American Gods Part II

I wasn’t there for long.

I felt a wash of queasiness pass over me as I finished my Merlot.  God, a chilly beer would have been such a better choice.  Now all I wanted was water.  Cold and fresh water.  My mouth was dry, and  as I bought a bottle at an ridiculous concourse price, I realized that the crowd of writers had amassed, from their distant destinations. Oh shit, were they waiting for me??

I suddenly felt foolish.  Here was a gathering of the finest minds in Literature, and I was acting strangely.  They were laughing, chatting, and starting to move.  Nothing else to do, but wander up to the few I had met before and say hello. 

The plan, I was told, is that a local author had offered to host the gathering at her place rather than try and pack the near dozen of us into a restaurant.  Fair enough, I had rented a car.  Safety in numbers, I felt myself washed along with the tide, you behind in what could have been feet or miles.  Cool.  I needed to regain my balance.

The Tall Man, (and that is how I think of him now, name forgotten) who I had corresponded with for a time, immediately took up residence at my elbow as we walked toward the parking structure.  Funnier even in real life, his chatter had me giggling.  He called shotgun, and offered two others he knew well transport in my car.  As our hostess called for who had vehicles and who needed rides, the Tall Man announced my car was full.

Charming, yes, but I was beginning to feel a bit bowled over and like a fire hydrant, marked territory.  Besides being able to speak for myself, his cologne was oppressive.  I could feel my eyes start to water even before we were in close quarters.  Great.  Allergy attack is a wonderful way to start an evening.  Bendryl.  Did I pack some?  Did You have a ride? 

I stopped at a store on the way for some Bud Light and a pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights.  I soooo needed a cigarette, and for the life of me, I was not going to be stuck drinking any strong Micro-brew yuppie beer.  I needed to be in my own comfort zone in at least that small way to survive this evening.

The living room was large and airy, and by the time I got there, most had found seats.  I saw you sitting on the arm of the sofa, listening to a small brunette woman.  I remember she is a romance writer, and almost feel a pang of jealousy at the easy rapport between you.

I stepped out of the doorway, and moved towards our hostess and a few others, Mr. Tall still clinging on me.  What is wrong with me?  I had looked forward to talking with so many of these people, but as I hear the pleasantries drip out of my mouth, disembodied from my internal dialogue I feel almost claustrophobic. I just want out.

The deck out back is better.  I lean on the rail to regroup, yet again, basking in the relief of the demon nicotine pouring into my body.  Ahhh. Normalcy. No one fawning or forcing small talk from me.

I sneak back into the kitchen, and busy myself arranging some snacks.  Grabbing a couple volunteers to deliver them, I grab one of my cheap beers and return to the deck for a second smoke.  The flight and airport induced withdrawal has been brutal on me. Damned addict. Despite the heat in this place, I am more comfortable outside than in the climate control of the house.  The brittle heat inside, though masked, is more insidious than the softness of the hot breezes outside.

I hear the door behind me and freeze. I know it is you, not so much by scent as perhaps pheromone signature. Or something.

‘Hi Diane,’ you speak your first words to me, ‘I’m *****.’  (do i name a god here, a man here?  perhaps not, my readers… i will go the innocuous route and let Paul Simon have me call him ‘Al’ since that is the song in my head at this moment.) ‘Hey Al, good to see you.’ Amazingly, my voice neither fails nor cracks, but the warmth in my cheeks belies the slight blush there. Hoping the dusk hides it, I crush my cigarette out as you light yours.  ‘Being antisocial?’ you ask. ‘More like fiending,’ I say with a pointed shake of my pack, ‘but I suppose I should be in there mixing now that I have my fix,’ I laugh.

I feel your eyes on my back as I return to the house.  It was a completely normal exchange, but why in this arid place am I suddenly reminded of thunder, can almost smell the ozone of a storm, all wet and warm approaching from miles away? My subconscious whispers, dancing in the rain, you were dancing in the rain once… and is gone.

The music playing in my head is now a snippet of Prine, a nice replacement for the damned Paul Simon loop it had been in.  My life comes with a soundtrack, lyrics change gender to suit me. Better song, and I am certainly no Betty, damn it, even if I called you Al.

I mingle.  The beer, the cigarettes, something has loosened me, for I find myself enjoying the company of these fine Authors.  My wit has returned, humor restored. That earlier episode has faded entirely, like a daydream neglected. I even manage to gracefully dodge an invitation to play guitar for the group. 

Still, I am molecularly aware of your moves about the room, taking note slyly of the way your eyes smile before your mouth does, the lines beside them tracing proof that that is your way.  The furrow between your dark brow says you spend as much time brooding as smiling though.  Darkness and Light. God and Man.

Must not obsess, I think, and I think the beer portion of my day is over too.  This creature before me hardly knows I exist, he is just a man, no?  I don’t want to get all moonie-eyed and embarrass myself.  I order the internal dialogue to shut up, stop making us naked and alone, just stop.

Cold water and another smoke.  Outside.  The discussion inside has moved past anything I could remotely comment on anyway.  I feel like a plow-horse amoung thoroughbreds.  It is perhaps time for me to leave.

The sky is clear, but not dark enough.  I hate straining to see stars against the unnatural crime of light pollution.  You would think you could stop straining to see what you could not possibly see, but there it is. Damned frustrating.  Not nearly as frustrating as being near you has been, loving you from afar.  The tension has crept back into my body, taut as a tightrope.

Lost in all that, leaning on the railing, I shivered when you touched the back of my arm, startled.  I had not even heard you approach.  You looked kind of hurt, and muttered ‘Sorry,’ and stepped back. ‘Oh my God, my nipples are hard from a touch on the arm, and I hope to hell he doesn’t notice’ raced through my brain.

I looked into your eyes then browns so deep that the earth itself’s every crevice and height were surely accounted for therein.  I just stared, speech evading me.  My skin still tingled from the brush of your hand, and I tried to force the words to come to my mouth. A child’s eye, a boy’s eye, a man’s eye, an ancient eye… let me fall into those eyes and feel your hands on my skin. I want you.  I want you.

I was seriously fucking this moment up.  ‘No.’ was all I could whisper. ‘Its not that!’ my mind screamed silently, as I realized you took my no as a reproach.

‘Sorry,’ you repeated, eyes narrowing, closing off to me, ‘I didn’t mean to offend you or make you cringe. I thought you may have been avoiding me, and wanted to know for sure, but I didn’t know I actually repulsed you that much.’ Your words came out soft, hurt. You followed your gaze that had turned down, and away from me back towards the doorway.  ‘Goodbye, Diane, its just….. anyway, goodbye.’

‘Asshole!’ came blurting out of my mouth, as much at myself as for you getting it so incredibly wrong.  Now it was your turn to cringe. Ok, Diane, could you possibly fuck this up worse?  Last chance here, ‘Wait, no please!’ You were still reaching for the door. ‘I’m afraid!’ I cry, and you turned your head back to me.

‘Its not what you think at all, I’m just afraid that if you knew what I was really thinking, you would think that was worse,’ the words were rushing now, spilling out before I could filter them. ‘You are why I am here.  I feel this connection I have no right to feel for you, I trembled, not cringed, don’t you get that?  How can you not see? 

I just want you. The distance keeps me safe from that. Keeps me from begging you to please keep touching me… Damn it.’

I smelled thunder again, as you closed the distance between us.  ‘OK then’ is all you said.

Then the God’s eye transposed upon the Man’s eye, you were the dream God I opened my soul to and the man in front of me I desired in body all at once.  Dizzying effect. I learned then, a secret not told in your book.  When you interact directly with us, you Gods are just as we are.  Fallible.  Real.

They can only reach into our souls and read us when it has to do with what they are the Gods Of.  The God of Literature, when not bestowing his gift, has no special power to read my intent.  The Gods of Fire, of Music, of Wind or the Seas must be the same in that way.  Remember them, then, with even greater love, for to love is more human than divine.

And I fell into your eyes, once again.

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Epilogue:
Maybe American Gods aren’t so much fickle as fallible.  They are real though, and that perhaps is the best part.  Its what keeps them with us, rather than apart from us.