Dionysus

Imagine: One day, the Greek god of wine and lust popped into your life....

I turn into the parking lot and pull into slot #3 of the Grocery Mart pickup area. The florescent lights above blink and hum. My palms are sweaty and my heart pounds like it’s going to bust through my chest and flop around wildly on the dashboard. Breathe. I remind myself. “Breath, damnit,” I say out loud.

Breathing, used to work, before Covid, but now I’m a hot-near-total-agoraphobic mess. I can barely drive into town and pick up my groceries anymore. Maybe I need an assistant, I think as I spot him in the rear-view mirror.

The closer he gets, the less he looks like he belongs here in Midwestville.

“Hello ma’am, how are you this evening?”  the young man approached my window.

“Fine, thank you,” I say, studying him. He had to be in his mid-30s, wearing skintight leather pants and an unbuttoned busy shirt, looked like silk, under his orange Grocery Mart vest. His hair was unkempt, in a sexy rock star way and he might have on a bit of eyeliner. Not judging, and I’ve seen crazier, but he doesn’t fit the bill of the usual grocery kids.

“Everything look okay?” His voice rose a pitch, and he handed me the receipt.

Was he mocking me? I decided to ignore it. He’s nothing more than a punk kid. “Looks good,” I said.

After he unloaded the groceries in the backseat of my truck, he came back to the window with a twisted grin, “You are all set, ma’am. You have a good night. And be sure to say hello to your father.”

Dumbstruck. My pulse quickened, and I stared at him. “What? You know my father?”

            “A long time ago,” He said with a nostalgic look of a person who’d lived lifetimes, then he winked at me.

“Uh huh,” I nodded. Along time ago, this kid was in diapers. Maybe he was mentally ill? Confused? Sometimes it’s better to just keep the peace, “I’ll be sure to tell him. Thank you, young man. Have a nice night.”

I gave him a slight wave and a little head nod as I pulled away. In the old days, I would’ve stuck around and talked to him, or at least given him my card. Once upon a life, I was a counselor, and helping lost souls was my mission. My passion. My purpose.

But my time to be overly helpful to other humans ended after the attack, which lead to a gripping terrifying fear of leaving the house and now I am in a depth of hell known as agoraphobia. I still manage to leave the house once a month to pick-up groceries, but deep down I know one day, I won’t even be able to do that. My phobia has taken over more and more of my life, especially since the virus. And I know I’ve let it, but I just can’t face the real world anymore, and I don’t have to.

When Covid quarantine came, I started writing more and more. My coping outlet manifested into something I never foresaw. It started with a pen name, a blog and a twitter account. That led to some big-wig producer’s kid seeing one of my stories and loving it. On a random Wednesday, I got a call from a production company. They offered to buy the rights to a story of mine and hire me to write upcoming episodes for the Netflix production of my novel. I accepted. That had been three years ago.

Since then, my twisted tales have developed a bit of a cult following, so I’ve been living very comfortably for a while now. Alone. In the most perfect A-frame cabin in the middle of nowhere. On one hand, I’ve never felt more peace in my life, but only when I’m home. Anywhere other than my safe zone, and I’m a dumpster-fire. The tragic tale of writer and creator, Janis Morrison (that's me): Damn near total face-to-face isolation is my sweet spot. 

As if to reiterate the point, my blood pressure dropped the closer I got to my place. It's like I’m tethered to my home. The further away I get the more stretched I become. The more it hurts. The closer I am, the more slack and comfort in the tether. By the time I pull into the garage, I feel like my old self. Confident. Relaxed. In control. But only here. However, I was a whiz on Zoom.

Lost in the peace of being home, I missed his presence.

“May I be of some help?” He spoke.

“Holy shit!” I jumped and the groceries tumbled to the concrete.

“Sorry to startle, love,” The man crossed his arms and leaned against the frame of the garage, like he was a neighbor stopping by to help with a project. “I mean no harm.”

I froze. It was the grocery kid! How did he get here? “Um…what can I do…how did…what do…” I couldn’t even articulate a complete thought. Some brilliant wordsmith I was.

            “How about I answer all those questions and then some? Over a drink perhaps?” He snapped his fingers and the groceries re-bagged themselves and flew into his hands. He walked toward me.

            What in the hells was happening? And what were my actual choices? Where there any? Run? To where? What else could he do with a snap of his fingers? Break my neck? I just wanted to go inside. And truth be told, there was something about him. He lit up the space around us and it was familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why.

“You have nothing to fear, dear. Like I said, I mean you no harm,” With another snap of his fingers, the garage door closed while the door into the house opened. Then he held out his arm, inviting me into my own home and quite possibly my death, “After you dear, and seriously, if I wanted you dead, you would be. We certainly wouldn’t be having a drink together.”

            “Uh huh,” I said with a short nod and a hesitant step forward. I hadn’t even called my mom yet today. I wonder how long it will be before someone notices my absence? Will anyone even notice I’m not connected virtually? I wonder how long it will take him to kill me…

            “Good gods, do you always do that inside your own head?” He said, walking into my kitchen. He set the groceries down and rubbed his temples. “The misery. Holy Underworlds. It’s exhausting. Like seriously… I need a nap…or a day at the beach…or a Xanax…gracious.”

            I looked at him. I’ve no idea what my face looked like, but my emotions were all over the place. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Then took another breath, and another, and another, finally I tapped into my center.

            “There you go. Focus,” he said. His voice was softer, gentler. “Do you feel an animosity from me?”

            “No,” I said with one more breath, a sigh of relief.  

Opening my eyes, I examined him. Cool, like he was Gatsby at the party of the century. He wasn’t here to hurt me. He needed me.

            His face changed. Only the slightest change. In the eyes. He could hear me, my thoughts. I opened my mouth to speak, but my unasked questions were answered before I could get the words out.

“Yes, I can hear you. Yes, I need you. And no, I will not hurt you, but that does not mean you aren’t in danger. Both of us are really. We have a lot to talk about.” He shrugged and plucked an apple off the top of the grocery bag, shined it on his shirt and took a bite. With a snap of his fingers the rest of the groceries put themselves away. He cocked his head and looked at me, “Got any wine?”

I stared for a minute. Now that I was at home, and felt like myself, I was more than a little curious about this magical stranger in my cabin in the woods. “Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Noir?”

             “Depends…” He nodded, as if he was thinking, “Cheese or more fruit to go with this apple?”

            My jaw dropped, but as it did, “Cheese,” tumbled out.

            “Good. The red then,” he put his hands on his hips, “Selection choices?”

            “Wine room is at the end of the hall. Take your pick,” I said. At this point, why not. While he went to fetch the drinks, I got out the cheese, some crackers and a bit of prosciutto I had laying around, and fixed up a nice charcuterie board.

            My guest... how odd... I didn’t even know his name, yet here he was rummaging in my wine room and making himself quite at home. “Um, your name? What do I call you?”

            “Dionysus, love. The Greek god of wine and lust,” He walked into the kitchen with the straightest of faces, and a bottle of wine in each hand.

            At first, I threw my head back and laughed, but when his expression dropped from jovial to confusion to worry, I gripped the counter. He was deadly serious. What the hells?

            “Oh no,” And he snapped his fingers.

A blink of a second later, we were seated around my dining room table. Wine decanted and a spread of food and snacks before us. “This is when it gets more difficult to digest. You humans use such a small part of your brains, most of you can’t comprehend the godly aspects of the universe, and you don’t even know what you’re missing. Heathens.” He smiled and raised his glass. “Here’s to celebrations and new beginnings.”

            I raised my glass, let it clink with his, and took a long…long…sip. My mind spun in a thousand different directions, one of those cautioned me he could read my thoughts. Other avenues took me on a quick summary of my knowledge of Greek mythology. A little smile tickled. As a fantasy writer, all stories intertwined one way or another and Dionysus had always been a favorite of mine. With a myriad of questions, I figured direct was my best bet.

            “So, you said you needed me. What could a god such as yourself want with me?” Then I froze. Oh hells. We were having the wine. Was the lust next? Was that why he was here? Surely not? I mean I could be his mother, a very young mother, but still plausible, and that was weird.

            “Gracious no!” He leaned back, appalled. Then collected himself. “I’m sorry, love, there is nothing wrong with you, I mean, I do prefer my lustlings younger. Of consenting age of course, but the young 20-somethings…are so willing…and nubile…and agile…” An odd smile crept into his eyes and he licked his lips, zoning out for a hot second. Then he was back, “I’m sorry…one of the pitfalls of being the god of lust is… open lusting…it sort of pops up every now and again,” He gave a wave of dismissal and continued.

“Anyway, my dear, first off, you’re not one of the simple minded. I could never drive you made with lust, and honestly, that’s just as well … because…um…I’m your dad,” He said, letting the words roll off his tongue like it was the most normal thing to say.

            I snorted. A big snort. Droplets of red wine splattered everywhere. “Okay, now I’m gonna say it out loud what the hells?” 

            He smiled with satisfaction, “I was wondering when I would hear that from you. I know it’s a regular phrase in your vernacular, and I’ve heard you think it.”

           I gave him a cock-eyed look, “Whoa, slow your role, dude. You've been listening to my thoughts? Like regularly? This is getting a little far-fetched and uncomfortable…”

            “Just now it’s getting weird?” He raised his glass and a wicked smile contorted at his lips, “In for a penny. In for a pound. Wanna know the details?”

            YES! The storyteller in me screamed. GOOD lawds NO… kick this crazy man out of your house…pronto! The rational human in me shouted.

I, of course, leaned in, reached for my wine, took a sip, and whispered, “Details please.” If nothing else my writing well was a little low.

            “The 70s was a bit of blur for me. I’m not gonna lie. I loved a woman for a generation before that, Maribel. She died. Gone forever. Not even the power of a god could bring her back.” His jaw stiffened.

His story was well-rehearsed; he'd told it many times, but I could still sense his pain.

“Needless to say, as the god of wine and lust,” he gave a guilty half' smile, “I did not cope with this well. I bounced around from body to body to lose myself. I wanted to feel anything but pain and loss. Then I saw her. The spitting image of my Maribel. So young and vibrant. I hopped into her man and spent a good decade with her, living side by side. Then kids of mine started popping up all over North America, and that’s when the trouble began.”

            I know my brow was a furrowed mess because I was lost. “Wait, I don’t understand. What does this have to do with me?”

            “The woman, who looked like my Maribel, was your mother, Jean. The man I inhabited was your dad, Andy Morrison.”

            “Shut the front door. That’s insane.” Even as I said it, I wondered.

            “It may sound that way, and to most it would be, but you my dear are different,” he shrugged, “for whatever reason.”

            “What the hells does that mean?” Was out of my mouth before I had time rein in my snappishness.

            Reaching over, he melded a piece of meat and cheese with a cracker and few marinated olives. “It seems the children from by body hopping in the 70’s are either dead or insane, which makes you different, although I haven’t a clue why.”

            “I see,” was all I said out loud and munched on a few olives to keep from saying more, because I was kind of insane.

            “No, I'm talking like certifiable insane…in an institution, drugged (legal and otherwise), or dead. All of them. Except you. It seems.”

            “Why?”

            “That's the question of the century,” he looked at me with interest, “If I had to speculate, I’d say there was something special on your mom’s side. Witchery of some kind would be my best guess. It must have given you an edge to overcome my godly love for wine and lust, although you came close to succumbing. You know, I’ve seen the highlight reel of your early 20’s. It made a bit proud.”

            I blushed, and the corners of my lips twitched. The end of the 90s in Vegas had been fun.

“There’s my girl,” He held up his glass to toast.

A quick eye roll and a shake of my head killed his excitement.

“Sorry, but those are not the memories I want to think about right now with my younger godly dad.” But I toasted and took a drink anyway.

He grinned.

What can I say? Apple. Tree.

And with that, we both finished our glasses.

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 New Twist on an Iconic Tale