| First, I dream that I’m sleeping. Someone is shaking my shoulders. My eyes open when my head hits something. I wake sitting up. I dimly recognize a fat face completely filling my field of vision to be that of my foster father, Icapus, who doesn’t seem to recognize me at all. “Phoebus Apollo will see you now,” he informs me. Than he turns and disappears into a grey cloud bank. Phoebe, (I think to myself,) I don’t know anyone named Phoebe. Foster dad re-emerges. “This way,” he whispers. I rise to follow him into the cloud. We emerge in a very small, very plain office with its window blinds shut tight. Opposite me, behind a desk heaped with neat stacks of papers, a desk that takes up a good portion of the room, a man is writing furiously, his whole body jerking with each stroke of his pen. All the while he is muttering to himself. “Sit here,” says my guide, indicating a chair facing the desk, and I comply. He drops back into the cloud bank, still without a word of recognition. “Oh well,” says I aloud, “this is a dream after all. He doesn’t have to be polite.” “PLEASE,” says the guy at the desk, “I’m under ENORMOUS pressure.” He grabs at this face with both hands, letting the thick barrel of his fountain pen plop to the desk top. He kneads the flesh of this face as if it were bread dough, which pretty well describes its color and consistency. “PLEASE,” he continues, “this is a divine visitation to a dream state, not a conventional dream. You are NOT free to talk or do whatever you please.” “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “ICAPUS!” he shouts my foster father’s name.” The clerk reappears. “Read him his rights!” he barks, then picks up his pen and plunges back into his work as Icapus drones the list. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used in determining the circle of hell in which you will be cast at the end of your life. You have the right to be confused and awe-struck. You have the right to recount this dream once you awaken to the disbelieving snickers of neighbors and friends. You have no right to petition the god visiting you. You have the right to listen and do as you are instructed. You have the right to make a sacrifice within a forty-eight hour period out of gratitude for enjoying all these rights.” “Yuck,” I exclaim. “what dreadful rights.” “ICAPUS!” the guy behind the desk yells. “At your service!” whines Icapus in his familiar grovel. “Take these.” He hands the fat drudge a huge stack of papers. “Distribute them to the list of attorneys you find on the top sheet. Make it snappy. These guys have no time for sleeping at all, let along for inspirational dreams.” “Yes, lord Apollo.” So saying, Icapus grabs the papers, sprouts a pair of wings, one on each ankle, and ascends through the ceiling, out of sight. “You are Apollo?” I ask. “Of course I am.” “You’re supposed to be the god of light, the chariot of the sun . . .” “I’m also the god of law. I tried to convert the chariot into a flaming desk, but my papers would burn up. What a mess. So I’ve franchised the sun chariot business.” “No!” “Iron clad contract.” “Aren’t you also the god of music and wisdom?” “Look, N, you’re a lawyer. Who has time for all that? Deadline, deadlines, deadlines, that’s what our life is all about. So enough chit-chat. I’ve looked up your name on Martinopolis-Hubbelachma as the attorney most favored by the muse of comedy, Thalia. Is that correct?” “I object to the form of the question, lord Apollo, but will allow myself to answer. Yes, I know Thalia.” “You met her in the countryside, did you not?” “Yes.” “Just yesterday?” “Correct.” “Yet, on such short acquaintance, she has given you the power to render a certain mortal a comedic genius, just by your presence alone?” “This assumes facts not in evidence in support of a speculative conclusion, but I will admit it as a possibility about which I have insufficient knowledge upon which to base a belief.” “She has also charmed that mortal’s intended bride into falling in love with you, has she not?” “I object! If anyone is in love with me, and this I will neither confirm nor deny, it is NOT because of anyone’s charm but my own!” “Move to strike that last answer as not responsive to the question posed.” “Maybe you better re-phrase.” “It doesn’t matter. I withdraw it. For the record, what is your profession?” “I am an attorney licensed to practice law in Ancient Greece.” “As such, to that god do you owe supreme loyalty?” “Well, I suppose to you, lord Apollo.” “No further questions.” He leans over his desk, picks up his pen and begins scratching out a document, again lurching his whole body with the effort. Once he is finished, he thrusts the paper into my hand. “You have until sundown to get Thalia to sign this marriage contract. I have already signed it. It’s a binding declaration, so no need for a notary.” “Sundown? “Sundown.” “What’s the hurry?” “That’s none of your affair, but I’ll tell you anyway. My brutish brother, Mars the god of war, is coming with his Spartans to surround the city by late afternoon.” “That terrible!” “That’s insignificant. Do you think Mars cares about your little town? Absolutely not. A military siege is his idea of courtship. Well this document, and bringing to bear the efficiency and single-mindedness of a legal professional is mine.” “Courtship!” “Yes, counsel. The god you worship, in his turn, worships a silly little muse.” He raises the blinds on the window behind his desk. Plastered to the pane is a big poster of Thalia in a swimsuit. “I’ve got to have her, N. You get her for me.” “Or else?” He does not so much smile as show me his teeth. “Who said anything about ‘or else?’” “I did, lord Apollo. As a rule, you gods get somewhat torqued when things don’t go your way. I’d like to know all possible lousy consequences ahead of time.” He ponders a moment. “You know that young woman you believe you charmed all on your own?” “Calculotta.” “Calculotta. I can fix it so you are the last thing on her mind. Very simple.” “I see.” “But that won’t be necessary, will it.” “Can you answer some more questions for me?” “Absolutely not. Work to do. I’ll appear to you at sundown to claim my bride. You may go.” Suddenly I’m awake like I’ve never been asleep, staring at the ceiling of the little apartment where I started my journey into dreamland. It’s flooded with morning light. I sit up with a jerk when I feel someone tap my leg. I turn and look into the eyes of Toody’s mother. She is standing at the end of couch. Her sweet features are puckered with distress. “Was my Toody here last night?” I start to answer her. What to call her? Dowager Duchess? Cumbersome. Mom? She’s not . . . but she IS. I realize that for the first time in my life I’m looking into the eyes of a person I know to be my mother. “Mama,” says I. |
| Ancient Greasepaint Copyright 1990 Louder Than a Lie Publications, LLC and David Keith Johnson All Rights Reserved |