Untitled (18 page)
Authors: Unknown Author
The vibe in the crowd now has shifted once again: excitement picking up where simple pleasure left off, edging its way past the fear. As Tiger comes up beside them, many reach out to stroke his fur. Like Lion, he is a magnifcent beast.
But most eyes are locked upon the blessed triumverate, lined up now in the street: Scarecrow, Lion, and Dorothy, together once again. It's almost like stumbling into a Beatles reunion.
Then suddenly it strikes me: where the hell is Nick?
All the while I'm thinking this, I'm getting closer and closer. C. Scott Rung takes a slow step forward, uncertainly walking point.
"I take it," I say, "that this is your party of seven."
"Well, six," he says. "We're still waiting for one. And Skeerak will be waiting outside."
"Skeerak doesn't eat in…public," Rokoko interjects, fashing trademark fang. I don't know why Rokoko thinks that's such a good idea, always making with the Big Teeth thing. Maybe it's just a nervous habit.
I roll my eyes, turn back to Scottie. "Then why is Skeerak here?"
"Well, isn't that obvious?" little Rumpus exclaims. His beady black eyes are moist in his squishy, trembling face. "We can't even walk down the streets of your city without being b-bushwhacked by Imperial goons!"
"Shhhh," hisses the Ambassador nervously.
"No, I will not shush!" he blurts out squeakily. His whole body's shaking with anger and fear. "Is this the way you receive all of your guests? Because, if it is, I must insist…!"
"Rumpus, shush!" the Ambassador commands, and Rumpus shudders into silence.
Then, to me, "I apologize, Miss Aurora. We did not intend to make a scene. But as you know, certain…tensions have arisen that somewhat complicate matters tonight."
I appreciate—not his candor, precisely—but his sudden statesmanliness. He is, unlike Rumpus or fellow Ambassador Spang, remarkably professional, not to mention self-possessed.
"Okay," I say. "Apology accepted. So you'd like some dinner, and you want to talk."
"Precisely."
"Fine. Then wait right here. I'll be with you in a moment."
And with that, I turn, and head off to meet—how else can I put this?—my hero.
It's funny to write about it, even now. This Dorothy Complex I have. About being the girl that just never comes back. That just never lets go of the magick.
It has everything to do with why I'm here, and why it is I'm staying.
In the World, I was just another postmodern kid: hard-pressed to believe in death and taxes, much less the sovereign laws of some alleged Lord Above. No big surprise that I was thoroughly unhappy. What was there to be happy about? The World was a cop show, shot entirely on video; and the big revelation—if we got one at all—was that no one believed in the cops any more. Not the crooks. Not us civilians. Not even the cops themselves.
The reality was that all the idols had been toppled—even the good ones—long before I was born. The species blew through its icons in much the same way that it blew through our planet's fossil fuels.
It must have been exciting, even liberating, to be there; but lemme tell ya, there was no afterglow. When you tear something down, the next job is to rebuild. But they didn't. They couldn't. They didn't know how.
So there I was, like some depressing teenage science fction cliche: scavenging for chunks of busted totems in the moral wasteland, sifting through the muck, trying to paste the good parts together into something that resembled a guiding light. And suddenly, in the depths of my despair…
Enter Dorothy.
When the word got out that Oz was real, I nearly shit a cinder block. I couldn't believe, I couldn't believe that—out of all the alternate realities human imagination had seemingly conjured from midair—it would be this one that we would fnd a bridge to. This one that actually existed.
And then I heard about the little girl who had actually discovered it: blown in by a twister, in a quirky multi-dimensional moment so cosmically huge that L. Frank Baum literally channelled the whole thing through the funhouse mirrorball of his dreaming unconscious.
Yeah, I knew those famous last words: "there's no place like home." It also made total sense that earthbound Earth would seize upon them. As if that were the lesson to be learned from her adventure...which is to say that there was really nothing to be learned there at all.
But the fact—at least as it was reported—was that Dorothy currently still lived in Oz, with no intention of ever returning (and indeed, in one of the many Oz books that never made it to Hollywood, Dorothy did settle in Oz for keeps, bringing along Auntie Em and Toto and such).
I thought about that little girl, and how cool she must have been: standing up to all those authority fgures and saying, "No! Oz is real! And you know what? It's better!"
And I said to myself, "Oh, man. If there is one single strand of coolness inside of you, you will go and do that, too."
So now I'm here, in a world where there are heroes; one look at this crowd is all that you would need. They know that they can count on Dorothy. That Scarecrow won't sell them out for a six-fgure deal and a spot on Leno. That Lion and Tiger will stand face-frst between them and any force that would try to do them harm.
And here I am, standing right here with 'em; and the way these folks are looking at me, I almost feel like a hero, too.
But that's the thing. I'm not the fourth Beatle. I'm just this chick who hung out with him long enough to pick up a trick or two. I'm no George Martin, I'm no Billy Preston, I'm not even Joe Walsh from a Ringo pick-up tour. I'm, like, second kazoo for Dr. Demento, and
where the fuck is Nick?
where the fuck is Nick?
"Hi," sez Dorothy.
Then Scarecrow steps forward and gives me a hug, and I hug him back, and it feels real good, but I'm still looking at her. And I'm staring, and I'm trying not to stare, and then I'm staring some more, cuz I just can't help myself.
And she is staring back at me, and I wonder what she sees. What could she possibly be seeing in me? Is it good? Is it cool? She sure looks like it's cool. She looks like she's been wondering about me, too.
I think about Fast Eddie Felsen in The Color of Money: Paul Newman, checking out Tom Cruise. I hope she doesn't think I'm a total dink.
But that's not how she's looking at me.
She stands at about my height. Maybe a little shorter. It's hard to tell, at a couple feet's distance. I see lines in her face, and I like them alot. They're a hundred years of experience squeezed down to forty, the lessons etched across her features with breathtaking delicacy.
I'm so glad that she's still older than me.
"Dorothy?" I say.
"Aurora?" she sez.
Scarecrow kisses my cheek, lets go. Those brains weren't just for nuthin'. Lion smiles at me, then looks away shyly, remembers what's up, glares back at the bad guys.
I take those last fateful couple steps forward. She extends her hand. I take it and shake it. She looks in my eyes. I look in hers.
I can't even tell you.
"You look," she says, "like you have this under control."
I say, "I'm so glad you're here."
She laughs, deep and throaty, rustles her hair.
"Well, you know," she says, "it's kind of important."
"I know."
"I know you know."
At this point, it's almost like there is no war; like the whole world isn't standing there, looking at us. It's all I can do not to nail her with a kiss. It would work. It would be good. I can just tell.
And that, of course, is when Rumpus starts to holler.
"Coming?" I say.
And Dorothy answers, "Absolutely."
As we turn and head toward the door, the crowd erupts in applause. It's Oscar night at the Emerald Burrito! All we need are some spotlights and a big red carpet.
Of course, whatever Rumpus was grumping about is swallowed by the sound. This makes him even more irate. Like his cronies, he is furious at having been upstaged. (Poor babies. And it started off so
well…)
well…)
Scarecrow, for his part, works his audience like a pro: bowing, strutting, fring back the love with clownish, grandeloquent gestures. Dorothy is demure, with a warm and knowing smile. Lion is regal and ever-attentive. I just laugh, cuz I can't fuckin' stand it. It's all too surreal for me.
Poogli meets us at the door. Two arms hold blades; he's clapping with the other four. The rest of my staff is all huddled behind him.
"Set up the big table," I tell them. "And another for our friends."
Poogli's eyebrows furrow, and little Cheeba says, "But…"
"I'm sorry," I tell her. "We have to do it." Scarecrow and Dorothy nod their heads. Seeing this, the staff gets on with it; and I turn back to the scene in the street.
"LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND DISTINGUISHED OTHERS!" I call out from the doorway, as the din politely recedes. "TONIGHT, WE'VE BEEN JOINED BY SOME VERY SPECIAL GUESTS! A PEACE-AND-DINNER PARTY, WHICH HAS COME IN FROM THE EAST…" Very little enthusiasm there, "… AND OUR OWN MOST EXCELLENT FRIENDS!" A predictable explosion of joy.
"I HOPE YOU WILL MAKE THEM ALL FEEL WELCOME; AND WE WILL DO OUR BEST TO SEE THAT EVERYBODY EATS!"
That said, I welcome Dorothy and Scarecrow inside, while Lion takes his position by the door.
We set up the big table by the door, as well, so that if any trouble happens, we can drive it back outside without having to plow through any innocent diners. It's not just the least, but the most we can do. And it's good to know that Lion's right there if we need him. Then I usher in the Party of Six (the seventh having not yet appeared). I put O'Mon and Rokoko closest to the exit, though they insist that the extra seat be situated between them. This quite naturally makes me wonder who their mysterious straggler might be; but they aren't saying, so I let it go for now.
I am introduced offcially to O'Mon Node, who says nothing, regarding me with spiderly patience: from the looks of it, I am just a bug who has not yet hit the web. I am also introduced to the old guy in the government suit, whose name—I am told—is Xavier Waverly.
Mr. Waverly, I am told, hails from Nebraska; and he's been a fan of Dorothy and Scarecrow and the rest since he was six years old. The terrier eyes beneath his bushy eyebrows twinkle as he suggests that, before dinner is over, he might get to shake their hands. I tell him I'm sure that they'd be delighted, then ask him what he does.
He says it's mostly consulting work: he's retired, ex-Navy brass, keeping himself busy by helping out in an advisory capacity. I ask him what he advises on. He says, "U.S.-Oz relations."
He then goes on, at glowing length, about how much he loves it here. How thrilled he is to bear witness to such wonders, here at the end of his career. How much he treasures the pace of life, the gentle magic that suffuses each day, the fundamental decency and simple beauty of these people and their world.
He says all these things very well. He says nothing I don't agree with. He is easily the most open, convivial, down-to-earth character at the table. As such, I begin to fear him most.
It would be easy to like Mr. Waverly, easy to let him win my trust.
But then I look at the people he's hanging around with.
"Gentlemen," I say. "I do believe it's time for dinner."
At that, the kitchen door blows open, and the entire staff comes trundling out, laden with plates. They descend upon the table in an agitated furry: clinking dishes, trying hard to be cheerful, trying not to get too close to O'Mon or Rokoko.
The food—but of course—looks and smells delicious. Rokoko starts to salivate; even O'Mon's eyes light up. There is food enough to feed them twice. It is laid out like a banquet.
"Several days ago," I say, "I got a visit by Mr. Rokoko; and though we had our disagreements, certain things—in the meantime—have clearly changed.
"So I've taken the liberty of whippin' together a special menu for you. As I told Mr. Scottie, I suspect you will be pleased. Feel free to sample everything. Like the old saying goes: it's all good, baby!"
And with that, I take my leave.
The next ffteen minutes are a total cakewalk. They eat. That is all that they do. If they speak, it is just to get one bountiful platter passed down from that end to this.
I hang out, when I can, with Scarecrow and Dorothy. It's a lot more fun. She informs me that she's never had Mexican food before, which is amazing until I think about it. Probably not a lot of Mexican restaurants in Kansas at the turn of the last century.
I serve her my most authentic burrito, and (at Poogli's request) one of his new goomer weaves. It's meant to look like her—he trie
d
real hard—but let's just say that it falls somewhat short. In the end
, I tell her it's the Wicked Witch of the West, and we all have a good laugh over that.
d
real hard—but let's just say that it falls somewhat short. In the end
, I tell her it's the Wicked Witch of the West, and we all have a good laugh over that.
All the same, she chows down hard. Scarecrow, of course, doesn't eat. So while she oohs and ahhs, he keeps an eye on the goings-on at the big table down the way.
Mostly, I wander from table to table, making sure everything's cool. Dinner proceeds without incident, but everywhere I look, the air is full of sidelong glances and low, conspiratorial murmur. I feel like I'm in Casablanca, and the Burrito has turned into Rick's Cafe (which, I guess, makes me Humphrey Bogart, though I always hoped I came off more like Lauren Bacall).
In the absence of a piano or a guy named Sam, I slap on a little Henry Mancini, let his sleazy horns encapsulate the thick vibe of
noir. I wonder how Chandler or Hammett or Cain would write abou
t this, and what they would call it. The Maltese Goomer, maybe. Th
e
Munchkin Wore Black.
noir. I wonder how Chandler or Hammett or Cain would write abou
t this, and what they would call it. The Maltese Goomer, maybe. Th
e
Munchkin Wore Black.
Other books
Shiver by Lisa Jackson
My White Lottery Winner (BWWM Interracial Romance) by Fielding, J A
The Devil and Sonny Liston by Nick Tosches
The Hidden Icon by Jillian Kuhlmann
Sisters of Mercy by Andrew Puckett
Class by Cecily von Ziegesar
Summer of Sloane by Erin L. Schneider
Hunter Forsaken (Wild Hunt #2) by Nancy Corrigan
Gideon's Trumpet by Anthony Lewis