Odysseus - The lost episode

Scholar’s Preface:

To translate archaic, colloquial Greek into boppy modern English burdens anyone who would make the result relevant for today’s readers. With relish, I have applied the apparatus of contemporary scholarship to the problem, I might say. Ancient idioms have few exact equivalents, so creativity is required for effect as fresh as the original. Ditto alliterative passages. Got that?

Every culture-vulture knows that Homer’s epics exalt paltry plots through grandiloquent, impenetrable poetry. But Homer came late to the game. This present text, far more ancient, seems a conflation of carnally-concerned oralities that never was subjected to Homer’s organizational aptitude. His specialty: Cleaning up myths and all that.

Discovered only recently and premiere-published here, the precious document sheds (I almost typed shreds) understanding of lusty pre-antique relationships before there was a before. Thus – with appreciation to scholars Conroy and Vic for sparkling input and all due respect for you repentant Classicists out there – Ahem! [Ed.]

Dedication:

To the master of six whippy novels set in the sand dunes of distant Dahran, Gerry Taylor.

Odysseus: The Lost Episode

“Where’s Circe?”

“Not here.”

“Hmm. Thought for sure, since she retired to this crappy island, that she’d be in.”

“Nope.”

“So, where’d she go?”

“Went to Medusa’s to play Canasta with ’Thena and Pandora.”

“That can’t turn out well.”

A sigh. “Never does. Takes forever, too. Circe cheats by droning one of her distracting songs. Medusa’s snakes twitch every time she gets a bad hand. ’Thena’s wised up to ’em. Her moves make the other bitches sweat. Oh, and Pandora always weeps.”

“How ’bout Vesta? She in?”

“No. She and her girls – y’know, they’re calling themselves Vestals now – they took off for Delphi. Won’t be back any time soon. They ‘trip’ something awful on fumes from that hole-in-the-ground. Dance around, giddy.”

“Went as a group?”

“Indeed, by greyhound-pulled chariots, to meet up with others, the nightingale-gaggle that calls themselves Sirens.”

“What a big sewing circle!”

“You bet. They took along skeins of Ariadne’s thread, but didn’t invite her, poor girl. Feels left out. I heard she went over to Omphale’s for a cry.”

“Drat. I have a boatload of leaky sailors. Hornier than Hades’ helmet.”

“Say, I think I know you. I mean, who you are. You’re Norman, or something like that.”

“Noman.”

“You mean, ‘No, man’?”

“I’m Noman.”

“Yes, you are. Wait, don’t tell me. Let’s see, you’ve got all those muscles, a packed crotch, bulging thighs. And…and…it’s on the tip of my tongue – you used to date that girl Helen over in Troy. Sure fucked that up, didn’t you, Achilles?”

Faster than the battering ram Epeius’s soldiers used on Troy’s dry-rot gates, Odysseus’ right arm decked the twit at the door. Left in a huff.

Doesn’t know one hero from another!

Recalling his purpose, he switched thoughts: I need some dames!

About a block away, heading back to his wormy bireme packed with frustrated men, Odysseus smacked into a well-stacked woman.

“Hel-lo, big boy,” she managed as he helped her off the paving stones. Straightened whatever it was she was wearing. “Gee, it’s been a while.”

“Calypso, girl! You’re a sight! Are you still in business?”

“You mean, servicing sailor-men?”

Head down, he nodded. Looked up, grinning.

She batted ageless eyelids and smiled broadly, “I remember how. What’d you have in mind, big boy?” Her hand stole over his gold-mesh cod-cover. “Mmmm…”

“Calypso, don’t tempt me just now. I’ve got eighty journey-tired tars who need TLC.”

“What’s that, some new curative?”

“Tender, Loving Care,” he capitalized. “Practical medicine,” he grinned again. Then grew serious. “My mariners need women, girls. The moment I saw you, I was hoping you had access to some we could engage. My hold’s full of shiny trinkets from Troy. We can pay.”

“You’re SOL,” she parried.

“What’s that?”

Her turn to capitalize, “Shit Outta Luck. Our nubiles have hied off to Delphi – all. But don’t look so downcast.” With a finger snap, she added, “I have an idea.”

“I beg you, tell.” He was solicitous. Wanted pussy himself.

“Your guys – they like boys?”

“At sea, they bonked each other ’til the novelty wore off. After all, we’re Greeks. What do you have in mind?”

“Remember ’Thena’s old olive grove over that way? In there’s a start-up Academy. Some old wise-guy called Play-Dough (or something like that) runs it. Chockablock with teen boys, word is. They loll around and talk, and talk, and talk. Dialoguing, they call it. They babble a lot but everybody’s touchy-feely.”

“Great! We’ll raid their encampment!”

“Are you daft? No need. Be a good fellow now. Doll up your sailors. Clean off the muck if they’re in need of a suck. Nothing’s worse than – well, you know. Whew!” She pinched her nose, saw he needed clearer instructions.

“Have everybody wash well, don clean chitons, and walk over here. Bring some gold. Small knickknacks to spread around. You may have to pay off Play-Dough’s sidekick, Socrates. Together, they tag-team to lead boys this way and that, if you know what I mean.”

“Cheaper to chop off his head.”

“Do that and ’Thena’ll skewer your ass with the sharpest spear you never want to meet. Tolerates no disturbances in her town! Especially when she’s playing Canasta. Listen, play the game the way I say, and I’ll take you lot over and introduce everybody around. If we see any laurels on our way, we’ll weave a few wreaths for the cuties. Even if we have to stop to do it.” Her mind slipped into overdrive.

“Anything else, mistress?”

“Yes, there’s an attractive young man, Phaedrus. Socrates’ main squeeze. Leave that one alone. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll run along, if that’s all right with you.”

“Pull this off, Odysseus, and we’ll have our own gay old time.” She patted his mesh and handed him a card with her personal rates on it.

Not entirely literate, he squinted to make out a sliding scale that soared from low- to high-value coins of silver, depending on the service… Ah, he reasoned, with my gold, I can afford anything – or everything she has on offer.

With a wink in Calypso’s direction, Odysseus trotted away.

* * *

A few hours later, his antsy crew well-sluiced with water and scrubbed with sand, foreskins smegless, Odysseus made sure everyone oiled himself and his buddies top to bottom. Giggles could be heard. Fresh chitons, bought from vendors crowding the beach, were of the latest fashion.

Calypso, canny stock-holder in the Agora’s retail shops, had alerted several salesmen.

Odysseus’ gang looked remarkably better and stank less. Fruit – it freshened breaths and curbed appetites used to hardtack at sea. Loins were primed.

As they scrambled down the gangway, another vendor appeared from nowhere with a bag of pre-made laurel wreaths. “Designed by Antheia herself,” he claimed, “and just what studly boys like – one obol.”

He knew sailors. Or thought so.

Few buyers later, he pulled from his tote, “Gorgeous flower garlands for girly boys. Lots, see!”

Big smiles.

Those sold out at two obols apiece.

For three obols, Odysseus got a particularly pretty headdress of feathers, laurels, andflowers for Calypso – and the gang set off.

***

Their Canasta game over for that decade, ’Thena, Pandora’s hand in one of hers, tall spear in the other, processed with Circe and Medusa to the olive grove for refreshments. “If my olives aren’t quite ripe, I’ll fix that with a spell. What the f…?”

Gobsmacked, ’Thena grasped her spear with a mighty arm.

Circe recognized Odysseus’ crew. Oh yeah! The Hoplites! She snickered, thinking cleverly, Odysseus’ Odyssey – The Sequel!

Medusa’s snakes hissed.

Pandora wished for her box.

A big owl, recently escaped from a far-future movie, stared from a nearby stump.

Strewn about in wild disarray: shredded laurels, olive pits, posies, boys, and more men than she and friends had seen in the last ten years.

How time flew back then! One card game…and this!

Posies, pits, and leaves were not so striking as were grunting men, bouncing butts, swooning boys – four naked limbs to each naked torso at more angles than Pythagoras had theorems. ’Thena’s usually tranquil grove bustled everywhere with bodies bounding. Outcries of joy. Now and then, a scream.

Circe, inwardly rejoicing at the melee, screeched and pointed to the far side – where stood Socrates [Or was it Aristotle? – my memory’s wonky just now. Ed.] with Plato, both draped in their bedsheets (which is why philosophers look alike at a distance), opining learnedly on the action. Phaedrus was there, a few steps back, picking-at-his-backside, craning his neck to espy what he could espy. For all the world, he wished they’d let him join the limp wimps being pelted and pounded in the posterior by powerful pelvises.

Love’s everywhere today but not for me. I hardly ever get funned. Play-Dough’s soft and, most of the time, Socrates just smooches. I long for some mighty man’s life-staff! Say, maybe Aristo…

On the verge of loosening a battle cry, ’Thena struck a pose and raised her spear.

Circe palmed her ears anticipating something as fearsome as last time’s, “Ho-yo-to-ho!” – distant echoes of which, millennia later, would land in the throats of Valkyries.

Pandora peed.

Together, Medusa’s sibilant headgear went PSSSST! – to get the Wise Woman Warrior’s attention.

“Huh?” she swiveled. Eyes blazed.

Forked tongues flicked their little fires.

Tense moments.

Circe said, “’Thena, let’s us girls sit down and watch.” She tucked her peplos and plunked. Pandora, not the smartest, parked in her own puddle, covering it up. Medusa chose a hard place, a rock.

I should never leave home without my battle helmet and shield,’Thena thought, stalling. Her mind went to collect more, better thoughts.

Hoplites’ hips stopped hopping like hares. Rolled off, huffing Attic air.

Platonians, Socratesians, and Aristotelians rolled back, silly grins filling boyishly beard-free faces. Saw their masters turning away – while Phaedrus lingered, tear-cheeked, fingering himself.

Jerkers shuddered and splattered ’Thena’s turf.

Those slurping swallowed or spat on sacred ground.

’Thena herself was about to comment on all the drips, drops, dribs, and drabs when, with a gust of wind, a hand appeared with a card in it:

FRED MERCURY
Mount Helicon Daily Trumpet
We blast the news!

“Hail, ma’am,” said the prissy, lispy voice. “Care to give us a quote? Marvelous, isn’t it – all that free fertilizer for your grove? From way up yonder, I spotted your idea being – what’s that lovely word? – promulgated. No wonder they say you’re wise as an owl – like that one over there.”

“Who?”

He pointed, “Over there.”

She might have delivered one of her mighty smackeroos to the reporter’s probably fragile jaw, but her thoughts gathered divinely. Nick of time, too. Saved Freddy a whopping tab from Hippocrates’ Surgical Group.

Maiden that she was, ’Thena blushed. The press. Flattered, she mustered her breath. And began.

“What you see before you is a place for refreshment. Always has been. I brought these lovelies with me” – she indicated Pandora, Circe, and Medusa – “for just that. On our way over, it struck me with a force like one from dear old Dad’s furrowed brow that, if I developed this grove into a garden, put in a few tapped kegs for our white, rosé, and red wines, one for that awful Egyptian beverage called beer (imports are popular) and fresh-bottled spring water, served leavened, unleavened, and semolina wheat breads and some nice brine-cheeses (plenty of sheep and goats about) and, of course, my prime-quality olives – well, there’d be fine profit to help the local economy. Do you like the name, Olive Garden?”

“Sort of fast food? I like anything fast, but I guess you can tell by the wings on my ankles.” Admiringly, Fred turned them. “Fast food, how appealing is that?” He postured, “So, your magic conjured this mob to fertilize the soil?”

“Not exactly. In truth” – she aimed for a semblance of modesty – “the boys were already here. Odysseus, a buddy, I mean collaborator – you must remember (everybody does) from the disturbances at Troy – was docked nearby. The men are his – in need of shore leave. I took pity on…”

Medusa’s snakes were bouncing like bedsprings. Her mouth gaped as she started to utter well-chosen, malicious corrections. Dangerously, she thought, Cunt! – always craves credit for her magnanimous pretenses!

’Thena’s heel ground the gorgon’s big toe against its hard place.

“Ouch!”

“Keep-your-fat-mouth-shut-or-I’ll-pull-your-snakes-off,” Medusa was admonished in mimetic silence. Pandora bent to make the hurt less by a kiss. Circe gurgled. Or chortled. Hard to tell.

“…took pity on their plight, sent Odysseus off on a date with Calliope, and welcomed them speedily to our festivity here. Thus were all these people provided recreation and my garden was nourished, planted with seed of two sorts, a-n-d…”

“Wondrous,” Fred piped up. How she goes on!“I’ve heard directly from the horse’s…I mean, from your own lips, all I need. Got to get to the office and dictate. No need to worry about a thing. I’ll make up any quotes this story needs. Our butch copy editor has flair. Toodle-oo!”

He flitted.

Just then, Calliope approached, dragging unconscious Odysseus over the grass by his ankles. “Give us a hand here!”

Sympathetic, Pandora leapt up. I can help and my dress will dry. Filled with hope, she scurried across the verdure to assist.

“Umph! He’s heavy.”

“Tell me about it,” Calliope puffed.

“Is he dead?”

“Might as well be, but for breathing.”

Together, they managed.

’Thena crossed her arms and laughed. “Wore him out did you?”

“He’s out of practice. Way out of practice,” Calliope’s voice trailed. She held up her trophy, a bag heavy with golden Trojan trinkets. “However…”

Circe nudged Medusa, who cracked one of her rare smiles. Together, they looked at their hostess to chant, as they clapped, “Give-him-back. Give-him-back. Give-him...”

“Good idea!” interrupted ’Thena. A finger in each side of her embouchure, she whistled with the intimidating force of steam [To be discovered, the moment was that prophetic. Ed.].

Hoplites’ heads hurried her way. Eyes bugged. Their hero, sex-pooped!

“Listen up, men!” she whooped. “You’ve enjoyed the limits of my hospitality and protection today. See to your leader’s needs. Take him with you and clear out. No more trampling my turf, wolfing down my fruit, embarrassing my noble lady friends. Scram, the lot of you! Begone!”

Pandora and Calliope transferred Odysseus’ moaning carcass to the satiated mariners who bore him off with ceremony – solemn, they were so fatigued.

Somebody whistled a happy tune.

To the cute boys still lolling about, she waggled her spear and roared, “You, too. Home to your moms – and don’t be slow about it! Wash well!”

Quite a fine finish, ’Thena thought smugly before looking skyward.

Iris peeked from a fluffy cloud, smiled as peace settled the scene. “That,” she said to no one in particular, “turned out well.” With a wave, she cast one of her loveliest rainbow arcs over the area and caused to rise beneath its pastel colors these magical words:

THE END