The bar fell silent. I knew who’d entered without looking, but I turned to see where Ares intended to sit. He wore his uniform and for a minute I thought he planned a raid. He and Dionysus don’t get along. Of course, I can’t think of many gods who do get along with Ares. One of Odin’s campaign promises was to fire our police chief. Ares sat at the front end of the bar and Ganymede served him unwatered red wine.
“I’m surprised he’s not in Astarte’s place,” Chris said.
“What do you know about Astarte’s place?” Thor asked him.
“I see Ares sinning there when I deliver pizza.”
Thor glowered at the mention of sin. He has the typical Aesir prejudice
against all followers of the Christian Trinity. Like so many tensions
in our place of exile, Thor’s prejudice can be explained by history.
We, the gods of Greece and Rome,
coexisted with Christianity for many decades. The Aesir were overthrown
within a generation wherever Christianity took root. They never had
a chance to learn that Christians are as weak and dumb as other worshipers.
Odin had told the Aesir the truth about the modern world when he made his comeback as Wotan or Woden in the twentieth century. Hitler, Speer, Goebbels, and crew hadn’t believed in him, but they’d made him part of a myth for political purposes and thereby generated some true believers. Odin insisted that retirement was better than trying to do anything with modern mankind. Of course, if the old Aesir got a chance, he’d rush back out into that cold, cruel world and try to get worshiped. Being a god is addictive.
“Ares has been hanging out at Astarte’s?” I asked.
“Police protection,” Chris said.
“With him as chief, we need protection from the police.”
Astarte’s was a chain of bars, but we usually referred to the big one in a beachfront hotel when we used the Semitic goddess’ name. The waitresses wore tight tee shirts that proclaimed themselves Astarte’s Tarts and tighter shorts. The bartenders were forgotten Baals. Any Astarte’s was a cheap place designed to clip tourists, but Ares has always gone for cheap broads. That was why he stole my wife ages ago.
“She’s slumming,” Thor said as Astarte walked into the pub and joined Ares.
“It’s a dead night,” Chris said. “I haven’t delivered a single pizza all evening. The few tourists who come in cold weather don’t hang around for nor’easters.”
When Thor didn’t flare up at Chris’ egregious explanation,
I knew my Norse friend was in an excellent mood. We might laugh at stupid
tourist tricks or at the
way crooks such as Astarte fleeced them, but none of the exiled gods
wanted to go back to the days when only a few nearly naked primitives
visited our strip of Atlantic coastline. The tourists weren’t worshipers,
but they made us feel as if we still existed among humans, albeit not
on Olympus or in Valhalla. I almost forgot my magical forge at Etna
when the summer season hit its height.
Astarte was dressed for hunting–not game such as Artemis brought
in with her bow and arrows, but the male of the human or deific species.
Her short, tight
skirt showed off chunky thighs, while her sweater was two sizes too
small and gapped between front buttons. By Greek standards she’s
fat, and Greek goddesses overload the bikinis Galatea sells at her boardwalk
shop. About the only goddesses who match the tourist ideal are a couple
of minor Egyptian ones so skinny their arms are smaller than sacred
asps.
Astarte hanging over 360 degrees of a barstool wouldn’t have
inspired Praxiteles or Pygmalion. She turned Ares on, however. His piggy
eyes narrowed even
more as he started feeling lusty.
“How’s Erda doing?” I asked Thor, turning my back on the bar.
I think Erda is his mother. The Aesir are even more dysfunctional
about family matters than we are, although nothing in their history
compares with Athena having literally been a splitting headache for
Zeus or with Leda laying eggs.
“Her comeback has lasted longer than Odin’s,” Thor
said. “Her new
followers invented a festival called Earth Day. Recently, she’s
got together with that gal you folks don’t claim.”
“Hecate?”
“Isn’t it dangerous just to speak her name?”
“Not for an Olympian or an Aesir,” I said.
“The one buried at the crossroads?” Chris asked.
“You refer to some of her followers, Chris. She was worshiped
at a crossroads. She doesn’t need Erda, Thor. Hecate was the goddess
of lawyers who’ll do
anything to win. She’s worshiped daily in the U.S. Congress.”
“Think Erda needs her?” Thor asked me.
“If I were Erda, I’d stay clear of that witch. Right now,
Hecate has Artemis, Astarte, Isis, Hera, and Freya conspiring against
her. Maybe some others that I don’t know about. One of these days
the neopagans will put a name on their goddess. If the upset
ladies in this resort have their way, it won’t be Hecate’s.”
“How do you guys keep up with gossip?” Chris asked.
Thor’s expression again darkened, and if he’d had a thunderbolt handy, I’d have ducked. That was the whole point of the resort, of course–outdated gods and goddesses lose their special powers. It prevents us from destroying one another.
Then the old Aesir said, “Chris, no one notices the repairman. Ask Hephaestus. I was the god of slaves. He was almost forgotten even when he was worshiped.”
“Yeah,” I said, “mankind goes for the fancy games–fertility,
war,
lust, and wisdom. Toolmakers and users who support the mass of mankind
are never given sufficient honor.”
Chris didn’t understand, of course. He was here on a technicality–men
and women had prayed to him when he was merely an intercessory praying
for them. Even if he’d been willing to call himself a forgotten
god, he would have lacked empathy. No one tips the maintenance man except
at Christmas, and we don’t celebrate Christmas for obvious reasons.
The pizza deliveryman almost always gets a gratuity.
