The Present- Chapel Hill NC
A spectacularly rainy March evening, dug into my favorite booth at the Cave.
A pub inspired by and created in the image of the Cavern Club in Liverpool.. Researching ( read) surfing, eating chips, sipping Guinness and focusing on, pursuing the evasive completion of my back burner book on the extinction of the Olympians.
My buzzing phone on the table derailed my train of thought.
A cryptic No- Reply text “ Meet me at Olympus Restaurant -Now ! . Items of interest for your book -STOP "
“Stop “ I said out loud to no one,
“That’s telegraph talk - weird “
Quickly digging through emails and phone contacts provided no clue; was this a fan of my podcast; “ Secrets of the Cyclades”, all 3 installments? Feeding algorithmic demands for content had been an unexpected organizational and creative roadblock. This was now also a backburner project. Maybe a student from my teaching days, someone from a writer's circle?
I reluctantly packed my bag, surrendered my booth, paid my tab and stepped into the ice cube size downpour drops; the freezing rivulets running down my back.
“ This better be fucking good “ I said, to the rain pulling my coat over my head.
Olympus Restaurant is Chapel Hill's indispensable Greek joint; pummeled oxblood leather booths, flickering fluorescent lighting, greasy tables, constant shouting from the kitchen and home style Greek standards; gyros, souvlaki, avgolemono, excellent fries. and the “ Acropolis” breakfast special; a Greek mixed grill with eggs and papas capable of resuscitating Achilles. College kids packing in after college drinking have been keeping the doors opened since 1966.Open 7 days a week. Closes at 3 ish.
Dripping from the short walk in the rain from the Cave, I scanned the dining room expectantly looking for who, I had no idea.
Popping up in the last booth in the back, a tanned, boney hand attached to an equally slender figure appearing somewhat spectral in the strobe light effect of a particularly bad bulb, waved me over. I hesitated trying to place the hand, of course ridiculous, I know. Gesturing emphatically, the hand drew me closer and I slid, repetitiously into the booth.
His severe but impish face consisted mostly of cheekbones with noticeably oversized black pupils. Not Japanese Anime big but decidedly larger than standard human size. Olive oil skin, statue smooth, betrayed no signs of age beyond thirty or forty. Hip, barbered, spiky, lush white hair struck down in dangly stalagmites over his forehead.
Jack Frost and Willem Defoe’s love child would not look much different. Perhaps this was projecting the familiarity I was feeling. A pair of gold rimmed Ray Ban Aviators and a pack of half empty filterless Lucky Strikes and a brass lighter embossed with a pair of wings sat next to the salt and pepper.
Dressed in textures of black, leather & denim, save for white leather Nikes with a gold swish detail; he sat one leg stuck out like a kickstand on a Vespa. Twirling a filterless Lucky Strike between his fingers like a drummer’s sticks, sporting a rocker’s mischievous arrogance, he did not speak.
Onyx ostrich egg eyes darted about the room and repeated the sweep, reflecting the rain and neon splashed dirty windows. A chill shook me involuntarily.as the eyes inevitably found mine.
Lightning the Lucky, flipping the lid closed with an overly theatrical wrist twist, he took a slow, passionate drag and released the smoke like an uncoiling serpent over our heads.
“ No Smoking ! “ an angry Greek grandmother shaped like an overstuffed easy chair, shouted from behind the bar.
“Recognize me yet ” he said, ignoring the increasingly enraged elderly Greek lady.
“ I must admit I do not ...have we met ? “ not commenting on the Frost- Defoe similarities felt best.
“ Huh - Huh, Indeed we have “ a ominously soft chuckle gave me another shiver.
“ I’ll give you a clue,” he said, leaning forward.
Arching his left eyebrow; he said “ the island of Paros 27 years ago. Windy night… a wayward traveler seeking shelter ..huh huh ?“ trailing off in a rising voice meant to imply I already guessed his identity.
Backpacking through the Cyclades just after graduating college, I had been traveling from Crete to Naxos. Sleeping on my backpack, the noises of the ferry docking and departing, woke me. I ran down the stairs to the deck to see the Naxos dock was already too far for even my best leap.
Semi panicked I pleaded to the crewman operating the landing bridge;
“ Hey I was supposed to get off here at Naxos… can we back up just a minute - I can jump off you don't have to dock “
Staring at me blankly; apparently understanding but resisting reply in the classic Greek facial expression that has to be seen to be understood, He stood, staring expressionless like a great actor who has learned to take his time. Repeating my request with more volume; the universal translator, he interrupted me.
“ ..Not possible “ he said, a cigarette dangling from his lips that was mostly converted to ash but somehow remained intact.
“ What do I do? “ I asked, giving into his setting of the tone.
“ You go Paros “
“ What about Paros ? “
“ You off at Paros next - tonight-go Naxos tomorrow”
“ Paros' ' I don't have anywhere to stay in Paros .... “
Having retracted the landing bridge and flipping his cigarette into the wine dark sea he was already walking back inside.
“ Paros , Naxos, no difference, you go tomorrow. First ferry 9 “
Disappearing back into the small office near the cars and trucks in the cargo hold.
.
Following, I found him watching a rerun of “ Police Woman “ dubbed in greek, on a tiny black and white TV in a smoke filled office full of half empty coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays. Greek eternity lines in gold circled the rims of both the coffee cups and the ashtrays.
“How long to Paros” I asked, resigned to the island ahead. .
“ 30 minutes. Wait down here. You not miss again “ He said gruffly but in a friendlier tone. .
As the ferry backed into Paros around one in the morning, I stumbled down the metal gangway almost blown onto the dock by the powerful winds of October. Scanning the small Plaka for an open taverna or hotel; there were no lights to be seen. After watching the ferry shrink away for a few minutes, I turned to find a room.
At the end of the dock, under one of the few working flickering street lights, the flashing silhouette of a gaunt figure gestured with a small sign; “ Hermes Rooms” written in gold and Greek style lettering translated to English.
“ Do you need room .. huh huh “ ?
Always wary of this scenario, I had to agree, and could not be choosy at this point.
“ Yes I do please “
“ Come “ he said, opening the passenger door of a small rusty Greek car that resembled a VW but was not. The tiny old sea green two door sedan smelled of stale cigarette smoke, coffee and a fish creaked like an old wooden cart as we rattled along without talking.
Pulling up to a white washed house with cracking plaster and exposed ocher bricks, the clattering fake VW screeched into the crushed oyster shell driveway, Shaking and puffing a few times like a clown car, it finally settled down and a long hissing began issuing from under the hood.
“Come “ he said, gesturing to the cerulean blue weathered front door.
Inside the dimly lit hallway I could see his singularly peculiar face. He looked like the Cold Miser and a gecko had been somehow combined, perhaps in the machine that fused Jeff Goldberg with a fly. Thick shocks of snowy white hair hanging over his mostly black pupil filled eyes, provided a kind of hair cave from which he squinted out.
Pushing open an hand hewn creaky door with a weird courtly bow; he gestured to a small room, with a single bed,nightstand, a tiny lamp and a travel agent type poster of Mt Olympus on the wall by the window.
“ You’ll be comfortable here huh huh “ , His voice rising to an almost falsetto.
“ Yes for sure, thank you very much.” He stood without moving.
“Well I’m really beat - Good night” I said, wanting him to leave.
Nodding his comprehension of my wish to get to sleep, he began backing out of the room slowly, tilting his head almost all the way to the left. A curious lizardly motion. A rising “ mmmmm”, the sound someone makes when they have something to say but not quite sure how to say it.yet, slipped past his thin cracked lips.
“ Mmmmmm….. why are you here… in Paros… in Greece? ”
My brow wrinkled involuntarily, and my head drew back needing more distance to focus on his wildly angular face. This struck me as a bizarre question in an overly prying tone, primarily due to the increasingly undeniable fact that he was so damn odd.
Tall and skinny he projected a high pitched, nervous energy. Wearing a workman’s denim shirt, a pack of cigarettes bulging through the pocket, and a gold watch on a chain like a ship's captain, swinging from the belt loop of his ancient threadbare jeans. A yellowing white scarf stamped with little pairs of wings in faded indigo, and strappy leather sandals, completed his salty, beat attire.
“Paros … easy, I slept through the stop at Naxos and I’m just here until the ferry in the morning. And Greece, to finally be here and not just read about it ! “
I said, surprising myself with enthusiasm despite my exhaustion and not wanting to sound too engaging.
“ And I'm working on a book about the Olympians, the Greek Gods. A kind of where are they now kind of thing - like they were a great rock band that broke up “ Surprising myself with the book description, which had just come to me.
“ Really “ he said .seemingly not surprised but I could tell the band analogy was lost on him.
“I’ll be back in the morning to take you to the ferry. Good Night huh huh “ .
Falling into the tiny wood bed with the old patchwork quilt and literally passing out, the wind hissing through the cracks in the sill, I dreamt of disembodied feet running through sand. I had no idea what the hell the dream meant but I was still pondering it over coffee in the morning in the little cafe next door.
The sheer realness and the fact I had remembered the dream in technicolor; like a scene from Spartacus, made me anxious felt the feet were running towards me with hoary strange news, that I had known, but forgotten.