and seeing one of my friends from the old neighborhood fuck off got me thinking.”
“I’m listening...”
“How many of the old Evils are in the pithos now?”
“Nine thousand, nine hundred and thirty-seven.”
“How many would you say are left? Not counting the elective ones, you sometimes talk me into.”
Hope took a sharp breath. She was thinking. “Thirty-nine, give or take. You want locations?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.” I picked up the orange juice from where I’d left it on the desk. “You said the closest one’s here in L.A., right?”
Hope’s tone brightened. “Is this headed where I think it’s headed?”
“You wanna go after it?”
“Yes! Now you’re talking! That’s the stuff! That’s the old moxy!”
“Since when are you a thirties gangster?”
“I have my own particular idiom.”
“You definitely do.”
“So, that’s all you had to hear, ‘If you stop moving, you’re dead’? If I’d’ve known, I’d’ve said it to you days ago.”
I raised one scruffy eyebrow. “Actually, in my head, I’ve put my own spin on it.”
“What do you mean?”
“My new motto: ‘If you keep moving, you’re dead’.”
There was a long pause. Even after all this time, it was still weird staring at a clay pot waiting for it to gather its thoughts. “I don’t understand, isn’t that the opposite of what Pan was saying?”
“I dunno. Maybe. I had a minor epiphany. This lethargy I’ve been in. Maybe it’s a sign. A sign that I’m tired and it’s time.”
“Time for what? You’re not allowed to... fuck off. You’re cursed.”
“Yeah, but if I fulfill the terms of my contract, I can finally die. The Underworld can’t be any worse than the overworld, am I right?”
“So, you want to finish the curse, so you can die, and you want to die because you’re bored?”
I came up short. For a moment, I was forced to rethink my new position. I did the math, and the sum came out the same. “Yes,” I said, feeling all the more emphatic.
“Oh, Dora...”
“Don’t ‘Oh, Dora...’ me. Isn’t this what you wanted? To get back in the saddle again?”
“Yeah, but not as a form of slow-motion suicide. This isn’t like you.”
“Okay, fine. Sure. But it’s my decision. California’s a right-to-die state, and I wanna give it a go. Are you game or not?”
Another long pause. When Hope spoke again, her tone lacked enthusiasm. “I guess. Are you gonna wear pants?”
2
Out of the Trailer
Turns out the minor Evil Hope found was in Long Beach. Probably more than an hour south depending on traffic. She and I argued for a while over the definition of “greater Los Angeles area”, but finally I said fuck it and grabbed my bag. I threw said bag into the trunk of the Firebird and strapped Hope’s jar into the passenger seat. Once we hit the highway, I turn
ed the radio up loud to show I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. I had some thinking to do and Merle Haggard was gonna help me do it.
There was just no two ways about it. You used to be able to bounce a drachma off my belly but now there was enough fat there for a good long hibernate. I’d let myself go, and I was worried about how the day was gonna go. Wrestling an Evil into the pithos is usually a pretty strenuous affair. Turns out ancient demons don’t like being crammed into an itty-bitty jar. I was afraid I’d get winded carrying Hope around much less diving in for a serious scrap. If I had to do any running or jumping, a stroke might be in my immediate future. I could easily imagine that being part of my curse going forward. Catching all the Evils with a gimpy left side and comedically slurred speech. On the bright side, whoever ended up playing me in the movie was bound to win an Oscar. The Academy loves ridiculously over-the-top portrayals of the handicapped.
On a macro level, I was suddenly laser-focused on my long-term goal. For whatever reason, Pan throwing in the towel lit a fire under my ass. As much as I love cheap beer and weed, I guess I love the idea of all this being over even better. You know what I’m talking about, right? That clarity that comes from making a decision? Particularly, when you’ve been sitting on your hands for a long, long while. For the first time in at least a decade, I felt like I had a purpose, and that purpose might just get me up before noon every day.
As we drove past Manhattan Beach, I pondered a little deeper. What’s the difference between “fucking off” and dying? I wondered. Where did the gods and other minor mythological bugaboos go when they shuffled off this mortal coil? Was the “fucking off” place better than the Underworld? By catching all the Evils and dying was I being cheated somehow? After all, I’ve been around now for thousands and thousands of years, so it seems like I’d be qualified for the “fucking off” full monty. When I shoved the last Evil into the pithos would I be able to “fuck off” or would I just keel over like a wino in the street? I have a strong sense of justice when it comes to my own needs. I want what’s coming to me.
