Aaron Simon

Gods of Portland

 

 

"Why is there shouting coming from your apartment?" Brittany, the slim woman in the red dress, redder lipstick, and blonde hair, asked. "I thought you lived alone."

 

"Ah," said James, who wore a rough approximation of smart casual. "That's something I should warn you about."

 

They stood in the parking lot in front of his building, a one-story, yellow-painted structure that was subdivided into eight modestly-sized apartments on a nice, quiet street in North Tabor. Brittany, looking closer at the building, noticed that the apartments on either side of James' apartment looked like they were empty. This was strange. The shouting continued. She waited for the explanation, even though it was getting cold.

 

"So, I don't have roommates in the traditional sense," James continued. He scratched the back of his shaved head.

 

"This isn't a cooperative living thing, is it? I know we're in Portland, and this is kind of a hippie city, but that's weird." She furrowed her brow, looked back at James. "Especially in an apartment this size."

 

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. In fact, just the opposite. They're incredibly uncooperative." James cleared his throat and thought, screw it. He'd never been able to find an artful way of telling anyone his situation before, why not just outright say it. "I," he said, "live in an apartment infested by no less than three, but no more than five, minor deities born of the infatuations and fixations of the young professional community of Portland."

 

Brittany shook her head, took a deep breath, looked up into the night sky, and said, "I knew I should have moved to Seattle."

 

"Can I at least drive you back?"

 

She then turned right around, unlocked her smartphone, and called an Uber car before walking off westward. James took that as a no.

 

#

 

He still lived there because he paid $200 a month. In this market, it was a token payment, and everyone involved knew it. The building was on the registrar's list of historical landmarks: In the 1920s, an author lived there while writing a book about race relations in Oregon, and then went and blew his head off with a shotgun. Whatever committee determined these things figured that was enough to justify the building being a monument to the arts.

 

James turned out to be the first tenant willing to put up with a whole lot of shit to stay in a cheap apartment in Portland.

But now, it was time for a change. Drastic measures. He'd heard through a friend of a friend that there was an exterminator named Mike. Mike had a certain fixation with the occult, and he might know a thing or two about how to handle the gods. James, usually one to scoff at this sort of thing, called up the exterminator, who, at 9 o'clock on a Sunday morning, rolled up in a white van with the company logo painted on the side, stepped out in a conservative, clean forest green jumpsuit, and shook James' hand. He had a trimmed goatee-mustache combo and a face that looked like he was honest, but would beat the shit out of someone if it came down to it. He looked at the building and said, "Ants, huh? I don't normally deal with ants, and there are people who are better at ants than I am. I can refer you to them, if you'd like."

 

This was a good sign, James thought. This Mike guy, he was honest. Didn't seem like the type who'd be concerned with the occult, but you could never tell in this city. "No," James said. "Not ants. Come inside. You'll see."

 

Mike cleared his throat. "I should warn you, I have a knife. I'm good with knives."

 

James put up his hands. "No, nothing weird. You just have to see it for yourself."

 

Mike nodded and followed James into his apartment.

 

The flooring was wood, Mike noticed. Termites? Maybe. The place was neat enough, so it wasn't mice or rats. He would also bet that it wasn't raccoons.

 

"JAMES," shouted the voice from the radiator on the wall near the kitchen, "I, THERMOS, LORD OF HEATERS, HAVE GIVEN YOU HEATING. AM I NOT MERCIFUL?"

 

Mike tilted his head to the side. He looked up. There were rows and rows of succulents hanging from pots, which were hanging from hooks nailed into the ceiling. "NEWCOMER, I AM SUCCULUS!" The plants shouted, twitching with each word. "BOW AT MY ALTAR, FOR I GIVE JAMES AN AFFORDABLE, LOW-MAINTENANCE FORM OF HOUSE DECORATION. I DO NOT NEED WATER, FOR I AM A DESERT PLANT, AND DURABLE."

 

"Huh," said Mike.

 

A third voice chimed in, this one frantic, higher in pitch, and a bit pleading, "CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS? HARDWOOD FLOORS, AND AT THIS PRICE? YOU DON'T FIND THIS ANYWHERE IN THIS CITY. I TELL JAMES EVERY DAY, HE SHOULD WORSHIP ME. I MEAN COME ON, HARDWOOD FLOORING? AND AT THIS PRICE? DO YOU KNOW HOW RARE THIS IS? ANYWHERE, I MEAN. NOT JUST IN PORTLAND."

 

"SILENCE," shouted Thermos, the heater god, "I GIVE JAMES HEAT. THIS MORE IMPORTANT THAN HARDWOOD FLOORING."

 

The succulents snorted. "EVER HEAR OF A THING CALLED LAYERS?" Shout-asked the succulents. "THAT'S YOUR HEATING RIGHT THERE. LAYERS. BUT YOU TRY FINDING A MORE EFFICIENT WAY TO GET ACROSS THAT YOU HAVE AN EYE FOR DESIGN THAN SUCCULENTS! I DARE YOU. YOU CAN'T FIND ANY."

 

Then a bizarre, scratching, wheezing sound. Mike traced the noise to a record player set up on an out-of-place, ornate end table by the IKEA couch opposite a media center. "VINYL RECORD PLAYER IS WHAT YOU'RE LOOKING FOR, SUCCULUS. THAT'S HOW YOU GET THAT IDEA ACROSS. NOTHING SAYS SOPHISTICATION LIKE COLTRANE ON VINYL. LISTEN."

Then, a record appeared out of thin air in the middle of the apartment, between Mike and James, and hovered over to the record player, which then began playing the album. The opening notes of Giant Steps gave the voices a pause, and in that pause,

James pointed to the door, and nodded.

 

Mike led the way. In the parking lot, as the voices continued to shout inside the apartment, Mike said, "So."

 

James said, "That's what I'm living with."

 

Mike had seen this before. People who had decided to be weekend warriors and start channeling forces beyond their comprehension, inviting in all manner of beasts from poltergeists to minotaurs, but this was clearly not James' fault. The exterminator cleared his throat and said, "I don't know that I can help you. But I can bring someone who can."

 

"Oh?"

 

Mike nodded. Solemnly. "But know that this might not work. And if it doesn't, then you might have more of these gods in your apartment, and they might not be benevolent."

 

"Have you been in there?" James asked. "They shout all the time. Do you know when the last time I got a good night's sleep was? Before I moved in. Thermos won't shut up during the winter, and Succulus just screams all night about how he doesn't need much light to thrive. Anything is better than this."

 

"Buyer beware," said Mike.

 

#

 

The exterminator returned in a week, and James was outside waiting for him. Inside, Thermos and Auditorio were arguing about King Crimson's impact on Pink Floyd for the twentieth time. They claimed that if James would worship them enough, then they'd be quiet, but after two years of living in the apartment and trying to worship the gods, all James believed was that they had oversized egos.

 

The front doors of the van opened. Mike got out of the driver's side, this time wearing a black utilikilt, facial war paint accented by what James strongly suspected were runes, and a Metalocalypse t-shirt. The other man was different. He didn't step out of the van's passenger seat so much as dismount. He cleared six-five, was incredibly lanky, was dressed in a velvet suit that was overlaid by a green velvet cloak. On his face was a single symbol, an ankh, tattooed onto his forehead in a rich purple. His eyes were equally purple, but James suspected those were contacts. He scanned the parking lot like someone surveying a battlefield, looked to Mike, and nodded. The two walked to James and stopped a couple feet away.

 

"James," Mike said, "this is Ezio."

 

James stopped himself from asking, "Like the guy in Assassin's Creed?" Instead, he said, "Nice to meet you," and extended his hand.

 

Ezio looked at the hand as if he'd never seen something like it before and said, "If I were to make contact with you, your chakras would release the energy stored from all dimensions and you would burst like a gigantic, blood-filled balloon." He spoke like someone doing a very bad Bela Lugosi impression.

 

James turned to Mike, whose face showed no reaction to the statement. Then, he retracted his hand and said, "Well, thanks for coming out. Should I show you the apartment?"

 

Ezio looked at the building, and said, "I believe I will be able to find my way into your domicile." He turned his attention to James. "You will not enter the building while I am at work. If you do, your chakras will release the energy stored from all dimensions, and you shall burst, like a tick that consumes too much blood."

 

"Okay," James said. "Anything else?"

 

"You may hear the voices of those in your life who have long passed. Do not listen to them, and do not go to their aid. They are but shades who exist as a pale reflection of their former selves, and only those who have undergone deep meditation and training, such as I, can counter their calls, and survive an encounter." Here, he pulled a card out from his inner left jacket pocket with his right hand and held it out to James.

 

James took it. It read, in Papyrus typeface, very big at the top: Ezio Del Inferno. Below that was written, "Exorcist, Summoner, Notary." James looked up at Ezio. "Notary?"

 

"It is a bonus to my regular services. Some find it helpful. Some do not. My contact information is emblazoned in invisible ink in the red square in the middle of the card. Do you see the red square?"

 

James looked at the card again. There was a red square. "Yeah."

 

"Good," he said, drawing out the word like he was about to attempt to seduce someone. "If, in two weeks, you have not seen or heard from your microgod infestation, put exactly three drops of aqua vitae in the middle of the square to reveal my phone number. Then you will call me and we shall arrange for payment."

 

"Honor system?"

 

"Oh, I shall know," Ezio said. James sensed that the man was trying to smile, but that he was physically incapable of it. "Now," he continued, "I must begin. Mike of the Wolf, please bring me my implements and lend a hand, won't you?"

 

Mike nodded and went back to the van as Ezio went into James' apartment. For the briefest of moments, as the door opened, James heard all four of the present gods shouting at once, Thermos and Auditorio the loudest, but Succulus and Ted - the hardwood god - competing with gusto. Ezio winced for a blink of the eye before entering.

 

James caught Mike as he passed by. "So what should I do?"

 

"Oh, right," Mike said. He cleared his throat and said, "There's a fantastic Thai place just down the road. You know it?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Go there, get something to eat. Tell them I sent you. Relax for an hour and a half or so. Then come back. We should be wrapping up about then."

 

"In an hour and a half?"

 

"Ezio is very efficient."

 

#

 

James had time enough to eat and get coffee before returning to his place just about at the hour and a half mark, walking up just as Mike and Ezio walked out of his apartment. The lights inside were flickering, which James thought might be a bad sign.

He crossed the first couple of parking spaces in the lot and said, "So how'd it go?"

 

Ezio looked up. Where before there was a man who oozed smug confidence in his prowess over the arcane and the occult, there was now a man who was shattered. Neurotic. Ever self-effacing. In short, he looked how Woody Allen felt. "I can't—I just. It."

He shook his head. "It's no good in there. Those things, they're crazy. They're insane. They don't even have the common decency to leave. When someone makes it abundantly clear that you are not welcome, what do you do? You leave. Not those guys."

 

James said nothing, but turned to Mike, who looked more embarrassed than distraught. "Go in the van, Ezio. I'll be along shortly."

 

Ezio obeyed.

 

"Look," Mike said. "I feel bad about this. He was my recommendation, and he couldn't do anything."

 

"What happened?"

 

"He couldn't get a word in."

 

"Sorry?"

 

"A good exorcism involves establishing a rapport with the entity to be exorcised. You have to convince them that it's for the best to move on. Ezio was the best at that precisely because he was such a weird person. Other people couldn't stand him, but it turned out that spirits understood him perfectly. But those things," he pointed at James' apartment, "they wouldn't let him get a word in. They just kept shouting about artisanal wood and bespoke succulent plants, which makes no sense at all."

 

"Sometimes I'll watch an episode of Portlandia and Succulus will start laughing shrilly, just repeating random words she heard.

It's a little weird."

 

"There's nothing little about that. You have a fucked up situation, my friend."

 

"But is it doomed?"

 

"Oh, no. Not at all. Just a speedbump. Look, I'll make sure Ezio doesn't charge you for this. He didn't fulfil his end of the bargain, so you don't owe him anything. I'll do some research and get back to you. We'll square away your god problem. No worries about that."

 

Mike said some more about his personal guarantee and his word being a bond, and it was clear that he was just as shaken by the gods as Ezio, but a little more hesitant to show it. James didn't understand why. The gods were certainly annoying, sure, and it wasn't that they were bad gods, or malevolent, just very, very loud. So, James shrugged and said he understood and that he'd be looking forward to hearing back from Mike. The exterminator nodded and walked back to his van.

 

James faced the apartment and wondered what this would mean for his relationship with the gods. Would they start acting malevolent now that he'd tried to have them evicted? In the Bible, that sort of action usually resulted in being turned into salt.

He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and walked into the quietest apartment he'd ever been in. There was not a sound in there, and the only sign that he hadn't walked into a still life was the succulents swaying in the breeze from the small draft from the windows. James cleared his throat again for good measure and said, "Hey."

 

One of the heaters kicked on and Thermos said, quietly, "James, we need to talk."

 

"Look," said Succulus from the potted plants, "if you wanted us to be better roommates, you could have just asked. Bringing over that nutcase was—well, we expected better from you, James."

 

"You always were such a nice guy," said Auditorio, barely audible over Tom Waits' Small Change. "And now this? Now you bring an exterminator?"

 

James had no response for this save: "Uh."

 

"We just tried to be welcoming, James," said Ted. "We've been here long before you. That writer fellow never gave us this problem."

 

"The one who killed himself?" asked James.

 

"He killed himself?" asked Ted.

 

"Yes," said James. "Everyone thinks this building is haunted."

 

"HAUNTED?" roared Thermos. "WE ARE NOT LOWLY GHOSTS WHO WOULD STOOP TO—"

 

"Thermos," said Succulus, "remember our discussion. No godvoice."

 

"Oh," said Thermos, "sorry."

 

"James," continued Succulus, "have you considered that, perhaps, calling an exorcist would be kind of a dick move?"

James paused. He cleared his throat, "Well…"

 

"No," said Succulus, "there's no need to respond. We need to convene on a higher plane and figure out how we feel about your actions. Frankly, we're all in a tough spot right now, and the last thing we need is a human being passive aggressive."

 

"What?" asked James.

 

"The writer was never passive aggressive," said Ted.

 

"The writer killed himself," said James.

 

"Well," said Ted, "he was always kind of sensitive, that one. You play one practical joke, throw one splinter in a guy's dick, and he goes and kills himself."

 

James was speechless.

 

"Ted, Auditorio, Thermos," said Succulus. "Let's discuss this on a plane where the human can't hear us."

 

And suddenly, there was silence. Tom Waits shut off. The floorboards creaked once. The heaters shut off. The plants stopped acting like there was a breeze in the room. James stood there, waiting.

 

#

 

Wherever the gods were, they weren't at his apartment—he figured that out after a week and a half of silence. At first, he had no idea what to do with his newfound freedom. For the first time, he was not afraid to have people over. So, he held a party. He invited his friends, secure in the fact that, this time, they would not be driven out by a shouting heater, or tickled by a succulent.

 

He called Mike to tell him the good news. Mike sounded disappointed. "What am I going to do with all of this Kabbalah commentary?" he asked. James had no answer for that, but wished him well.

 

The one thing he was worried about was the rent going up. So, he bought a recording of people shouting at each other from a very concerning website and played it at random intervals at full volume through the day.

 

It was, he thought, a return to sanity. The universe was aligning itself after a long period of things being slightly off. And now, he thought, life would be, well, life instead of a struggle.

 

Then, one afternoon, he walked into the apartment, turned off the recording of shouting, and heard the heaters kick on. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. "No," he said. He looked up. The succulents started rocking back and forth. The record player—which now lived in the corner— actually levitated, placed itself on top of the coffee table in his living room, and started playing Camille Saint-Saëns' "Danse Macabre." "No," James repeated.

 

"JAMES," shouted Thermos.

 

"No," James said again, a hint of crying entering his voice.

 

"WE HAVE RETURNED FROM THE GODCLAVE."

 

"That was my idea," said Ted. "The godclave. Thermos wanted to call it the godpod, but that was stupid. Godclave is brilliant."

 

"AND WE HAVE JUDGED THAT YOU ARE IN DESPERATE NEED OF A LESSON IN MANNERS."

 

"THUS," shouted Succulus, "WE WILL REMAIN IN THIS BUILDING AND TEACH YOU MANNERS. YOUR FUTURE OFFSPRING WILL THANK US, JAMES!"

 

"But I don't nee—"

 

"NONSENSE," responded Thermos. "YOU DO NEED HELP. YOU TRIED TO SIC AN EXTERMINATOR AND AN EXORCIST ON US. DO YOU REMEMBER THAT, JAMES?"

 

"I do remember that, but I just wanted peace of mind. You've been gone three months. Life was normal again. I had a social life. I had sex with a woman in my own apartment!"

 

"JAMES, DID YOU WEAR PROTECTION?" shouted Thermos.

 

"Shut up, man," said James. "All going to go away again? That's not fair."

 

"OH, AND I SUPPOSE," said Auditorio, "THAT ATTEMPTED DEICIDE IS FAIR?"

 

"You're gods! You'd bounce back."

 

"YOU HAVE NO KNOWLEDGE OF THE WAYS OF GODS. CEASE YOUR MICROAGGRESSIONS AND MICROINVALIDATIONS."

 

"THE POINT IS, JAMES," said Thermos, "WE WISH TO HELP. WE ARE GODS. THIS IS WHAT GODS DO. WE HELP YOU PITIFUL HUMANS. WITHOUT US, DO YOU THINK THAT YOU WOULD HAVE DISCOVERED THE SECRET TO COMFORTABLE TEMPERATURES, EVEN IN THE DARKEST DEPTHS OF WINTER?"

 

"OR THE SECRETS OF DECORATING YOUR HOUSE OR HOME IN AN AFFORDABLE, LOW-MAINTENANCE WAY?" asked Succulus.

 

"Or flooring?" squeaked Ted, whose godvoice was apparently just not feeling it today.

 

Auditorio just upped the volume on Saint-Saëns.

 

James collapsed on the couch and weighed his options, right then. He looked at his phone and saw that his rent check had just debited from his bank account. It was at that moment that James learned his tolerance for cheap rent outweighed his intolerance for shitty flatmates.

 

 

 

Aaron Simon lives in Portland, where he spends his mornings writing and editing, his days telling people how to reset their passwords, and his evenings exploring how much beer he can drink. He enjoys frowning at people talking too loudly in coffee shops, reading novels with a humorous bent to them, and blaring Beethoven's symphonies. He occasionally co-hosts readings with the Southeast Portland Writers Collective.