SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Originally published by Galaxy’s Edge, 2016

Zeus sat on his shitty beige sofa in his shitty beige condo in his shitty beige retirement community. This was what the Court-appointed therapist had recommended—to think of this parole as a fresh start, and to enjoy retirement on Earth. Everything around him was fucking beige except for the fake plant from Ikea, which was a mocking shade of unnatural green. He could imagine the smug grin his judge would have if she’d seen this—

But no, he would give this a fair try. He’d promised Dr. Brinkman (formerly Terminus, the Roman god of boundaries) that he would.

The fake leather on the couch squeaked as he shifted. He could do this. He could be calm and serene. He would start by not destroying the couch.

*

“So, how’s it been going so far?” Dr. Brinkman leaned back in his leather burgundy armchair. The former god of boundaries had interesting decor ideas for what a therapist’s office should look like. Most of those ideas were burgundy. That’s what happened when people soaked your statues in blood offerings for thousands of years, thought Zeus.

“It’s fine.”

“How do you like the condo? I furnished it myself. Very normal , you know?”

Zeus pressed his lips together and muttered, “Certainly no Mount Olympus.”

“Well of course not. Those were the Court terms—prison then banishment and elimination of godly responsibilities, or death. Neither of your options included staying on Mount Olympus.” The therapist paged through a yellow notebook.

“Have you been making the amends we talked about? I see here that we said you’d start small.” Brinkman looked at Zeus over his half-moon glasses—a silly affectation for a god who clearly had perfect vision.

“I’ve started, yeah.” Zeus shifted on the prickly burgundy couch. “I’ve gotta tell you, though, Sisyphus was not happy to see me.” He chuckled. “Poor bastard would’ve thrown that rock at me if he could hoist it up that far.”

“That’s good progress, Zeus. What did you tell him?” Scribble scribble, went Brinkman’s stubby yellow pencil.

“That I was sorry, that I’d let the power I had at the time overwhelm my judgment, and that I’m working on the anger issues. You know, the stuff we talked about.” Zeus scratched his beard. “It was…fine.” It was not fine. It was horrible and the only thing that made it worthwhile was that he left without actually removing the onus.

Scribble scribble. “These are certainly healthy steps. Perhaps this week we can work towards making the amends the Court required, to Thor and Raijin and the Thunderbird. Can you think of ways to make amends to the gods you’ve…ah…slain?”

“I dunno. It’s not like I can go down to the underworld to find them. They’re just dead.” Zeus scratched his beard. “Maybe apologize to the other gods from their pantheons?”

“That’s a good thought. I think you should take this week to come up with a plan.”

“It’ll be so humiliating . I’m Zeus , you know. I was king of the gods once.” Zeus caught Brinkman’s eye. “I know I know. You don’t have to say it. I’m working on having a healthier relationship with power, whether I have it or not, keeping my anger in control, blah blah. I’m on it. I’m doing it. New start, new me.”

The therapist nodded. “Now tell me of your life in the retirement complex. How are you settling in?”

Zeus leaned forward. “Oh. Man. Lemme tell you, I never knew old chicks could be so much fun ! They’ll do things the younger girls would never do. Except for Betty Whitshire, that insufferable bitch.You know, she went around spreading all these rumors about me afterwards! And she cheats at shuffleboard.”

“So you’re finding ways to fill your time. Excellent.” Scribble scribble.

“It’s an adjustment, no question. But I’m in it for real, man. A fresh start. No more power-raged Zeus. I’ve got this.”

*

He did not “got this.”

Zeus turned on his air conditioning—the summer was a brutal one—and sat in his shitty fake-leather chair. Why on earth did people retire to a heated hellhole like Florida? He could feel sweat pooling between his bare thighs and the plasticky material.

He picked up the paper stack off of his (shitty, beige) coffee table. Phone bill, $27.95. The phone had been much more useful before the women of the complex started calling him a diseased man-slut, thank you Betty Whitshire. Cable bill, $49.99. He’d gotten into soap operas, and hated himself a little bit more every time he thought about it. Maybe he should cancel his cable. But then he’d really have nothing to do all day. Electric bill, $355.72.

$355.72? What the hell? It wouldn’t completely blow through his monthly stipend, set up by the Court through Mammon, former false god of wealth, but still. He picked up the plastic beige phone on the plastic beige table by the couch, and called the electric company.

He waited more than twenty minutes on hold until a static-fuzzed voice finally came on and crackled, “Thank-you-for-holding-my-name-is-Grace-how-may-I-help-you.”

“My electric bill is too high.” Despite the AC, he was sweating into the plastic earpiece. This place was disgusting.

“What’s your account number?” my-name-is-Grace sounded bored. He read it to her off of the bill.

“Thank you, Mr. Armstrong.” He’d picked the name himself, after Dr. Brinkman had said that names like Mr. Allpowerfulfatherofthegodsdestroyerofmenbringeroflightning would probably make it difficult to assimilate.

Tappa tappa tappa went my-name-is-Grace’s fingers. “I see here that you owe $355.72. This is correct. My records show that we just sent a man out to read your meter last week.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s absurd!”

“Not really sir. It’s a very hot summer and it’s putting a lot of strain on our grid. We’ve asked our customers to cut back on high-power activities like air conditioning unless they absolutely need it, and we see that your usage patterns have remained the same. Prices go up during peak usage periods.”

Zeus wheedled. He charmed. He tried his best banter. It didn’t do one bit of good. My-name-is-Grace wouldn’t budge. He slammed down the plastic phone, cracking the casing. He would go hunt down my-name-is-Grace and fry her with a well-placed bolt of…

No. No, breathe. Dr. Brinkman had always said, “Find an outlet for your anger when you can’t dissolve it.” Fine. A well-placed zap of lightning to the phone did the trick, melting it into a slightly-discolored puddle of plastic around a tangle of metal bits, and he could feel the anger starting to crack away. But $355.72 for the privilege of having his thighs stick to his shitty beige couch? Not in a lifetime.

He considered. If electricity was the problem, this was a thing he could solve. He got in his brown Chevy Geo (Dr. Brinkman had said that anything too flashy would raise eyebrows) and drove to the Home Depot. There, he had a pimple-faced young man with dead eyes explain to him, in excruciating detail, how home wiring worked and how he was connected to his grid. He bought wire-cutters, a voltmeter, pliers, electrical tape, heat-shrink connectors, and a book titled “Do-It-Yourself Electrical Repair: A Shockingly Good Time!” with a cartoon man smiling and getting electrocuted on the cover. All this plus a trunk-sized battery would do the trick.

It took three days, but he disconnected his entire condo from the grid. He smashed holes in the plasterboard walls and yanked out wire after wire—brute force was as good a method as any. Then, in a tangle of metal and plastic, he reconnected everything to the battery, which now sat in the middle of his beige living room instead of the shitty coffee table. The apartment was transformed. Once a beige box of sadness, it was now a rat’s nest of blue and red wire casings which covered the walls (and part of the beige carpet) like ivy with a faint snow of plaster dust.