Last God Standing (10 page)

“You called me Connie. Since my name is Surabhi – pleasure to meet you I’m sure – there’s clearly been some misunderstanding. So, distant stranger who hopes to win my undying affection but is currently cruising for a major beatdown, I’ll ask you one last time: Who… the… hell… is… Connie?”

Connie chuckled from deep inside my tortured brain.

“Humanity:
how’s that working out for you?”

“Look just… shut up!”

Surabhi’s eyes took on the bloodlust sheen they got right before she took somebody to the mat.

“Oh, hell no. No, you didn’t just tell me to shut up!”

“No! I mean… I wasn’t talking to you!”

“I don’t see anybody else around.”

“I know…”

“So who the hell were you talking to?”

“I…”

“And who the hell is Connie?”

“Connie is a Native American fertility goddess who lives in my brain who volunteered to act as a temporary conscience – like a sort of moral regulator – until I mature enough to operate independently while also being the best possible boyfriend I can be and right now she’s yelling at me for not being honest with you about her even though I love you so much because a lot of confusion could have been avoided and you’re incredibly beautiful when you’re pissed and it’s really irritating because she sings everything – she doesn’t have the greatest voice – and I have a splitting headache and I love you more right now than I did ten seconds ago and can we please change the subject?”

Surabhi stared at me, a wary smile twitching at the corner of her lips.

“Fertility goddess? Is that meant to be me? Is this your incredibly weird way of seducing me?”

“Yes!”

“Was all that part of your act?”

“Maybe… did you like it?”

“It was cute. Especially the part about me being beautiful when I’m pissed.”

I grabbed her around the waist, pulled her in close.

“I believe I said ‘incredibly beautiful’.”

“I stand corrected.”

We kissed.

“That was really weird though,” she said, when we came up for air.

“It’s been a weird day.”

“No weirder than my agreeing to marry you against the disapproval of my feminist sensibilities.”

“Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are when you’re railing against a male dominated society?”

For the next hour or so, all the mysteries that had plagued me faded to a dull whisper. And I wandered, basking in the warmth of Surabhi’s smile.

And the deeper mysteries of her embrace.

After centuries of close association with the human mind I can tell you: it’s a very strange place. Getting one of my own made that even more glaringly obvious. But of all the wonders to which I had been witness, of all the mortal terrors I had observed, none of them ever scared me.

Then I learned to drive.

Driving is the one thing humans do that leaves me flabbergasted. Millions of years of natural selection have culminated in the human ability to operate heavy machinery under a variety of dubious circumstances. I passed my driver’s license test after seven tries. It took seven tries because of my certainty that every car that careened toward my parents’ car would slam into it, killing me, the driving instructor and the dreams of a teeming humanity. After understanding that oncoming traffic posed no threat to the continuation of human evolution, I’d calmed down enough to pass the test. But I didn’t like driving for the simplest reasons: you can’t control the other drivers.

I’d gotten along perfectly well using Chicago’s fantastic public transportation system. But for dinner with the Molokes I decided to make the effort. Which was a mistake.

We were late, of course. Surabhi’s Volkswagon Bug came equipped with a GPS navigation system, but it insisted on giving us directions to a falafel stand in northern Dubai. And to add insult to anticipated injury, both our mobile phones mysteriously lost signal seconds after we got into the car. It was only after we’d gotten hopelessly lost, hunted down a working payphone, called the restaurant and gotten directions that we finally arrived an hour late. Surabhi was nearly frantic.

“We’re here!” she announced as we tumbled through the front entrance of Henri Lumiere’s. A worried looking maître d’ met us in front of the greeter’s podium.

“You’re late,” he hissed. “Your party has been waiting.”

The nervous maître d’ grabbed two menus from his lectern, turned on his heel and waggled two fingers to indicate that we should follow him. He walked, with an almost preternatural economy of motion, toward the center of the large main dining room. His attitude was practically breathable.

“Well,” a big African voice boomed out. My eyes followed the throbbing sound waves to the table where Surabhi’s parents, along with her sister Calliope, sat. “The star-crossed young lovers finally deign to grace us with their arrival.”

“Sorry, everyone,” Surabhi chirped. “Sorry!”

“This is how they wish to start their lives together?” Magnus said to anyone within earshot. “Two hours late and without thought of a phone call.”

“I said sorry, Daddy. My nav was out, and both our mobiles are complete shit.”

Surabhi hugged her mother while Magnus offered a constipated buffalo grunt that effectively communicated his feelings about faulty mobile phones, wonky navigation systems, excuses in general, and tardy American boyfriends in particular.

“Mum… this is…”

“Hello, Lando,” Marian said. “Surabhi’s told me so much about you, I’m happy to finally meet you face to face.”

Imagine the lesbian love child of Lena Horne and Michelle Obama. Marian Dotson-Moloke was fifty-five years old and nearly as beautiful as her daughter. She was of average height but her effortless elegance made her appear taller. She was the daughter of the first African-American State Supreme Court Justice from the state of North Carolina; had graduated Suma cum laude from Harvard Law. She worked high up in legal affairs for the London office of the American Ambassador to the United Nations. She was adorned in a shimmering black dress that highlighted bare shoulders, flawless cocoa-brown skin and bare arms toned from regular weight training and her years as a pentathlete at the University of North Carolina, her undergraduate Alma Mater.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Moloke.”

“Please, call me Marian. I can’t wait to learn all about you, and your family.”

“Hah!”

“Are you alright?”

“Just stubbed my toe. I’m fine.”

Surabhi beamed. She’d once told me that her mother remained one of her closest allies even during the wild wars of adolescence. The relief in her eyes was a testament to their relationship. Then she took a deep breath and stepped into the shadow of the man-mountain that had spawned her.

I’d fought rogue deities and malignant nature spirits, sutured ruptured realities and realigned unwieldy continuums. I was the Embodiment of Order, the Banisher of Chaos. I was God, for Christ’s sake. But nothing bothered me more than watching Magnus Moloke wrap his arm around my woman.

“Daddy…”

“Yes, my darling?”

“You’re doing it.”

“No! No, I’m not.”

“Magnus,” Marian warned. “You’re smothering her.”

Magnus released Surabhi, reluctantly. Then he chuffed her lovingly on the shoulder. Surabhi smiled, and punched him, hard, on the bicep.

“Strong!” Magnus crowed. “See that, boyfriend? She’s still a Moloke!”

Surabhi’s sister Calliope had been quietly rifling through Magnus’ wallet, plucking bills the way a gardener weeds an unruly garden. Magnus rapped on the table.

“You see how your sister keeps in shape, Calliope?”

Calliope shot her father a look that would have sent Medusa scrambling for cover. Calliope was fat; she easily tipped the scales at over two hundred and fifty pounds, well within an acceptable healthy range for a woman of her age… if that woman stood nine feet tall. Calliope stood about five six. On a light day, after a year of intensive dieting, strenuous exercise and projectile vomiting she might pass for “portly.” Now, she was just fat. Ironically, she was also gorgeous. Calliope Moloke was one of those unfortunate women who make random passersby think, “What a beautiful face. If only…” Calliope was doomed to be the “if only” in a never-ending line of pitying strangers’ beauty evaluations. Thus her seething rancor.

We’d once caught her screaming into a mirror she’d strategically smashed so that it reflected her only from the neck up. She’d sworn off alcohol, milk, carbohydrates, red meat, wheat, sugar, salt, nuts, fruit, cheeses, shellfish, warm soups, eggs, and all associated oils and unguents before heading straight for the refrigerator, where she grabbed a rice cake and slammed the door on her way to her managerial job at Pizza Hut.

“I have a metabolic condition. It’s not my fault I’m hypothyroidal. But my capitalist father thinks it’s all in my head. Which is completely typical for a bourgeois drone like you, Daddy.”

Magnus grunted. Calliope turned red.

“Of course, anything that deviates from your Judeo-Christian Corporate hivemind standard of European beauty threatens your sense of male entitlement. Isn’t that right, Daddy?”

“Calliope, please…” Marian warned. Calliope turned the spotlight of her hostility on me while simultaneously reaching for the bread basket.

“One day my fat arse and I are going to destroy the Global Military Industrial Complex. Did my anorexic sister tell you that?”

“Dad,” Surabhi said. “This is Lando. Lando… meet Dad.”

I extended my hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Magnus…”

Magnus gripped my right hand like a man forced to grasp a spitting cobra. The strength that vibrated in that grip was shocking and I had to grind my molars just to keep from swearing. Magnus squeezed harder. The bones in my hand squeaked, and I wondered how much pressure my knuckles could take before they exploded like burning Brazil nuts.

“Doctor Moloke,” he corrected, before releasing me.

We all sat; Magnus next to Marian and Surabhi next to me on my left, while Calliope overwhelmed the chair directly to my right.

“Nice to see you again, Calliope.”

Calliope smirked and went back to plundering the bread basket.

“So, Lando,” Marian said. “Surabhi tells me you’re a comedian. How interesting for you.”

“Yes. Comedy has always been my passion.”

Magnus was glaring at me, his massive hands locked together on the tabletop. He looked like he was practicing a strangulation murder, and it didn’t take godly insight to know whose imaginary neck he was throttling between those giant paws.

Even seated, Magnus towered over the rest of us. He easily stood six feet six inches tall, with shoulders nearly as wide as our dinner table. His athletic prowess was legend. He’d led Ethiopia to its first gold medal in soccer at the 1980 Olympic Games. He’d captured the imagination of the world and legions of adoring fans, emigrating to the UK to open a string of successful businesses ranging from a chain of urban movie theaters and athletic equipment stores to a line of his own sportswear: MAGLOK. In London he’d lent his image to a line of organic foods – Back to the Land Organic Foods were rapidly sweeping across Europe. The healthy fare had even begun to attract attention from stateside retailers like Whole Foods and Trader Joes. He’d even starred in a rap video,
Bootyrock!
In it he invented a dance called Da Magnus March. The song became an international hit. The dance it spawned remained an irritating planetary sensation.

“The Comedian,” Magnus snarled. His teeth were unnaturally white. They looked healthy enough to gnaw through the cables on a suspension bridge. “You any good?”

“He’s excellent. He’s really great, Dad.”

“Thanks, babe,” I said, a little too forcefully. My battles with divine sociopaths had taught me the importance of claiming bragging rights right off the bat. Reticence might add mystery to rock stars and billionaires, but on the battlefield of Ego a big mouth is the best weapon. Surabhi had just hamstrung me in front of her father.

Herb could handle this. I should have listened to all those lectures.

“I’ve had gigs at all the local clubs. I’ve been making the rounds across the Midwest.”

“What about television? Any interest from the networks?”

“Well, no, but I’ve…”

“Cable?”

“W… well…Chicago’s… not a… huge comedy town.”

“Isn’t Chicago the home of Second City?” Magnus said. “The birthplace of improvisational comedy? A city with comedy clubs falling out of its massive, alcoholic backside? Wasn’t that fellow… oh, what was his name?”

“John Belushi?” Calliope offered, smiling through a mouthful of multigrain.

“Right! Wasn’t John Belushi from Chicago?”

“Well… yes.”

“I believe a lot of successful comedians came from Chicago,” Magnus rumbled on. “Bill Murray, Dan Ackroyd, although I believe he grew up in Canada. Chris Farley…”

Magnus glanced at Calliope. “He was the fat one, Cali. Died of a heart attack when he was only nineteen years old.”

“I believe he was in his thirties, Magnus,” I offered. “And all the guys you mentioned are actors, not really comedians.”

“Yes, lots of Chicago comedians have made the jump to television,” Magnus continued. “The good ones anyway.”

“Yes,” Marian interposed. “It must be very difficult to get up on a stage to make people laugh, Lando. I know I could never do it.”

Magnus chuckled. “No sensible person would, dear.”

“I meant, Magnus, that it takes a special kind of courage to expose yourself in that way. A certain forcefulness of vision.”

“That’s right, Marian. It’s tough sometimes, but I like the challenge. It’s great when you can turn an audience around… get them on your side.”

“Sounds a little desperate, wouldn’t you say?”

Surabhi sighed, loudly. “Daddy.”

“I simply meant that traveling from city to city, living out of your suitcase in cheap motels just to chase down the approval of drunken strangers might be viewed as a bit needy in some circles.”

“What ‘circles’ would you be referring to, Magnus?”

Magnus’ bridge-crushing smile broadened.

“Normal, healthy society. Most people go to work every day. They labor at jobs they despise for low pay and little hope of advancement. They look at actors and comedians, showbusiness people… well a bit like they look at their Tupperware: nice when it’s wanted but not really necessary… or particularly useful.”

Surabhi and her mother both sighed.

“Well I think helping people forget their problems for a while is necessary, Magnus.”

“Oh, really.”

“Sure. It’s deep in the human race, the need to enjoy a funny story or laugh at a good joke.”

“So you consider yourself a storyteller? A sort of modern day shaman dancing around the communal firepit, battling encroaching cultural darkness with pithy observations and witty repartee?”

“Ahhhh… well… Yes. I suppose you could say that.”

Magnus leaned forward, teeth glinting like clean daggers.

“I’d call that somewhat elitist. Wouldn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean who named you official shaman, eh? Lando Cooper: Voice of the People? Who gave you the insight to illuminate the unwashed masses?”

“Daddy, that’s enough.”

“Now wait a minute, Magnus. I never said I was illuminating…”

“But that’s what the really great comedians do isn’t it?” Magnus barreled on. “Show us hidden elements within the collective soul; drag our human foibles out into the light so that we can laugh at ourselves? Like Bill Cosby or Charlie Chaplin. They teach us perspective using their own experiences as comedic launching pads. They were artists, masters. Are you telling us that you’ve got the talent to match Bill Cosby?”

I took a long drink of water. My throat was suddenly as dry as Cosby’s last book, and the dryness seemed to have moved upward and flashfried my brain. Who knew Magnus Moloke was a student of American Comedy?

They were all looking at me: Surabhi’s brow furrowed with the same worried expression I saw echoed on Marian’s face; Magnus glaring, his eyebrows arched in exactly the same way Surabhi’s did when she’d successfully carpetbombed my defenses; Calliope sneering at me, her cheeks stuffed with sourdough...

“Hey… I just like to tell jokes.”

I saw the satisfaction in Magnus’ eyes; the disappointment in Marian’s face and the schadenfreude in Calliope’s smirk.

Surabhi laughed, too loudly.

“See? I told you he was brilliant!”