American Gods

  The flight attendant went away.

  The man in the pale suit in the seat beside Shadow tapped his watch with his fingernail. It was a black Rolex. “You’re late,” said the man, and he grinned a huge grin with no warmth in it at all.

  “Sorry?”

  “I said, you’re late.”

  The flight attendant handed Shadow a glass of beer.

  For one moment, he wondered if the man was crazy, and then he decided he must have been referring to the plane, waiting for one last passenger. “Sorry if I held you up,” he said, politely. “You in a hurry?”

  The plane backed away from the gate. The flight attendant came back and took away Shadow’s beer. The man in the pale suit grinned at her and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll hold onto this tightly,” and she let him keep his glass of Jack Daniel’s, while protesting, weakly, that it violated airline regulations. (“Let me be the judge of that, m’dear.”)

  “Time is certainly of the essence,” said the man. “But no. I was merely concerned that you would not make the plane.”

  “That was kind of you.”

  The plane sat restlessly on the ground, engines throbbing, aching to be off.

  “Kind my ass,” said the man in the pale suit. “I’ve got a job for you, Shadow.”

  A roar of engines. The little plane jerked forward, pushing Shadow back into his seat. Then they were airborne, and the airport lights were falling away below them. Shadow looked at the man in the seat next to him.

  His hair was a reddish gray; his beard, little more than stubble, was grayish red. A craggy, square face with pale gray eyes. The suit looked expensive, and was the color of melted vanilla ice cream. His tie was dark gray silk, and the tie pin was a tree, worked in silver: trunk, branches, and deep roots.

  He held his glass of Jack Daniel’s as they took off, and did not spill a drop.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what kind of job?” he asked.

  “How do you know who I am?”

  The man chuckled. “Oh, it’s the easiest thing in the world to know what people call themselves. A little thought, a little luck, a little memory. Ask me what kind of job.”

  “No,” said Shadow. The attendant brought him another glass of beer, and he sipped at it.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m going home. I’ve got a job waiting for me there. I don’t want any other job.”

  The man’s craggy smile did not change, outwardly, but now he seemed, actually, amused. “You don’t have a job waiting for you at home,” he said. “You have nothing waiting for you there. Meanwhile, I am offering you a perfectly legal job—good money, limited security, remarkable fringe benefits. Hell, if you live that long, I could throw in a pension plan. You think maybe you’d like one of them?”

  Shadow said, “You must have seen my name on the side of my bag.”

  The man said nothing.

  “Whoever you are,” said Shadow, “you couldn’t have known I was going to be on this plane. I didn’t know I was going to be on this plane, and if my plane hadn’t been diverted to St. Louis, I wouldn’t have been. My guess is you’re a practical joker. Maybe you’re hustling something. But I think maybe we’ll have a better time if we end this conversation here.”

  The man shrugged.

  Shadow picked up the in-flight magazine. The little plane jerked and bumped through the sky, making it harder to concentrate. The words floated through his mind like soap bubbles, there as he read them, gone completely a moment later.

  The man sat quietly in the seat beside him, sipping his Jack Daniel’s. His eyes were closed.

  Shadow read the list of in-flight music channels available on transatlantic flights, and then he was looking at the map of the world with red lines on it that showed where the airline flew. Then he had finished reading the magazine, and, reluctantly, he closed the cover and slipped it into the pocket.

  The man opened his eyes. There was something strange about his eyes, Shadow thought. One of them was a darker gray than the other. He looked at Shadow. “By the way,” he said, “I was sorry to hear about your wife, Shadow. A great loss.”

  Shadow nearly hit the man, then. Instead he took a deep breath. (“Like I said, don’t piss off those bitches in airports,” said Johnnie Larch, in the back of his mind, “or they’ll haul your sorry ass back here before you can spit.”) He counted to five.

  “So was I,” he said.

  The man shook his head. “If it could but have been any other way,” he said, and sighed.

  “She died in a car crash,” said Shadow. “There are worse ways to die.”

  The man shook his head, slowly. For a moment it seemed to Shadow as if the man was insubstantial; as if the plane had suddenly become more real, while his neighbor had become less so.

  “Shadow,” he said. “It’s not a joke. It’s not a trick. I can pay you better than any other job you find will pay you. You’re an ex-con. There won’t be a long line of people elbowing each other out of the way to hire you.”

  “Mister whoever-the-fuck you are,” said Shadow, just loud enough to be heard over the din of the engines, “there isn’t enough money in the world.”

  The grin got bigger. Shadow found himself remembering a PBS show about chimpanzees. The show claimed that when apes and chimps smile it’s only to bare their teeth in a grimace of hate or aggression or terror. When a chimp grins, it’s a threat.

  “Work for me. There may be a little risk, of course, but if you survive you can have whatever your heart desires. You could be the next king of America. Now,” said the man, “who else is going to pay you that well? Hmm?”

  “Who are you?” asked Shadow.

  “Ah, yes. The age of information—young lady, could you pour me another glass of Jack Daniel’s? Easy on the ice—not, of course, that there has ever been any other kind of age. Information and knowledge: two currencies that have never gone out of style.”

  “I said, who are you?”

  “Let’s see. Well, seeing that today certainly is my day—why don’t you call me Wednesday? Mister Wednesday. Although given the weather, it might as well be Thursday, eh?”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Work for me long enough and well enough,” said the man in the pale suit, “and I may even tell you that. There. Job offer. Think about it. No one expects you to say yes immediately, not knowing whether you’re leaping into a piranha tank or a pit of bears. Take your time.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat.

  “I don’t think so,” said Shadow. “I don’t like you. I don’t want to work with you.”

  “Like I say,” said the man, without opening his eyes, “don’t rush into it. Take your time.”

  The plane landed with a bump, and a few passengers got off. Shadow looked out of the window: it was a little airport in the middle of nowhere, and there were still two little airports to go before Eagle Point. Shadow transferred his glance to the man in the pale suit—Mr. Wednesday? He seemed to be asleep.

  Impulsively, Shadow stood up, grabbed his bag, and stepped off the plane, down the steps onto the slick, wet tarmac, walking at an even pace toward the lights of the terminal. A light rain spattered his face.

  Before he went inside the airport building, he stopped, and turned, and watched. No one else got off the plane. The ground crew rolled the steps away, the door was closed, and it took off. Shadow walked inside and he rented what turned out, when he got to the parking lot, to be a small red Toyota.

  Shadow unfolded the map they’d given him. He spread it out on the passenger’s seat. Eagle Point was about 250 miles away.

  The storms had passed, if they had come this far. It was cold and clear. Clouds scudded in front of the moon, and for a moment Shadow could not be certain whether it was the clouds or the moon that were moving.

  He drove north for an hour and a half.

  It was getting late. He was hungry, and when he realized how hungry he really was, he pulled off at the next exit and drove into the to
wn of Nottamun (pop. 1301). He filled the gas tank at the Amoco and asked the bored woman at the cash register where he could get something to eat.

  “Jack’s Crocodile Bar,” she told him. “It’s west on County Road N.”

  “Crocodile Bar?”

  “Yeah. Jack says they add character.” She drew him a map on the back of a mauve flyer, which advertised a chicken roast for the benefit of a young girl who needed a new kidney. “He’s got a couple of crocodiles, a snake, one a them big lizard things.”

  “An iguana?”

  “That’s him.”

  Through the town, over a bridge, on for a couple of miles, and he stopped at a low, rectangular building with an illuminated Pabst sign.

  The parking lot was half empty.

  Inside the air was thick with smoke and “Walking After Midnight” was playing on the jukebox. Shadow looked around for the crocodiles, but could not see them. He wondered if the woman in the gas station had been pulling his leg.

  “What’ll it be?” asked the bartender.

  “House beer, and a hamburger with all the trimmings. Fries.”

  “Bowl of chili to start? Best chili in the state.”

  “Sounds good,” said Shadow. “Where’s the rest room?”

  The man pointed to a door in the corner of the bar. There was a stuffed alligator head mounted on the door. Shadow went through the door.

  It was a clean, well-lit rest room. Shadow looked around the room first; force of habit. (“Remember, Shadow, you can’t fight back when you’re pissing,” Low Key said, low key as always, in the back of his head.) He took the urinal stall on the left. Then he unzipped his fly and pissed for an age, feeling relief. He read the yellowing press clipping framed at eye level, with a photo of Jack and two alligators.

  There was a polite grunt from the urinal immediately to his right, although he had heard nobody come in.

  The man in the pale suit was bigger standing than he had seemed sitting on the plane beside Shadow. He was almost Shadow’s height, and Shadow was a big man. He was staring ahead of him. He finished pissing, shook off the last few drops, and zipped himself up.

  Then he grinned, like a fox eating shit from a barbed-wire fence. “So,” said Mr. Wednesday, “you’ve had time to think, Shadow. Do you want a job?”

  SOMEWHERE IN AMERICA

  Los Angeles. 11:26 P.M.

  In a dark red room—the color of the walls is close to that of raw liver—is a tall woman dressed cartoonishly in too-tight silk shorts, her breasts pulled up and pushed forward by the yellow blouse tied beneath them. Her black hair is piled high and knotted on top of her head. Standing beside her is a short man wearing an olive T-shirt and expensive blue jeans. He is holding, in his right hand, a wallet and a Nokia mobile phone with a red-white-and-blue faceplate.

  The red room contains a bed, upon which are white satin-style sheets and an oxblood bedspread. At the foot of the bed is a small wooden table, upon which is a small stone statue of a woman with enormous hips, and a candleholder.

  The woman hands the man a small red candle. “Here,” she says. “Light it.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes,” she says, “If you want to have me.”

  “I shoulda just got you to suck me off in the car.”

  “Perhaps,” she says. “Don’t you want me?” Her hand runs up her body from thigh to breast, a gesture of presentation, as if she were demonstrating a new product.

  Red silk scarves over the lamp in the corner of the room make the light red.

  The man looks at her hungrily, then he takes the candle from her and pushes it into the candleholder. “You got a light?”

  She passes him a book of matches. He tears off a match, lights the wick: it flickers and then burns with a steady flame, which gives the illusion of motion to the faceless statue beside it, all hips and breasts.

  “Put the money beneath the statue.”

  “Fifty bucks.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Now, come love me.”

  He unbuttons his blue jeans and removes his olive T-shirt. She massages his white shoulders with her brown fingers; then she turns him over and begins to make love to him with her hands, and her fingers, and her tongue.

  It seems to him that the lights in the red room have been dimmed, and the sole illumination comes from the candle, which burns with a bright flame.

  “What’s your name?” he asks her.

  “Bilquis,” she tells him, raising her head. “With a Q.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind.”

  He is gasping now. “Let me fuck you,” he says. “I have to fuck you.”

  “Okay, hon,” she says. “We’ll do it. But will you do something for me, while you’re doing it?”

  “Hey,” he says, suddenly tetchy, “I’m paying you, you know.”

  She straddles him, in one smooth movement, whispering, “I know, honey, I know, you’re paying me, and I mean, look at you, I should be paying you, I’m so lucky . . .”

  He purses his lips, trying to show that her hooker talk is having no effect on him, he can’t be taken; that she’s a street whore, for Chrissakes, while he’s practically a producer, and he knows all about last-minute ripoffs, but she doesn’t ask for money. Instead she says, “Honey, while you’re giving it to me, while you’re pushing that big hard thing inside of me, will you worship me?”

  “Will I what?”

  She is rocking back and forth on him: the engorged head of his penis is being rubbed against the wet lips of her vulva.

  “Will you call me goddess? Will you pray to me? Will you worship me with your body?”

  He smiles. Is that all she wants? We’ve all got our kinks, at the end of the day. “Sure,” he says. She reaches her hand between her legs and slips him inside her.

  “Is that good, is it, goddess?” he asks, gasping.

  “Worship me, honey,” says Bilquis, the hooker.

  “Yes,” he says. “I worship your breasts and your hair and your cunt. I worship your thighs and your eyes and your cherry-red lips . . .”

  “Yes . . .” she croons, riding him.

  “I worship your nipples, from which the milk of life flows. Your kiss is honey and your touch scorches like fire, and I worship it.” His words are becoming more rhythmic now, keeping pace with the thrust and roll of their bodies. “Bring me your lust in the morning, and bring me relief and your blessing in the evening. Let me walk in dark places unharmed and let me come to you once more and sleep beside you and make love with you again. I worship you with everything that is within me, and everything inside my mind, with everywhere I’ve been and my dreams and my . . .” he breaks off, panting for breath. “What are you doing? That feels amazing. So amazing . . .” and he looks down at his hips, at the place where the two of them conjoin, but her forefinger touches his chin and pushes his head back, so he is looking only at her face and at the ceiling once again.

  “Keep talking, honey,” she says. “Don’t stop. Doesn’t it feel good?”

  “It feels better than anything has ever felt,” he tells her, meaning it as he says it. “Your eyes are stars, burning in the, shit, the firmament, and your lips are gentle waves that lick the sand, and I worship them,” and now he’s thrusting deeper and deeper inside her: he feels electric, as if his whole lower body has become sexually charged: priapic, engorged, blissful.

  “Bring me your gift,” he mutters, no longer knowing what he is saying, “your one true gift, and make me always this . . . always so . . . I pray . . . I . . .”

  And then the pleasure crests into orgasm, blasting his mind into void, his head and self and entire being a perfect blank as he thrusts deeper into her and deeper still . . .

  Eyes closed, spasming, he luxuriates in the moment; and then he feels a lurch, and it seems to him that he is hanging, head down, although the pleasure continues.

  He opens his eyes.

  He thinks, grasping for thought and reason again, of birth, and wonders, without fear, i
n a moment of perfect postcoital clarity, whether what he sees is some kind of illusion.

  This is what he sees:

  He is inside her to the chest, and as he stares at this in disbelief and wonder she rests both hands upon his shoulders and puts gentle pressure on his body.

  He slipslides further inside her.

  “How are you doing this to me?” he asks, or he thinks he asks, but perhaps it is only in his head.

  “You’re doing it, honey,” she whispers. He feels the lips of her vulva tight around his upper chest and back, constricting and enveloping him. He wonders what this would look like to somebody watching them. He wonders why he is not scared. And then he knows.

  “I worship you with my body,” he whispers, as she pushes him inside her. Her labia pull slickly across his face, and his eyes slip into darkness.

  She stretches on the bed, like a huge cat, and then she yawns. “Yes,” she says. “You do.”

  The Nokia phone plays a high, electrical transposition of the “Ode to Joy.” She picks it up, and thumbs a key, and puts the telephone to her ear.

  Her belly is flat, her labia small and closed. A sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead and on her upper lip.

  “Yeah?” she says. And then she says, “No, honey, he’s not here. He’s gone away.”

  She turns the telephone off before she flops out on the bed in the dark red room, then she stretches once more, and she closes her eyes, and she sleeps.

  CHAPTER TWO

  They took her to the cemet’ry

  In a big ol’ Cadillac

  They took her to the cemet’ry

  But they did not bring her back.

  —old song

  “I have taken the liberty,” said Mr. Wednesday, washing his hands in the men’s room of Jack’s Crocodile Bar, “of ordering food for myself, to be delivered to your table. We have much to discuss, after all.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Shadow. He dried his own hands on a paper towel and crumpled it, and dropped it into the bin.

  “You need a job,” said Wednesday. “People don’t hire ex-cons. You folk make them uncomfortable.”