Hi. This is the author (see the photo to your right - yes, your right) just stepping in for a moment or two to do some fourth wall breakage (with my inherent clumsiness, this is a literal and figurative possibility). I wanted to let you all know that I'm participating in this thing called The 99th Page Blogfest.
"But hark, what craziness be this, oh Great Author of all things Claire?"
(What? You guys don't talk like that? I'm so very disappointed...)
Well, eager beavers, let me explain (No, no. That'll take too long. Let me sum up...). It's this thing being run by the following lovely ladies: Erinn, Alicia, Holly, Pam and Quita. The gist of it is the authors around the blogosphere post the 99th page of their manuscipts and you, the readers, are asked to decide the following:
1. Would you turn to page 100?
2. Why or why not?
3. Based on what you've read, would you buy the book?
So, without further ado my lovely minions, I respectfully submit the 99th page (which is half a page, as it's the start of Chapter 10) of The (Absolutely, Positively) True Adventures of Claire Elizabeth Rogers to you, the readers.
10
“Please form a single line and report to the kiosks on the left for assignment.”
The line shifts and Jack hollers to Claire that they’re finally moving. When she doesn’t respond immediately, he looks over and finds the area vacant. No Metatron, no Claire, nothing but white orbs of light and wings. She’s abandoned him, left him for the masses, and gone off on her own to accomplish what he – literally – gave his life to help her do.
“Sonovabitch,” he swears. The elderly woman next to him in line smacks his arm.
“Stop cussing,” she says before moving along past him.
He sticks his tongue out at her when her back is turned.
*Additional house points to those of you who comment with the correct movie and/or television references tucked away in this post. Hint: there's only two of them.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Author's Note: The 99th Page Blogfest
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Yo Momma So Old, She Knows God (Literally)
Katharine Rogers is, or was to be technically precise, the daughter of a blacksmith in Ireland. If given a chance to calculate her approximate age, Kate would tell you to borrow forty-five of your closest friends and ask them to each count to ten. Then she'd ask you to subtract seven.(1) For those of you good with math, it's a kinder way of saying she's currently 443 years old.
How Katharine became an angel in the employ of God is a simple story. She arrived in the offices of Heaven, Incorporated shortly after tripping over a discarded hammer in her father's smithy and falling in just such a way that she impaled herself on a newly forged sword. One minute she was bleeding all over the floor and the next she was standing in a richly furnished room, wearing a white dress, and keeping company with a caramel colored Amazon.
"Good morning, Katharine. I'm God." God was always eloquent in Her opening words to the newly deceased. She'd had years of practice and had finally perfected Her tone of voice (gentle and soothing), Her facial expressions (calm and smiling), and Her tact.
Katharine, on the other hand, was not quite accustomed to being dead and therefore had none of the tact and grace of the deity before her. In fact, Katharine's first words to God at such an awe-inspiring moment in her existence were thus:
"Christ almighty, that hurt like a motherfucker."(2)
* * *
While Katharine was occupied with the New Hire Orientation (mandated by the Pearly Gates Corporation for all newly deceased members of the staff), God did a little research. She discovered that while Her newest angel had been alive, she'd been very good at three things: tying knots, building fires, and pounding metal.(3) So God examined Her current needs in Heaven, Inc. and realized that Saint Eligius needed an assistant out in the Holy Smithy and Katharine, with her previous experience, was the perfect fit. Especially given her cursing proclivities and expertise with a hammer.
Kate, however, did not agree and as soon as God was finished explaining Her plan, the newly annointed angel threw an unholy fit.
"You're kidding me, right?" she asked. "I spent my existence on Earth in a smithy, covered in soot and ash and who knows what the fuck else because smithys are attached to stables and stables are full of horses, and now You want me to spend my afterlife in one, too?" She pulled at her bright red hair. "Do You have any idea what smoke does to hair?" she asked.
God honestly didn't, having never spent too much time out in the stables or the smithy. Big hammers and horses were never really Her thing - She was secretly a little happy when the dragons ate the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse's steeds.(4)
She sighed. "Well, then, where would you like to work?" She asked.
Katharine frowned. "I'd kind of thought I'd retire," she said, "seeing as how I'm dead and supposedly in paradise."
God decided to give it one more try. "How do you feel about libraries?" She asked.
"They're filled with books, right?" Katharine asked, and God nodded, feeling encouraged. "I've never really read a book, just used them as kindling."
God pinched the bridge of Her nose, sighed into the ether, and counted to ten before continuing the conversation. "Go sit in the library," She said, Her voice far calmer than She actually felt. "Read something, and for the love of Me, don't light anything on fire and don't touch anything that isn't supposed to be touched."
Katharine considered it, shrugged. "Sounds easy enough."
* * *
In the first fifty or so Pearly Gates years that Katharine worked in the Heavenly Library, she managed to destroy a handful of "priceless" objects, most of them statues or sculptures. It got to the point where God had to create a separate area to store the art, simply to preserve it from Katharine's clumsiness. Everytime She heard the words "uh-oh" and "my bad" filter down the hallway to Her office, God would pray to Herself that it wasn't something invaluable.
And everytime, it was...because that was just the kind of lucky Katharine was. The last straw was when she almost broke Pandora's Box(5) and Zeus freaked out, threw a lightning bolt, and broke God's favorite stained glass window.
"That's it!" She hollered, striding into the library with purpose and fervor. "You're too clumsy to work up here, Kate," She said. "There's too much to break, too much accidental havoc for you to wreak."
Katharine, who'd been enjoying a ham sandwich while perusing a copy of Carl Jung's Answer to Job(6), looked up and frowned. "Are You firing me?" she asked, ignoring the glob of mustard that fell onto the page in front of her.
God stared at the mustard glob and attempted to keep Her temper under control. She allowed Meta's voice to remind Her that there was a mountain of paperwork involved in smiting one's own employee and that no amount of personal satisfaction was worth that much inconvenience.
"No, Kate," She said, breathing steadily through Her nose, "I'm not firing you." She had a sudden idea. "I'm promoting you." She smiled a manic smile and motioned for Katharine to follow Her out of the library and away from all the breakable things. "I think I've found the exact place where your...talents...will be better appreciated."
Katharine took a bite of her sandwich. "It's the smithy, isn't it?" she asked in defeat.
God's manic smile widened and She shook Her head, wrapped an arm around Katharine's shoulders. She squeezed the angel to Her side with a little more force than necessary and the sandwich popped out of Katharine's hands and fell on the thousand year old Persian rug just inside the library door. God stared at the sandwich and the mustard stain and fought against screaming.
"Oh, Katie, it's so much better than the smithy..."
* * *
As it turned out, God's plan for Katharine was, indeed, so much better than the smithy. God told her to close her eyes and when she next opened them, she was standing on a city street surrounded by tall buildings, loud people, and metal boxes on wheels that consistently honked when they were unhappy.
"Where the bejesus am I?" she asked herself, confused and just a touch terrified. When she'd died, there had been dirt roads, horses and carts, and her village had been inhabited by sixty three and a half people (there was a leper living there). This was so far removed from what she remembered that her first thought was she'd been sent to Hell (Hades & Purgatory, Ltd).
"You're in Boston," a man said from somewhere near her and she turned her head to see him. He was tall, good looking, with a shock of black unruly hair that made him look like he'd just been kicked in the stomach by a goat. At Katharine's confused expression, he elaborated. "Massachusetts," he said. She still looked confused. "The United States of America. Planet Earth."
"Sonovabitch," she muttered. "And the date?" she asked a little more loudly.
"October third, 1973." He smiled and she found she rather liked his smile. "It's a Wednesday, if that helps."
"I always liked Wednesdays," she said, mostly to herself.
"They're so much nicer than Thursdays. I'm Harry," the man said and stuck out his hand. She looked at it, shyly took it in her own. "Harry Rogers."
"Katharine O'Malley," she said. "I'm sorry, but I'm having a wee bit of an odd moment."
"I can tell." He looked at her. "Ireland?" he asked.
"What about it?"
"Your accent. Is it Irish?"
She nodded. "Started out that way. I've been elsewhere since, though."
He sensed a story and he pointed over his shoulder. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" he asked. "I know whenever I'm having an odd moment, coffee tends to straighten things out for me."
"I suppose I can do that," she said. "But don't try anything funny."
In spite of the serious expression on her face, Harry laughed. "I'm an English professor," he said and she just looked at him. "I don't think I'm capable of trying anything funny."
Katharine nodded, smiled a little. "That's okay," she said. "I'm an angel. I don't think I'm allowed to try anything funny."
Harry stared at her, considered what she'd just said, and decided that not only was she one hundred percent serious, but he was ninety-nine percent sure he believed her. He also had the fleeting romantic thought that he'd marry her some day.
And he did.
(1) Not seven friends, but seven digits and however you decide to subtract them is completely up to you...
(2) Katharine, for all intents and purposes, has the vocabulary of a drunken sailor on shore leave. 'Golly' and 'gee whiz' just don't have a place in a smithy.
(3) This isn't a euphemism. She actually pounded metal, with a hammer, like a blacksmith. It was the late 16th century; pounding anything had a very different connotation than it did starting in the early 21st century.
(4) Especially Death's. There's something incredibly unnatural about a little bald man riding a skeletal horse that has strands of its own flesh hanging off it.
(5) Pandora's "Box" was actually an incredibly heavy stone urn. Why? Because the Greeks, who were always a little more difficult than all the other religions, never used boxes. "Can't stand square objects," Zeus said by way of explanation. "If I'm going to store something, I'd rather put it in something round. Less sharp edges." Seriously, that was verbatim.
(6) God likes to keep all of Her press pieces close to Her, even the bad ones...especially the bad ones. Where do you think She gets the "naughty" list from?
How Katharine became an angel in the employ of God is a simple story. She arrived in the offices of Heaven, Incorporated shortly after tripping over a discarded hammer in her father's smithy and falling in just such a way that she impaled herself on a newly forged sword. One minute she was bleeding all over the floor and the next she was standing in a richly furnished room, wearing a white dress, and keeping company with a caramel colored Amazon.
"Good morning, Katharine. I'm God." God was always eloquent in Her opening words to the newly deceased. She'd had years of practice and had finally perfected Her tone of voice (gentle and soothing), Her facial expressions (calm and smiling), and Her tact.
Katharine, on the other hand, was not quite accustomed to being dead and therefore had none of the tact and grace of the deity before her. In fact, Katharine's first words to God at such an awe-inspiring moment in her existence were thus:
"Christ almighty, that hurt like a motherfucker."(2)
* * *
While Katharine was occupied with the New Hire Orientation (mandated by the Pearly Gates Corporation for all newly deceased members of the staff), God did a little research. She discovered that while Her newest angel had been alive, she'd been very good at three things: tying knots, building fires, and pounding metal.(3) So God examined Her current needs in Heaven, Inc. and realized that Saint Eligius needed an assistant out in the Holy Smithy and Katharine, with her previous experience, was the perfect fit. Especially given her cursing proclivities and expertise with a hammer.
Kate, however, did not agree and as soon as God was finished explaining Her plan, the newly annointed angel threw an unholy fit.
"You're kidding me, right?" she asked. "I spent my existence on Earth in a smithy, covered in soot and ash and who knows what the fuck else because smithys are attached to stables and stables are full of horses, and now You want me to spend my afterlife in one, too?" She pulled at her bright red hair. "Do You have any idea what smoke does to hair?" she asked.
God honestly didn't, having never spent too much time out in the stables or the smithy. Big hammers and horses were never really Her thing - She was secretly a little happy when the dragons ate the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse's steeds.(4)
She sighed. "Well, then, where would you like to work?" She asked.
Katharine frowned. "I'd kind of thought I'd retire," she said, "seeing as how I'm dead and supposedly in paradise."
God decided to give it one more try. "How do you feel about libraries?" She asked.
"They're filled with books, right?" Katharine asked, and God nodded, feeling encouraged. "I've never really read a book, just used them as kindling."
God pinched the bridge of Her nose, sighed into the ether, and counted to ten before continuing the conversation. "Go sit in the library," She said, Her voice far calmer than She actually felt. "Read something, and for the love of Me, don't light anything on fire and don't touch anything that isn't supposed to be touched."
Katharine considered it, shrugged. "Sounds easy enough."
* * *
In the first fifty or so Pearly Gates years that Katharine worked in the Heavenly Library, she managed to destroy a handful of "priceless" objects, most of them statues or sculptures. It got to the point where God had to create a separate area to store the art, simply to preserve it from Katharine's clumsiness. Everytime She heard the words "uh-oh" and "my bad" filter down the hallway to Her office, God would pray to Herself that it wasn't something invaluable.
And everytime, it was...because that was just the kind of lucky Katharine was. The last straw was when she almost broke Pandora's Box(5) and Zeus freaked out, threw a lightning bolt, and broke God's favorite stained glass window.
"That's it!" She hollered, striding into the library with purpose and fervor. "You're too clumsy to work up here, Kate," She said. "There's too much to break, too much accidental havoc for you to wreak."
Katharine, who'd been enjoying a ham sandwich while perusing a copy of Carl Jung's Answer to Job(6), looked up and frowned. "Are You firing me?" she asked, ignoring the glob of mustard that fell onto the page in front of her.
God stared at the mustard glob and attempted to keep Her temper under control. She allowed Meta's voice to remind Her that there was a mountain of paperwork involved in smiting one's own employee and that no amount of personal satisfaction was worth that much inconvenience.
"No, Kate," She said, breathing steadily through Her nose, "I'm not firing you." She had a sudden idea. "I'm promoting you." She smiled a manic smile and motioned for Katharine to follow Her out of the library and away from all the breakable things. "I think I've found the exact place where your...talents...will be better appreciated."
Katharine took a bite of her sandwich. "It's the smithy, isn't it?" she asked in defeat.
God's manic smile widened and She shook Her head, wrapped an arm around Katharine's shoulders. She squeezed the angel to Her side with a little more force than necessary and the sandwich popped out of Katharine's hands and fell on the thousand year old Persian rug just inside the library door. God stared at the sandwich and the mustard stain and fought against screaming.
"Oh, Katie, it's so much better than the smithy..."
* * *
As it turned out, God's plan for Katharine was, indeed, so much better than the smithy. God told her to close her eyes and when she next opened them, she was standing on a city street surrounded by tall buildings, loud people, and metal boxes on wheels that consistently honked when they were unhappy.
"Where the bejesus am I?" she asked herself, confused and just a touch terrified. When she'd died, there had been dirt roads, horses and carts, and her village had been inhabited by sixty three and a half people (there was a leper living there). This was so far removed from what she remembered that her first thought was she'd been sent to Hell (Hades & Purgatory, Ltd).
"You're in Boston," a man said from somewhere near her and she turned her head to see him. He was tall, good looking, with a shock of black unruly hair that made him look like he'd just been kicked in the stomach by a goat. At Katharine's confused expression, he elaborated. "Massachusetts," he said. She still looked confused. "The United States of America. Planet Earth."
"Sonovabitch," she muttered. "And the date?" she asked a little more loudly.
"October third, 1973." He smiled and she found she rather liked his smile. "It's a Wednesday, if that helps."
"I always liked Wednesdays," she said, mostly to herself.
"They're so much nicer than Thursdays. I'm Harry," the man said and stuck out his hand. She looked at it, shyly took it in her own. "Harry Rogers."
"Katharine O'Malley," she said. "I'm sorry, but I'm having a wee bit of an odd moment."
"I can tell." He looked at her. "Ireland?" he asked.
"What about it?"
"Your accent. Is it Irish?"
She nodded. "Started out that way. I've been elsewhere since, though."
He sensed a story and he pointed over his shoulder. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" he asked. "I know whenever I'm having an odd moment, coffee tends to straighten things out for me."
"I suppose I can do that," she said. "But don't try anything funny."
In spite of the serious expression on her face, Harry laughed. "I'm an English professor," he said and she just looked at him. "I don't think I'm capable of trying anything funny."
Katharine nodded, smiled a little. "That's okay," she said. "I'm an angel. I don't think I'm allowed to try anything funny."
Harry stared at her, considered what she'd just said, and decided that not only was she one hundred percent serious, but he was ninety-nine percent sure he believed her. He also had the fleeting romantic thought that he'd marry her some day.
And he did.
(1) Not seven friends, but seven digits and however you decide to subtract them is completely up to you...
(2) Katharine, for all intents and purposes, has the vocabulary of a drunken sailor on shore leave. 'Golly' and 'gee whiz' just don't have a place in a smithy.
(3) This isn't a euphemism. She actually pounded metal, with a hammer, like a blacksmith. It was the late 16th century; pounding anything had a very different connotation than it did starting in the early 21st century.
(4) Especially Death's. There's something incredibly unnatural about a little bald man riding a skeletal horse that has strands of its own flesh hanging off it.
(5) Pandora's "Box" was actually an incredibly heavy stone urn. Why? Because the Greeks, who were always a little more difficult than all the other religions, never used boxes. "Can't stand square objects," Zeus said by way of explanation. "If I'm going to store something, I'd rather put it in something round. Less sharp edges." Seriously, that was verbatim.
(6) God likes to keep all of Her press pieces close to Her, even the bad ones...especially the bad ones. Where do you think She gets the "naughty" list from?
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The Tiny Hands of Fate (or an Approximation Thereof)
Metatron is used to having terrible days. He's a glorified mediator most of the time and constantly having to deal with fighting immortals and creatures (both natural and unnatural) takes its toll on his cheery disposition. There are days when God tasks him with explaining things to those gods and goddesses who have a hard time understanding Her, either because they've chosen not to or because they don't necessarily speak the same language and Meta ends up on the wrong end of someone's lightning bolt (Zeus) or hammer (Thor) or googly-eyed fern (Charles Darwin).
Sometimes, though, it isn't an aspect of Meta's job that leads him into a terrible day, but instead he simply wakes up and things rollercoaster downhill from there. For instance, when he woke up this morning, the Voice of God knew he was going to have a craptastic day from the start. He hit his head on a low-hanging rosary as he was getting out of bed. Then, on his way to the bathroom, he stubbed his toe on the oversized cross in his hallway and the hanging idol of Jesus laughed at him.(1) He's learned over these last few thousand years that when a molded stone imitation of the World's Savior laughs at you, it's never a good sign - especially in light of Jesus' off-beat sense of humor.(2)
He survived his morning meetings - all six of them - and is currently standing in the line to the dessert bar in the Pearly Gates Corporation's lunchroom. Dionysus had been in charge of the last meeting, a twenty-minute diatribe regarding the catering for the annual Fall Harvest Festival in the Greek and Roman levels, and all the god could talk about was the Death by Chocolate cake the lunchroom had planned to serve with lunch. Now, three hours later, all Meta wants for lunch is a glass of milk and a slice of Death by Chocolate Cake. The minion in front of him grabs a bowl of pudding and Meta sees that there's just one slice left. The minion moves out of the way and as Meta reaches out for the plate and that last piece of chocolately goodness, his hand is swatted away by one of the many arms of Shiva, which then swoops in and steals the plate.
He whirls on the Hindu god. "Did you seriously just smack me so you could get that piece of chocolate cake?" Meta asks, shaking out his injured hand.
Shiva shrugs. He has plates of food in each of his four hands, including the chocolate cake. "Maybe," he says. He licks chocolate frosting off his finger. "Thanks for the cake, Stringbean," he says.
"Considering the size of your stomach, fatso, you might want to have the fruit cup instead," Meta grumbles.
Shiva looks down at his protruding stomach and shrugs. "I don't know. Seems to me the ladies like it," he says and moves to leave the dessert line.
Meta holds his arm out to block Shiva's retreat. "That's my piece of chocolate cake," he says.
"Oh, in that case," Shiva says and holds the plate out. Meta goes to reach for it but Shiva pulls it out of his reach before he can grab it. "Too slow," the Hindu god says, grinning.
Meta, if asked, will always deny that he threw a plate of coconut cream pie in the face of Shiva the Destroyer. He'll say that the pie came out of nowhere, that someone very kind must have seen what happened with the chocolate cake and felt the need to defend The Voice of God's dessert-time honor. He'll call the Hindu god a liar and a cake thief and he'll demand reparations.
He should have instead remembered he was The Voice of God. It would have made things a lot easier.
* * *
His hands are tiny. They are not usually tiny but are instead usually very long and reminiscent of spider legs in the way the last two bones of each finger curl inwards. With his arms at his sides, the tips of Meta's fingers almost reach his knees.
Today, they're barely poking out the sleeves of his jacket.
"My hands!" he hollers as he runs into God's office, holding the offending appendages up so that She can see them.
She looks up from the stack of intake forms on Her desk and shrieks in terror. "Holy hell, what happened to your hands?!" She asks, Her voice high and panicky. He takes a step towards Her desk and She stands quickly, Her chair falling over as She backs away from him. He stops moving.
"I don't know!" he shouts. "I woke up and they were like this." He waves them and She shrieks again, holds Her own hands up to block him out. He pauses, frowns at Her. "What's wrong with You?" he asks.
"Nothing," She says, smoothing out Her toga and attempting to look put together and calm. He takes another step towards Her and She immediately retreats backward, bumping into the card catalog behind Her desk.(3) "Just stop moving," She says. "Please."
He does as She asks and his arms drop to his sides, his sleeves hiding his now tiny hands. With them out of sight, She seems to lose Her manic edge and come back to Her senses.
"Now, let's think about this rationally." She motions for him to sit in one of Her visitor chairs. She stays standing with Her back against the card catalog. "You started a food fight with Shiva in the lunchroom yesterday," She says and he nods. "He has a penchant for making things small, something you might have remembered before you threw a pie in his face."
"I maintain I didn't throw the pie and even if I had, he deserved it. He took the last piece of chocolate cake, Ellie," Meta whines. "And he smacked me." He mimes his hand being smacked by his other hand and the sight of two tiny hands hitting each other has God wanting to hide under Her desk. A muscle in Her cheek twitches and Meta looks at Her funny. "You're afraid of tiny hands, aren't You?" he asks, suddenly understanding.
"No," She says, instantly flustered. "That's ridiculous. Why would you ask Me something like that?"
"Because You're sitting on top of Your card catalog instead of at Your desk across from me. And these." He waves his hands at Her and She screams before She can stop Herself. He smirks.
"Okay, fine" She says, a little breathless. "I may be a little afraid of tiny hands."
"And by little, you mean...?"
"Very. Bordering on terrified."
"Why?"
"I haven't a clue. Now would you please put those damn things in your pockets so I can get the hell down from here?"
He does as She asks. "The easiest thing to do here, for both of us, is for You to fix it," he says.
She eyes him warily. "I wouldn't even know where to start," She says. "It isn't permanent, though. That much I do know."
Meta's eyes go wide. "You've seen this before, then?"
She nods. "He shrunk Jupiter's head after the god had accidentally bumped into him and spilled his coffee."(4) God hops down off the card catalog and cautiously sits at Her desk. In an effort to focus on anything besides the tiny hands across from Her, She begins signing the intake forms once again. "I really wouldn't worry about it, Meta," She says, not looking up. "I give it a day, or two, tops."
"And if they don't go back to normal, then what?"
"Juno is looking for a new administrative assistant," She says, managing a smile. "I've heard the goatskin armor really grows on you after awhile."
* * *
It lasts six days. He's banned from God's office for the duration of it and because he's always been just slightly inclined to certain acts of mischief, he waves at Her whenever he sees Her around the building. Each time, She shrieks in terror and runs in the opposite direction. It loses its novelty, however, after She throws an alarm clock at his head and he ends up with the actual clockface embedded in his forehead for a couple of hours...during which the dials keep perfect time.
He keeps his hands to himself after that.
He's back in the lunchroom on the seventh day, his hands having returned to their normal size, and he finds himself standing behind an oblivious Shiva in the dessert line. As they near the plates of cakes and cups of puddings, Meta sees the prize - one delectable looking piece of chocolate cake, all by itself. Shiva goes to reach for it and Meta smacks his hand out of the way, grabs the plate off the bar, and turns an evil grin on the Hindu god.
"Ha ha!" he shouts. "I win."
"You do know I'm the Destroyer of Worlds," Shiva says, attempting his best menacing glare. Meta thinks he'd look a lot more imposing if there wasn't a bowl of Jell-o in his second left hand. Whenever he shifts his arms, the blue substance wiggles and it makes Meta want to dance.
"Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me to forget." Meta holds the plate out for Shiva to take. He snatches it back at the last minute, though, and the god's face clouds over. Meta, who's since realized the error of his ways since his first cake-snatching encounter with Shiva, leans in close and uses the voice his maker gave him.
"TOO SLOW!" he bellows and Shiva's perfectly coifed (matted) hair blows straight out from his head. He's left teetering on his bare heels, dazed and confused from the full force of (literally) the Voice of the Voice of God. Most of his lunch items have been blown away, including the blue Jell-o.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Destructor," he says, patting the dazed god on the shoulder as he walks past him. "And thanks for the cake."
(1) A few Earthly years earlier, Meta had done some work at a church in Buenos Aires and as a thank you for all his kind words - which were, in fact, his own words because the message God had sent him downstairs to deliver had needed tweaking before he thought it appropriate to say within the confines of a house of worship - Father Amalda had given him a gigantic rosary and a gilded cross. His sense of honor forbade him from getting rid of them; his sense of interior design, however, begged and pleaded with him to turn them over to the Salvation Army and put up a Georgia O'Keefe instead.
(2) Well, if you'd been strung up on a crucifix, left to die, and had subsequently risen from the dead three days later your funny bone might be just a little left of center, too.
(3) Whatever you do, don't open those drawers. Should you ever find yourself alone in God's office and have the urge to open those drawers, just remember I told you so. And for the record, souls are much easier to take out of a drawer than they are to put back into one. Keep it in mind.
(4) Jupiter's never been right in the head - he's a big, powerful god who's afraid of just about everything in the known (and, at times, unknown) universe, including bunny rabbits - but for the three days his head was shrunken, he seemed almost normal. His wife, Juno, has been scheming to have it happen again ever since.
Sometimes, though, it isn't an aspect of Meta's job that leads him into a terrible day, but instead he simply wakes up and things rollercoaster downhill from there. For instance, when he woke up this morning, the Voice of God knew he was going to have a craptastic day from the start. He hit his head on a low-hanging rosary as he was getting out of bed. Then, on his way to the bathroom, he stubbed his toe on the oversized cross in his hallway and the hanging idol of Jesus laughed at him.(1) He's learned over these last few thousand years that when a molded stone imitation of the World's Savior laughs at you, it's never a good sign - especially in light of Jesus' off-beat sense of humor.(2)
He survived his morning meetings - all six of them - and is currently standing in the line to the dessert bar in the Pearly Gates Corporation's lunchroom. Dionysus had been in charge of the last meeting, a twenty-minute diatribe regarding the catering for the annual Fall Harvest Festival in the Greek and Roman levels, and all the god could talk about was the Death by Chocolate cake the lunchroom had planned to serve with lunch. Now, three hours later, all Meta wants for lunch is a glass of milk and a slice of Death by Chocolate Cake. The minion in front of him grabs a bowl of pudding and Meta sees that there's just one slice left. The minion moves out of the way and as Meta reaches out for the plate and that last piece of chocolately goodness, his hand is swatted away by one of the many arms of Shiva, which then swoops in and steals the plate.
He whirls on the Hindu god. "Did you seriously just smack me so you could get that piece of chocolate cake?" Meta asks, shaking out his injured hand.
Shiva shrugs. He has plates of food in each of his four hands, including the chocolate cake. "Maybe," he says. He licks chocolate frosting off his finger. "Thanks for the cake, Stringbean," he says.
"Considering the size of your stomach, fatso, you might want to have the fruit cup instead," Meta grumbles.
Shiva looks down at his protruding stomach and shrugs. "I don't know. Seems to me the ladies like it," he says and moves to leave the dessert line.
Meta holds his arm out to block Shiva's retreat. "That's my piece of chocolate cake," he says.
"Oh, in that case," Shiva says and holds the plate out. Meta goes to reach for it but Shiva pulls it out of his reach before he can grab it. "Too slow," the Hindu god says, grinning.
Meta, if asked, will always deny that he threw a plate of coconut cream pie in the face of Shiva the Destroyer. He'll say that the pie came out of nowhere, that someone very kind must have seen what happened with the chocolate cake and felt the need to defend The Voice of God's dessert-time honor. He'll call the Hindu god a liar and a cake thief and he'll demand reparations.
He should have instead remembered he was The Voice of God. It would have made things a lot easier.
* * *
His hands are tiny. They are not usually tiny but are instead usually very long and reminiscent of spider legs in the way the last two bones of each finger curl inwards. With his arms at his sides, the tips of Meta's fingers almost reach his knees.
Today, they're barely poking out the sleeves of his jacket.
"My hands!" he hollers as he runs into God's office, holding the offending appendages up so that She can see them.
She looks up from the stack of intake forms on Her desk and shrieks in terror. "Holy hell, what happened to your hands?!" She asks, Her voice high and panicky. He takes a step towards Her desk and She stands quickly, Her chair falling over as She backs away from him. He stops moving.
"I don't know!" he shouts. "I woke up and they were like this." He waves them and She shrieks again, holds Her own hands up to block him out. He pauses, frowns at Her. "What's wrong with You?" he asks.
"Nothing," She says, smoothing out Her toga and attempting to look put together and calm. He takes another step towards Her and She immediately retreats backward, bumping into the card catalog behind Her desk.(3) "Just stop moving," She says. "Please."
He does as She asks and his arms drop to his sides, his sleeves hiding his now tiny hands. With them out of sight, She seems to lose Her manic edge and come back to Her senses.
"Now, let's think about this rationally." She motions for him to sit in one of Her visitor chairs. She stays standing with Her back against the card catalog. "You started a food fight with Shiva in the lunchroom yesterday," She says and he nods. "He has a penchant for making things small, something you might have remembered before you threw a pie in his face."
"I maintain I didn't throw the pie and even if I had, he deserved it. He took the last piece of chocolate cake, Ellie," Meta whines. "And he smacked me." He mimes his hand being smacked by his other hand and the sight of two tiny hands hitting each other has God wanting to hide under Her desk. A muscle in Her cheek twitches and Meta looks at Her funny. "You're afraid of tiny hands, aren't You?" he asks, suddenly understanding.
"No," She says, instantly flustered. "That's ridiculous. Why would you ask Me something like that?"
"Because You're sitting on top of Your card catalog instead of at Your desk across from me. And these." He waves his hands at Her and She screams before She can stop Herself. He smirks.
"Okay, fine" She says, a little breathless. "I may be a little afraid of tiny hands."
"And by little, you mean...?"
"Very. Bordering on terrified."
"Why?"
"I haven't a clue. Now would you please put those damn things in your pockets so I can get the hell down from here?"
He does as She asks. "The easiest thing to do here, for both of us, is for You to fix it," he says.
She eyes him warily. "I wouldn't even know where to start," She says. "It isn't permanent, though. That much I do know."
Meta's eyes go wide. "You've seen this before, then?"
She nods. "He shrunk Jupiter's head after the god had accidentally bumped into him and spilled his coffee."(4) God hops down off the card catalog and cautiously sits at Her desk. In an effort to focus on anything besides the tiny hands across from Her, She begins signing the intake forms once again. "I really wouldn't worry about it, Meta," She says, not looking up. "I give it a day, or two, tops."
"And if they don't go back to normal, then what?"
"Juno is looking for a new administrative assistant," She says, managing a smile. "I've heard the goatskin armor really grows on you after awhile."
* * *
It lasts six days. He's banned from God's office for the duration of it and because he's always been just slightly inclined to certain acts of mischief, he waves at Her whenever he sees Her around the building. Each time, She shrieks in terror and runs in the opposite direction. It loses its novelty, however, after She throws an alarm clock at his head and he ends up with the actual clockface embedded in his forehead for a couple of hours...during which the dials keep perfect time.
He keeps his hands to himself after that.
He's back in the lunchroom on the seventh day, his hands having returned to their normal size, and he finds himself standing behind an oblivious Shiva in the dessert line. As they near the plates of cakes and cups of puddings, Meta sees the prize - one delectable looking piece of chocolate cake, all by itself. Shiva goes to reach for it and Meta smacks his hand out of the way, grabs the plate off the bar, and turns an evil grin on the Hindu god.
"Ha ha!" he shouts. "I win."
"You do know I'm the Destroyer of Worlds," Shiva says, attempting his best menacing glare. Meta thinks he'd look a lot more imposing if there wasn't a bowl of Jell-o in his second left hand. Whenever he shifts his arms, the blue substance wiggles and it makes Meta want to dance.
"Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me to forget." Meta holds the plate out for Shiva to take. He snatches it back at the last minute, though, and the god's face clouds over. Meta, who's since realized the error of his ways since his first cake-snatching encounter with Shiva, leans in close and uses the voice his maker gave him.
"TOO SLOW!" he bellows and Shiva's perfectly coifed (matted) hair blows straight out from his head. He's left teetering on his bare heels, dazed and confused from the full force of (literally) the Voice of the Voice of God. Most of his lunch items have been blown away, including the blue Jell-o.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Destructor," he says, patting the dazed god on the shoulder as he walks past him. "And thanks for the cake."
(1) A few Earthly years earlier, Meta had done some work at a church in Buenos Aires and as a thank you for all his kind words - which were, in fact, his own words because the message God had sent him downstairs to deliver had needed tweaking before he thought it appropriate to say within the confines of a house of worship - Father Amalda had given him a gigantic rosary and a gilded cross. His sense of honor forbade him from getting rid of them; his sense of interior design, however, begged and pleaded with him to turn them over to the Salvation Army and put up a Georgia O'Keefe instead.
(2) Well, if you'd been strung up on a crucifix, left to die, and had subsequently risen from the dead three days later your funny bone might be just a little left of center, too.
(3) Whatever you do, don't open those drawers. Should you ever find yourself alone in God's office and have the urge to open those drawers, just remember I told you so. And for the record, souls are much easier to take out of a drawer than they are to put back into one. Keep it in mind.
(4) Jupiter's never been right in the head - he's a big, powerful god who's afraid of just about everything in the known (and, at times, unknown) universe, including bunny rabbits - but for the three days his head was shrunken, he seemed almost normal. His wife, Juno, has been scheming to have it happen again ever since.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Breaking the Fourth Wall...Sort Of
Hi. It's me, Meg, the author whose photograph is posted to the right (your right, while you're staring at the computer) of this little blurb of chaotic text. I'm taking a moment to break the fourth wall (sort of) and let all my readers (all 22 of you glorious people) know that The Unbelievable Adventures of Claire Elizabeth Rogers is now a Facebook page.
It's hit the big time (seven people like it as of this morning - amazing!).
So, if you're a reader with a Facebook page and you feel like clicking on the Pearly Gates Corporation logo to the right (still your right), you'll be transported to a magical land of still-under-construction-please-bear-with-me Facebook awesomeness. And if you're a fan of the blog, you can become a fan of the Facebook page.
Hell, you can become a fan of the Facebook page even if you're not a fan of the blog...though it begs the question of how you found either in the first place...hmmm.
Anyway, this is a big thank you to all you wonderfully nice people who continue to read Claire and Company's many adventures (some good, some terrible, some hilarious). And I can say, without a doubt, that the third draft of the novel (The [Absolutely, Positively] True Adventures of a Religious Prophet) will be finished by the New Year - if it isn't, I give you all full permission to throw rotten fruit at me.
That's right. Rotten fruit.
Now click on something and have a happy Thursday.
-Meg
It's hit the big time (seven people like it as of this morning - amazing!).
So, if you're a reader with a Facebook page and you feel like clicking on the Pearly Gates Corporation logo to the right (still your right), you'll be transported to a magical land of still-under-construction-please-bear-with-me Facebook awesomeness. And if you're a fan of the blog, you can become a fan of the Facebook page.
Hell, you can become a fan of the Facebook page even if you're not a fan of the blog...though it begs the question of how you found either in the first place...hmmm.
Anyway, this is a big thank you to all you wonderfully nice people who continue to read Claire and Company's many adventures (some good, some terrible, some hilarious). And I can say, without a doubt, that the third draft of the novel (The [Absolutely, Positively] True Adventures of a Religious Prophet) will be finished by the New Year - if it isn't, I give you all full permission to throw rotten fruit at me.
That's right. Rotten fruit.
Now click on something and have a happy Thursday.
-Meg
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The IDIOT'S Guide to Getting Bounced out of Eden
In the beginning, God created the universe and the Earth and the animals and, eventually, man. So says the Bible.(1)
In actual fact, She really only created the Earth – by accident, no less - before jaunting off for a supposedly much deserved spa vacation and leaving the angels in charge of finishing it off.
Later, after Adam and Eve, who wasn’t even the first Mrs. Adam(2), had been dropped off for playtime in the Garden of Eden, God stopped by and explained the rules: do what you want, eat what you want, and enjoy yourselves. All She asked of them was that they stay away from that one lone shady tree up on the hill – the only tree in all of Eden with big, shiny red apples hanging just low enough to be picked easily by hand. She figured those rules were easy enough to remember so She left the kids to their own devices and headed home to Her Penthouse in the sky.
Had God fast forwarded a few thousand years, and read a couple of Brothers Grimm stories, She would have realized just how seriously She had underestimated the appeal of a shiny red apple. Not to mention the fact that She put the tree on display, making it incredibly easy for curious hands to do things they shouldn't. And then there was Leo, the Serpent who lived in the higher branches of the tree - the Serpent God so irresponsibly forgot to mention. And Leo loved his apples, wanted to share them with whoever he could, so when Adam and Eve came close to the tree one afternoon while exploring the Garden, he convinced the pair of them that the shiny red apples were just apples and that the booming voice in the sky didn’t know what It was talking about.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Adam convinced Eve to pick an apple, but then, at the last minute, decided he’d rather have a peach instead. Unfortunately, it was too late; Eve had an apple from the Tree of Knowledge in her hand and, not wanting to waste a perfectly good piece of fruit just because the only man in the whole freaking universe couldn't make up his damn mind, took a bite and handed it over to Adam.
A few bites of apple later and they suddenly realized they were naked (knowledge being carnal at times) and decided they should probably cover up (what, with decency being an issue and all). With the kind of impeccable timing that only a Heavenly creature can have, God chose that precise moment to stop by for a visit and when She saw the fig leaves She lost Her heavenly cool and kicked them out of Perpetual Bliss and into the real world, where they landed on their bare asses with uncomfortable awareness.
Seriously, it’s all in the Bible - Ellie's version of it, at least.(3)
When good old Johan Gutenberg got his hands on it in the mid-14th century, he made a few edits that She never actually approved, edits that always struck Her as terrible bits of writing. Like blaming the whole thing on Eve - not cool, Johan. Not cool at all.(4)
Then there was the fact that he cut out Her favorite bit of the whole story, those last two lines right at the end of Genesis.
As they were leaving the Garden, Eve turned to Adam, smiled sweetly, and whispered, “Next time, pick your own Goddamn apples.”
(1) Well, at least it does in some old guy's Bible. God's own diary tells a much different story. See here.
(2) That would be Lilith. The problem with being God and creating a woman in Your own image is that said woman is most likely stubborn, independent, and headstrong. So was Lilith and after a short while of being told what to do by Adam, she told her 'husband' to kiss off and walked herself straight out of the garden and into the arms of sweet independence. God attempted to bring her back, more out of laziness than true want, but Lilith had seen what lay beyond the Garden and she liked it. So, resigned to actually having to do work, God created Eve from one of Adam's ribs and was a little less liberal with the stubborness. Realizing, however, just what a little twat Adam had become, God breathed a whole heap of independence into Her newest creation and sat back to watch the hilarity unfold below Her.
(3) She'd tucked it away in what would eventually become a pasture in France, with the idea it would be safe from prying eyes (safer downstairs than upstairs), only to have it dug up by a French farmer in the early 8th century, who of course ran off and translated it incorrectly because he spoke three words of Aramaic and just made up most of the rest of it. A few centuries later, it landed in Gutenberg's lap.
(4) When Gutenberg eventually died, and arrived at the Pearly Gates Corporation's front door, God made sure She was there to meet him so She could have a 'polite' conversation with him regarding the difference between artistic license and bullshit.
In actual fact, She really only created the Earth – by accident, no less - before jaunting off for a supposedly much deserved spa vacation and leaving the angels in charge of finishing it off.
Later, after Adam and Eve, who wasn’t even the first Mrs. Adam(2), had been dropped off for playtime in the Garden of Eden, God stopped by and explained the rules: do what you want, eat what you want, and enjoy yourselves. All She asked of them was that they stay away from that one lone shady tree up on the hill – the only tree in all of Eden with big, shiny red apples hanging just low enough to be picked easily by hand. She figured those rules were easy enough to remember so She left the kids to their own devices and headed home to Her Penthouse in the sky.
Had God fast forwarded a few thousand years, and read a couple of Brothers Grimm stories, She would have realized just how seriously She had underestimated the appeal of a shiny red apple. Not to mention the fact that She put the tree on display, making it incredibly easy for curious hands to do things they shouldn't. And then there was Leo, the Serpent who lived in the higher branches of the tree - the Serpent God so irresponsibly forgot to mention. And Leo loved his apples, wanted to share them with whoever he could, so when Adam and Eve came close to the tree one afternoon while exploring the Garden, he convinced the pair of them that the shiny red apples were just apples and that the booming voice in the sky didn’t know what It was talking about.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Adam convinced Eve to pick an apple, but then, at the last minute, decided he’d rather have a peach instead. Unfortunately, it was too late; Eve had an apple from the Tree of Knowledge in her hand and, not wanting to waste a perfectly good piece of fruit just because the only man in the whole freaking universe couldn't make up his damn mind, took a bite and handed it over to Adam.
A few bites of apple later and they suddenly realized they were naked (knowledge being carnal at times) and decided they should probably cover up (what, with decency being an issue and all). With the kind of impeccable timing that only a Heavenly creature can have, God chose that precise moment to stop by for a visit and when She saw the fig leaves She lost Her heavenly cool and kicked them out of Perpetual Bliss and into the real world, where they landed on their bare asses with uncomfortable awareness.
Seriously, it’s all in the Bible - Ellie's version of it, at least.(3)
When good old Johan Gutenberg got his hands on it in the mid-14th century, he made a few edits that She never actually approved, edits that always struck Her as terrible bits of writing. Like blaming the whole thing on Eve - not cool, Johan. Not cool at all.(4)
Then there was the fact that he cut out Her favorite bit of the whole story, those last two lines right at the end of Genesis.
As they were leaving the Garden, Eve turned to Adam, smiled sweetly, and whispered, “Next time, pick your own Goddamn apples.”
(1) Well, at least it does in some old guy's Bible. God's own diary tells a much different story. See here.
(2) That would be Lilith. The problem with being God and creating a woman in Your own image is that said woman is most likely stubborn, independent, and headstrong. So was Lilith and after a short while of being told what to do by Adam, she told her 'husband' to kiss off and walked herself straight out of the garden and into the arms of sweet independence. God attempted to bring her back, more out of laziness than true want, but Lilith had seen what lay beyond the Garden and she liked it. So, resigned to actually having to do work, God created Eve from one of Adam's ribs and was a little less liberal with the stubborness. Realizing, however, just what a little twat Adam had become, God breathed a whole heap of independence into Her newest creation and sat back to watch the hilarity unfold below Her.
(3) She'd tucked it away in what would eventually become a pasture in France, with the idea it would be safe from prying eyes (safer downstairs than upstairs), only to have it dug up by a French farmer in the early 8th century, who of course ran off and translated it incorrectly because he spoke three words of Aramaic and just made up most of the rest of it. A few centuries later, it landed in Gutenberg's lap.
(4) When Gutenberg eventually died, and arrived at the Pearly Gates Corporation's front door, God made sure She was there to meet him so She could have a 'polite' conversation with him regarding the difference between artistic license and bullshit.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
A Beginner's Guide to Hell, Hades & Purgatory, Ltd.
Good afternoon and welcome to the lower levels of The Pearly Gates Corporation. My name is Hecate, Miss Tress for those of you new to damnation.* I'd like to take a moment to review the intake process with you before I begin the tour.
When we begin the tour, please mind your step and keep your hands - whatever may be left of them - in your pockets. If you are without pockets, then you've obviously misjudged the needs of your afterlife attire and should have paid more attention to your fashion sense while alive. If you're without hands, just wave a stump and we'll see what we can do for you.
Now, to your right is the hallway leading to Hades and his subsidy company, the Aelysian Fields Agricultural Volunteer Group, or AFAVG for short. Please note that the AFAVG is behind the Great Green Door, not the red door. Do not open the red door unless you fancy starting out the afterlife as a pile of dog poo in the morning, as Cerberus has absolutely no sense of humor and believes everything standing in front of its three heads is either a bouncy toy or a midnight snack.
To the left are the primary offices of Hell and Purgatory. These include the Minion and Demon Lounges, both Lucifer and Mephisto's offices, all training classrooms, and the lower level kitchens. Some of you may have been given forms to fill out regarding head size and overall posture. Please report to the Quartermaster to be outfitted with horns and tails - this is to your right, the first door on the left.
Those of you who will not be joining the demon ranks, please note the color coding on your index cards. This will tell you which door to knock on. For instance, if you're holding a blue card, please move to your right. You'll be joining the offices of Purgatory. These offices are easily recognizable by the number of faces bearing bored expressions and the fact that the doors are blue. If you're unsure of whether or not an office is associated with Purgatory, you're not trying hard enough.
Now, if you're holding a yellow or purple card and have the nagging feeling you forgot to repent your sins whilst you were still alive, you'll be joining the offices of Hell. These are the doors that are neither blue nor green nor red nor paisley. And before you ask, no one has a paisley card but yes, there are paisley doors.** Yellow and purple card holders should knock on the yellow and purple doors corresponding to the number indicated in the upper right hand corner. If you knock on a door that does not match the number on your card, you will be politely referred to the taxidermist at the end of the hallway and your head will be fitted for a coat rack. Or some other handy piece of home decor, depending on the mood of the taxidermist.
Now, I believe you've all got index cards and have some idea of where you're heading. If you're still unsure of why you're down here instead of upstairs, you should take a minute to consider your most recent actions and ask yourself if you could have done anything to prevent your current predicament. Not that asking yourself this question will help - you'll still be standing in the Underworld - but it might help you to better understand just how big a shit you were when you were alive.
Now, should any of you have any questions - any questions at all - please hesitate to contact me and remember it's Hell. It's hot, it's uncomfortable, and there's the greatest possibility you'll be bunking with a horned demon whose idea of a good time is ripping you limb from limb. And for anyone preparing to question anything I've just said, please read the fine print on those index cards.
There is, indeed, a special room in Hell for complainers, corporate executives with spending accounts, and people who talk loudly on their cellular phones while standing in line at the grocery store.
* When God assigned positions in the Underworld, She didn't realize just how seriously Hecate would take her job. Nor did she realize just how much of an acquired taste the goddess' humor was. Ellie supposes that's what ambivalence gets you.
** They're bathrooms. Paisley doors, paisley walls, and paisley fixtures. Nothing screws with your head more than attempting to pee while in a room completely decorated in a swirling multi-colored pattern.
When we begin the tour, please mind your step and keep your hands - whatever may be left of them - in your pockets. If you are without pockets, then you've obviously misjudged the needs of your afterlife attire and should have paid more attention to your fashion sense while alive. If you're without hands, just wave a stump and we'll see what we can do for you.
Now, to your right is the hallway leading to Hades and his subsidy company, the Aelysian Fields Agricultural Volunteer Group, or AFAVG for short. Please note that the AFAVG is behind the Great Green Door, not the red door. Do not open the red door unless you fancy starting out the afterlife as a pile of dog poo in the morning, as Cerberus has absolutely no sense of humor and believes everything standing in front of its three heads is either a bouncy toy or a midnight snack.
To the left are the primary offices of Hell and Purgatory. These include the Minion and Demon Lounges, both Lucifer and Mephisto's offices, all training classrooms, and the lower level kitchens. Some of you may have been given forms to fill out regarding head size and overall posture. Please report to the Quartermaster to be outfitted with horns and tails - this is to your right, the first door on the left.
Those of you who will not be joining the demon ranks, please note the color coding on your index cards. This will tell you which door to knock on. For instance, if you're holding a blue card, please move to your right. You'll be joining the offices of Purgatory. These offices are easily recognizable by the number of faces bearing bored expressions and the fact that the doors are blue. If you're unsure of whether or not an office is associated with Purgatory, you're not trying hard enough.
Now, if you're holding a yellow or purple card and have the nagging feeling you forgot to repent your sins whilst you were still alive, you'll be joining the offices of Hell. These are the doors that are neither blue nor green nor red nor paisley. And before you ask, no one has a paisley card but yes, there are paisley doors.** Yellow and purple card holders should knock on the yellow and purple doors corresponding to the number indicated in the upper right hand corner. If you knock on a door that does not match the number on your card, you will be politely referred to the taxidermist at the end of the hallway and your head will be fitted for a coat rack. Or some other handy piece of home decor, depending on the mood of the taxidermist.
Now, I believe you've all got index cards and have some idea of where you're heading. If you're still unsure of why you're down here instead of upstairs, you should take a minute to consider your most recent actions and ask yourself if you could have done anything to prevent your current predicament. Not that asking yourself this question will help - you'll still be standing in the Underworld - but it might help you to better understand just how big a shit you were when you were alive.
Now, should any of you have any questions - any questions at all - please hesitate to contact me and remember it's Hell. It's hot, it's uncomfortable, and there's the greatest possibility you'll be bunking with a horned demon whose idea of a good time is ripping you limb from limb. And for anyone preparing to question anything I've just said, please read the fine print on those index cards.
There is, indeed, a special room in Hell for complainers, corporate executives with spending accounts, and people who talk loudly on their cellular phones while standing in line at the grocery store.
* When God assigned positions in the Underworld, She didn't realize just how seriously Hecate would take her job. Nor did she realize just how much of an acquired taste the goddess' humor was. Ellie supposes that's what ambivalence gets you.
** They're bathrooms. Paisley doors, paisley walls, and paisley fixtures. Nothing screws with your head more than attempting to pee while in a room completely decorated in a swirling multi-colored pattern.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Are You Experienced...And Other Terrible Pick-Up Lines
Claire is a month away from her 29th birthday and she's home in Boston, visiting her parents for a few days while she waits for her things to arrive from Detroit. She's found a place to live in the tiny lakeside town of Tuttle, Maine but she can't do much without furniture and the last time she checked the truck carrying most of her material life was slowly crossing the great (not really) state of New York, with an estimated arrival time of three days from now. She's not exactly sure when the distance from New York to Maine became a three day drive, but she thinks the truck might actually be a horse-drawn carriage instead.
"I'm bored," Claire says while sitting on the couch next to her father. When Harry chooses to ignore his eldest child and instead buries his head even deeper into his newspaper, Claire throws something at him. And edge of the newspaper curls down of its own volition.
"Ah, Claire," Harry says, glaring at her over the top rims of his glasses, "I didn't see you there. You were being so quiet, so well behaved."
"I'm bored," she repeats with a small smile at her father's sarcasm.
"We live in one of the most interesting cities in the world and you're bored." He straightens the newspaper and continues reading. "I know for a fact you haven't explored this entire city. Take my Metro card and go adventuring."
"I've never been to the South End," Claire says, actually considering it. The newspaper edge curls down once more, only this time Harry's hand has helped it.
"Planning on joining the Irish mob, are you?" he asks.
Claire shrugs. "I've done stranger things," she says. Her father's smile is somewhat cryptic and not for the first time Claire thinks he knows and understands more than he's letting on.
Harry closes the newspaper and folds it up, sets it aside, and stands.
"Dad?" Claire asks, confused.
"I'm not letting you wander around the South End by yourself, Claire," he says. "You're a gorgeous red head and the freckles on your face might as well be a map of Ireland. They'll kidnap you for sure."
She laughs and gets up from the couch. They step into the mudroom, just off the front hallway to the house, and begin pulling on winter gear. It's early February and the city's just dug itself out from under a Nor'easter that left an Arctic gale in its wake. Any exposed skin is likely to either freeze and fall off or stick to something.
"There's a record shop down there I've been meaning check out," Harry says, pulling on his parka. "Can't remember where I heard about it*, but supposedly it's the premiere seller of punk and rock vinyl in the city."
"I'm not giving you grandpa's RCA," Claire says with a smile.
Harry opens the door and they cringe at the blast of cold air. "Well, then," he says as they step outside. "I'll just have to survive the apocalypse and steal it when you're not looking."
* * *
It's late when they finally make it down Massachusetts Avenue. Harry insisted on driving, even though he knew there would be rush hour traffic, and so instead of taking fifteen minutes by T, it's taken them an hour by car. The record store doesn't look like much from the outside - in fact, it looks like an old garage from the outside, complete with two large bay doors and a faded sign painted onto the brick above them proclaiming the space to be Paddy's Auto Repair.
A bell above the door rings as they walk inside and the two men at the center register of the store look up at them, one with a vacant expression and the other with something in between disgust and hopefulness. Harry and Claire are the only people in the shop.
"Are you getting ready to close up?" Claire asks, taking her hat off. She can practically feel her hair getting bigger in the warm store.
The younger man, wearing a Rogue Brewery t-shirt and dark jeans, steps down from the register and makes his way across the store to where they're standing. His expression no longer resembles a sour lemon; in fact, he appears to be smiling.
"It's just a slow night." He holds out his hand. "I'm Jack Hardcourt, the owner."
Claire pulls her mitten off and takes his hand. It's warm and slightly calloused. "Claire Rogers." She points over her shoulder to where Harry is already flipping through albums. "That's my dad, Harry. He's a Pink Floyd fan," she says.
"45s only, though," Harry says, looking up from the records to smile at Claire. He looks at Jack, takes stock of the unshaven jaw, dark jeans and obnoxious t-shirt. As a father, he's unimpressed; as a beer drinker, he's appreciative. "Nice to meet you, Jack," he says and immediately goes back to sorting through the records.
"So, Claire, anything I can help you find?" He smiles fully at her and she takes a minute to notice the difference in his face. The smile makes him look younger, smarter somehow, and definitely more attractive.
Definitely.
"Hendrix," she says. "'Are You Experienced?'"
"Depends on what we're talking about," Jack says and Claire feels the blush all the way down to her toes.
"The album, on a 45," she says and he smiles.
"Ah, well, that I can absolutely help you with." He leads her away from her oblivious father** and they weave their way through the sales racks of records to a black bookshelf near the back of the store. "If it came out before 1978 it's back here," he says.
Claire stares at the wall of music and feels overwhelmed. "It's incredible," she says. She turns and smiles at him. "You have an amazing job," she says.
He shrugs. "I'm sure yours is pretty amazing."
"I'm a librarian...sometimes a prophet."
He laughs at this. "A prophet librarian?" he asks. She grins, shrugs. "I've met stranger people in the universe." He points over his shoulder towards the older guy at the cash register. "Like him." The clerk is staring off into space and twirling the fringe on his suede vest. "He used to be a business man, until he was introduced to the late sixties and forgot all about his MBA."
Claire knows that Jack doesn't believe her - half the people she talks to don't believe her, including some of the ones who really should - and she's okay with that. She's there to buy a record, not convert an atheist - which Claire knows he is because he is so obviously an atheist it makes her want to laugh.***
He pulls a record down from the top shelf and hands it to her. It's Jimi Hendrix and he's definitely experienced. She smiles and hugs it to her chest.
"What else?" he asks.
"Van Morrison. And maybe some Cream. Or Jethro Tull."
Jack looks at her, arm outstretched and poised to grasp a battered looking Van Morrison album. He looks a little dumbfounded.
"What?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious.
"A librarian with a love of classic rock," he says and she nods. "Will you marry me?" he asks and he almost sounds serious.
She tilts her head to the side and considers him. He definitely looks serious. She files it away for further analysis later on when she's home.
"Maybe later," she says. "For now, though, let's just listen to some music that won't make my ears bleed."
* * *
She's in the car with her father headed back to the house in the Back Bay. There are six albums in total in a very large paper bag in the back seat of Harry's old Volvo, a paper bag that bears the Hardcourt Records label and a very large phone number, handwritten in permanent marker just underneath it. Claire smiles, first at the bag then at her father.
"You seem awfully pleased with yourself," Harry says.
"Most of those are one-of-a-kind, dad," she says, "and Jack practically gave them to us."
"Jack is it?" he asks, struggling with an impish grin.
Claire shrugs. "He seemed nice," she says.
"You should check back in a couple weeks when you come down for your birthday," Harry says, turning onto Arlington. "See if he's gotten in any new vintage collections."
She'd never tell him, because he's her father and his ego would swell far too much, but there are times when Claire thinks Harry Rogers is the most wonderful human being in the world.
"We'll see," she says. Almost as an afterthought, she kisses her mittened hand and pats his cheek with it. "Thanks, dad."
He winks at her as he pulls into their driveway. "Anytime, kiddo. Anytime."
* * *
"That chick was groovy, Jack man," George says as they close up shop.
Jack rolls his eyes. "Indeed she was, George." He takes a moment to pray that the old man leaves it alone, but he's never been that lucky...which is why he's an atheist.
"You should take her out," George says. "I think she'd dig the Clary House."
"The Clary House is a pit where good food goes to die. It's fit only for the likes of you and me, my friend," Jack says as he pulls on his coat. His apartment is just above the store, but he has to go outside and up a fire escape to get to it and it's just cold enough and he's just that much of a wuss that he needs a jacket. He opens the front door and George steps out into the dark Boston night. "Do you need a cab?" Jack asks. He drives him crazy, but Jack often worries about the old stoner. Good help is hard enough to find; mediocre help is impossible.
"Naw, man. I rode my bike in." He points over his shoulder and Jack looks, expecting a Harley or a scooter. Instead, he sees a Schwinn three-speed that's an obnoxious orange. "The streets are pretty clear. Just gotta watch out for those icy spots is all." Jack nods, forces himself not to ask why George is riding a bike in the middle of winter. "I've got good vibes about that girl, Jack," George says in a moment of sure clarity - even his eyes look clear. "If she calls you, go for it."
At that moment, a man in a long duffel coat rides up on a battered road bike. He waves at George and George waves back. Jack can't be certain, because it's dark and the street lamps near the shop never throw off enough light, but the man's helmet looks almost like a halo above his golden head.
"What's up, my man?" George says.
"Gettin' my bike on, that's what," the man says with a lopsided grin. "You ready to roll?"
George pulls a helmet out of his backpack and straps it on, which alleviates some of Jack's worry. He grins at Jack. "That's my bike buddy," he says, unlocking the Schwinn. "Michael," he calls over his shoulder, "this is the Boss Man, Jack."
Michael stares at him for an odd second - during which Jack feels as though he's a book being opened and perused - before grinning and nodding. "I've heard good things, Boss Man Jack."****
Jack watches as the two men ride off down the street and he thinks that he must be more tired than he realized because for just a second, he thinks he sees wings hanging out the bottom of Michael's coat.
* Harry read about it on a $20 bill one day. Written next to Jefferson's bulbous head was the following: HARDCOURT RECORDS, FOR HARD ROCK PEOPLE. Little did Harry know that it was in Michael's handwriting. Archangels...they meddle.
** Fathers are never as oblivious as their daughters think they are. Case in point, Harry has already started a mental catalog of all the things wrong with Jack Hardcourt. He does, however, give the man a few credits because of his excellent taste in music and beer.
*** He's either an atheist or a domestic terrorist "against the establishment". She prefers to think he's far too handsome to be a terrorist, but she's been known to be wrong before. She did date a minion for awhile in college, afterall...
**** He has heard good things from George, but also from Porrima, one of the Roman seers. She keeps telling him about a man named Jack who will help Claire at a trying and difficult time. She failed to mention that he was also a record store owner, which makes Michael a whole lot more willing to accept the fact the guy's an atheist because he's an atheist with good taste in music.
"I'm bored," Claire says while sitting on the couch next to her father. When Harry chooses to ignore his eldest child and instead buries his head even deeper into his newspaper, Claire throws something at him. And edge of the newspaper curls down of its own volition.
"Ah, Claire," Harry says, glaring at her over the top rims of his glasses, "I didn't see you there. You were being so quiet, so well behaved."
"I'm bored," she repeats with a small smile at her father's sarcasm.
"We live in one of the most interesting cities in the world and you're bored." He straightens the newspaper and continues reading. "I know for a fact you haven't explored this entire city. Take my Metro card and go adventuring."
"I've never been to the South End," Claire says, actually considering it. The newspaper edge curls down once more, only this time Harry's hand has helped it.
"Planning on joining the Irish mob, are you?" he asks.
Claire shrugs. "I've done stranger things," she says. Her father's smile is somewhat cryptic and not for the first time Claire thinks he knows and understands more than he's letting on.
Harry closes the newspaper and folds it up, sets it aside, and stands.
"Dad?" Claire asks, confused.
"I'm not letting you wander around the South End by yourself, Claire," he says. "You're a gorgeous red head and the freckles on your face might as well be a map of Ireland. They'll kidnap you for sure."
She laughs and gets up from the couch. They step into the mudroom, just off the front hallway to the house, and begin pulling on winter gear. It's early February and the city's just dug itself out from under a Nor'easter that left an Arctic gale in its wake. Any exposed skin is likely to either freeze and fall off or stick to something.
"There's a record shop down there I've been meaning check out," Harry says, pulling on his parka. "Can't remember where I heard about it*, but supposedly it's the premiere seller of punk and rock vinyl in the city."
"I'm not giving you grandpa's RCA," Claire says with a smile.
Harry opens the door and they cringe at the blast of cold air. "Well, then," he says as they step outside. "I'll just have to survive the apocalypse and steal it when you're not looking."
* * *
It's late when they finally make it down Massachusetts Avenue. Harry insisted on driving, even though he knew there would be rush hour traffic, and so instead of taking fifteen minutes by T, it's taken them an hour by car. The record store doesn't look like much from the outside - in fact, it looks like an old garage from the outside, complete with two large bay doors and a faded sign painted onto the brick above them proclaiming the space to be Paddy's Auto Repair.
A bell above the door rings as they walk inside and the two men at the center register of the store look up at them, one with a vacant expression and the other with something in between disgust and hopefulness. Harry and Claire are the only people in the shop.
"Are you getting ready to close up?" Claire asks, taking her hat off. She can practically feel her hair getting bigger in the warm store.
The younger man, wearing a Rogue Brewery t-shirt and dark jeans, steps down from the register and makes his way across the store to where they're standing. His expression no longer resembles a sour lemon; in fact, he appears to be smiling.
"It's just a slow night." He holds out his hand. "I'm Jack Hardcourt, the owner."
Claire pulls her mitten off and takes his hand. It's warm and slightly calloused. "Claire Rogers." She points over her shoulder to where Harry is already flipping through albums. "That's my dad, Harry. He's a Pink Floyd fan," she says.
"45s only, though," Harry says, looking up from the records to smile at Claire. He looks at Jack, takes stock of the unshaven jaw, dark jeans and obnoxious t-shirt. As a father, he's unimpressed; as a beer drinker, he's appreciative. "Nice to meet you, Jack," he says and immediately goes back to sorting through the records.
"So, Claire, anything I can help you find?" He smiles fully at her and she takes a minute to notice the difference in his face. The smile makes him look younger, smarter somehow, and definitely more attractive.
Definitely.
"Hendrix," she says. "'Are You Experienced?'"
"Depends on what we're talking about," Jack says and Claire feels the blush all the way down to her toes.
"The album, on a 45," she says and he smiles.
"Ah, well, that I can absolutely help you with." He leads her away from her oblivious father** and they weave their way through the sales racks of records to a black bookshelf near the back of the store. "If it came out before 1978 it's back here," he says.
Claire stares at the wall of music and feels overwhelmed. "It's incredible," she says. She turns and smiles at him. "You have an amazing job," she says.
He shrugs. "I'm sure yours is pretty amazing."
"I'm a librarian...sometimes a prophet."
He laughs at this. "A prophet librarian?" he asks. She grins, shrugs. "I've met stranger people in the universe." He points over his shoulder towards the older guy at the cash register. "Like him." The clerk is staring off into space and twirling the fringe on his suede vest. "He used to be a business man, until he was introduced to the late sixties and forgot all about his MBA."
Claire knows that Jack doesn't believe her - half the people she talks to don't believe her, including some of the ones who really should - and she's okay with that. She's there to buy a record, not convert an atheist - which Claire knows he is because he is so obviously an atheist it makes her want to laugh.***
He pulls a record down from the top shelf and hands it to her. It's Jimi Hendrix and he's definitely experienced. She smiles and hugs it to her chest.
"What else?" he asks.
"Van Morrison. And maybe some Cream. Or Jethro Tull."
Jack looks at her, arm outstretched and poised to grasp a battered looking Van Morrison album. He looks a little dumbfounded.
"What?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious.
"A librarian with a love of classic rock," he says and she nods. "Will you marry me?" he asks and he almost sounds serious.
She tilts her head to the side and considers him. He definitely looks serious. She files it away for further analysis later on when she's home.
"Maybe later," she says. "For now, though, let's just listen to some music that won't make my ears bleed."
* * *
She's in the car with her father headed back to the house in the Back Bay. There are six albums in total in a very large paper bag in the back seat of Harry's old Volvo, a paper bag that bears the Hardcourt Records label and a very large phone number, handwritten in permanent marker just underneath it. Claire smiles, first at the bag then at her father.
"You seem awfully pleased with yourself," Harry says.
"Most of those are one-of-a-kind, dad," she says, "and Jack practically gave them to us."
"Jack is it?" he asks, struggling with an impish grin.
Claire shrugs. "He seemed nice," she says.
"You should check back in a couple weeks when you come down for your birthday," Harry says, turning onto Arlington. "See if he's gotten in any new vintage collections."
She'd never tell him, because he's her father and his ego would swell far too much, but there are times when Claire thinks Harry Rogers is the most wonderful human being in the world.
"We'll see," she says. Almost as an afterthought, she kisses her mittened hand and pats his cheek with it. "Thanks, dad."
He winks at her as he pulls into their driveway. "Anytime, kiddo. Anytime."
* * *
"That chick was groovy, Jack man," George says as they close up shop.
Jack rolls his eyes. "Indeed she was, George." He takes a moment to pray that the old man leaves it alone, but he's never been that lucky...which is why he's an atheist.
"You should take her out," George says. "I think she'd dig the Clary House."
"The Clary House is a pit where good food goes to die. It's fit only for the likes of you and me, my friend," Jack says as he pulls on his coat. His apartment is just above the store, but he has to go outside and up a fire escape to get to it and it's just cold enough and he's just that much of a wuss that he needs a jacket. He opens the front door and George steps out into the dark Boston night. "Do you need a cab?" Jack asks. He drives him crazy, but Jack often worries about the old stoner. Good help is hard enough to find; mediocre help is impossible.
"Naw, man. I rode my bike in." He points over his shoulder and Jack looks, expecting a Harley or a scooter. Instead, he sees a Schwinn three-speed that's an obnoxious orange. "The streets are pretty clear. Just gotta watch out for those icy spots is all." Jack nods, forces himself not to ask why George is riding a bike in the middle of winter. "I've got good vibes about that girl, Jack," George says in a moment of sure clarity - even his eyes look clear. "If she calls you, go for it."
At that moment, a man in a long duffel coat rides up on a battered road bike. He waves at George and George waves back. Jack can't be certain, because it's dark and the street lamps near the shop never throw off enough light, but the man's helmet looks almost like a halo above his golden head.
"What's up, my man?" George says.
"Gettin' my bike on, that's what," the man says with a lopsided grin. "You ready to roll?"
George pulls a helmet out of his backpack and straps it on, which alleviates some of Jack's worry. He grins at Jack. "That's my bike buddy," he says, unlocking the Schwinn. "Michael," he calls over his shoulder, "this is the Boss Man, Jack."
Michael stares at him for an odd second - during which Jack feels as though he's a book being opened and perused - before grinning and nodding. "I've heard good things, Boss Man Jack."****
Jack watches as the two men ride off down the street and he thinks that he must be more tired than he realized because for just a second, he thinks he sees wings hanging out the bottom of Michael's coat.
* Harry read about it on a $20 bill one day. Written next to Jefferson's bulbous head was the following: HARDCOURT RECORDS, FOR HARD ROCK PEOPLE. Little did Harry know that it was in Michael's handwriting. Archangels...they meddle.
** Fathers are never as oblivious as their daughters think they are. Case in point, Harry has already started a mental catalog of all the things wrong with Jack Hardcourt. He does, however, give the man a few credits because of his excellent taste in music and beer.
*** He's either an atheist or a domestic terrorist "against the establishment". She prefers to think he's far too handsome to be a terrorist, but she's been known to be wrong before. She did date a minion for awhile in college, afterall...
**** He has heard good things from George, but also from Porrima, one of the Roman seers. She keeps telling him about a man named Jack who will help Claire at a trying and difficult time. She failed to mention that he was also a record store owner, which makes Michael a whole lot more willing to accept the fact the guy's an atheist because he's an atheist with good taste in music.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)