| Don’t be afraid, Knots says, reacting to my startled reaction. “I’m not,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t be afraid of me. No reason to be. But, you know . . .” He leans over his saddle to look more closely into my face, “ . . . right around supper time great a big red god is going to come down here and squash you like a bug.” He throws back his head and laughs demonically. He stops and locks his eyes on me once again. “Then I will be King, indeed, and then there will be an end to this ludicrous frivolity.” “If we end the ludicrous frivolity, what will you put in its place?” “Work,” he says. “Work performed by hard-charging, money-motivated self-starters, out to establish a track record of utter reliability, who thrive in a high-pressure environment of long, long hours of hard, hard work.” “Work at what?” I ask. “What difference does it make? Anyway . . . “ he leans toward me again, “why am I answering the questions of a DEAD MAN?” He throws back his head and laughs again, turning his pony in the direction of the abandoned Spartan camp, then galloping up the slope, hooting and screeching the whole while. He’ll wait there until the big red god shows up to squash me like a bug. Which brings the problem of Apollo to mind. Oh well, thinks I to myself cheerily, problems are meant to be solved. Yes, my brain has gone completely soft in the aftermath of the Plan’s success. If the Plan is possible, anything is possible. Even happiness with Calculotta, and happiness with a new life, and happiness with a brother, a Mama and a high government office. I head into town on the PDQ. If I am to thwart the wrath of two Olympian deities, I need the help and assistance of the divine cut up, our Thalia. As I head to the gate and into the Square, the evidence of the Spartans’ assimilation is everywhere. Here some big brutes are lining up to audition for a high-powered manager, posing and puffing, advising one another about costumes, or a ring persona, or a special wrestling hold that can identify them to the crowd and catapult them to stardom. At another station, Spartans who have been signed by agents are presented to casting directors setting up tours of outlying towns. So we divide the Spartan army and get them busy conquering one another. In the main square the actual competition for the title of Champion Spartan is taking place. Pisistrato has thought of everything. I see the looked-for wrestling matches, well attended by both tourists and locals, and also some less conventional contests. There is a bathing suit competition, a bake-off and a chance to answer questions orally in front of a panel of judges, such as: What is the proper age to begin dating? The talent competition is especially wonderful. Who would have guessed that such big guys could be so light on their feet, tap dancing like that, and reciting poems on the true meaning of patriotism, twirling batons, singing songs? All of which creates scores of different champions. I come to the front of the Palace, and there I see Pisistrato and Mama, tabulating the results of the various contests. With all the finalists, semifinalists, quasi runners-up, and consolation matches depicted with interconnected lines on the board, it looks like someone has thrown plates of spaghetti against the wall. “This should keep them tied up for a while,” I observed to Mama and the Pisser. “Darling boy!” Mama rushes to me and covers my cheeks with kisses. “Oh, Moma!” I’m embarrassed a little, but not too much. “Here, I’ve made you a sandwich. We’ve got so much to talk about!” “PHILO IS THE WINNER OF THE CAMP COOKERY COMPETITION!” yells Pisistrato to the crowd. There is a great hubbub as this Spartan monster, in his little apron, jumps up and down with glee and the people around him shout and slap him on the back. He grabs his agent in a tight, affectionate embrace, while his fans busily mark their programs. The agent shakes loose as he advises his client of their next move — open a restaurant, never mind the grand championship. I turned to my mother. “My Mother,” says I, “it’s true we have a world to catch up on, but we are not out of the woods yet with this Spartan crisis. I hate this, but I’ve got to go. Where’s Toody?” “He’s inside, dispensing comedy, like your Dad did.” “Doing what?” “Go see for yourself. I understand, honey. We’ll talk later.” “Goodbye Mama.” I bound into the palace, where all is as the Pisser described it to me the previous day. Volunteers for the hotel trades and other citizens are joyfully working as porters, kitchen help, doormen, and everything. No one is too good for any job, and I even see some Spartan newcomers pitching in. There’s a long line of people leading to an elevated chair where Toody sits. I learn about dispensing comedy to the people as I hear a typical exchange. “Why did the chicken cross the road, your grace?” asks a citizen. “Because of the alternate side of the street parking regulations, of course. You want the chicken to get a ticket?” Is the ducal comeback. I join the line. When it comes to my turn, Toody smiles to me broadly. “Your question, Mr. Assistant Prime Minister?” “Why, oh Ellen . . .” I was the third of a series, as you might guess. “Why did the fireman wear red suspenders and chase a blonde?” “To keep up his pants, my good fellow.” “I have something else to tell you, Toody,” I tell him.”I’m your brother.” The look on his face is blank. “Yes,” he says finally,”I feel like a brother to you, too, after all we’ve been through.” “No, I AM your brother. Ask our Mama.” “I will. This is very confusing.” “So where’s Bedelia? I’ve got to see her right away.” “Upstairs. Tell her hello for me.” I wink at him and turn to climb the grand staircase. That’s when I see her. Not Thalia. The other her. At the top of the stairs. “Come hither,” she says. As I climb step-by-step closer to her. I see that Calculotta has been crying. Her huge green eyes have grown huger because of the coral colored rings around them. Her hair, normally a dark cascade, is now a dark cascade that has been shaken and tousled in some mysterious way. Her neck . . . Well, a person could go on and on. “What’s the matter?” I ask. “You know you told me you were Toody’s brother? Pisistrato told me the same thing. I’ve been crying ever since.” “Why?” She whispers as her arms wind around my neck, “Because I’m so happy.” Since my room is not too far down the hall, and seeing how Calculotta and I go there to be alone, we shall draw the curtain of discretion over this scene. Except to say, most commonly in life, events fall short of our expectations. But from time to lovely time, they exceed. . . . I have dozed a little. When I awake, I’m reverberating all over with billions of tiny good feelings, as if every atom in me has found its own corresponding atom in her, taken it out for dinner and a show, fallen in love and gotten married, all on its own. I go to the window and throw open the shutters. We are two stories up. Nevertheless I am nose to nose with Icapus of the whirring feet. “Forget something?” He asks with grey cheer, his unaccustomed smile striving against the pull of gravity on his flabby jowls. “Yeah, my flyswatter.” I slam the shutters on his fat face. This awakens Calculotta, who has been dozing, too. “What was that?” She asks. “Never mind, just come back here. I’m not finished with you.” “I know how you feel.” The quality of the kiss tell me we would start the whole thing over again, given the chance. I pull away. “One more mountain to climb,” says I, “then we are home free.” “What is it?” “Trust me. I’ve got it under control.” I don’t, of course. I haven’t the first clue about what I’m going to do. I turn go. “Where are you off to?” “Trust me.” “I trust you. Hurry back.” I’m out the door, looking for Thalia. We need a new Plan. |
| Ancient Greasepaint Copyright 1990 Louder Than a Lie Publications, LLC and David Keith Johnson All Rights Reserved |