Chapter 18

Monday, Sept. 23, 2:05 p.m., Place d’Armes Basement

The Hamsterfish, an accomplished instructor, is having limited results with these three new recruits. “No, no, no!” he bristles, beating his lesson-stick against the chalkboard, annoyed with the slow learning these new ones are exhibiting. “You need to realize that you’re no longer who you are, and that I am, in fact, a fish!” He is frustrated. “And a hamster!” he finishes, yelling as loud as his hamster throats will allow.

Peter Tomarken, the most intelligent of the three newcomers, as best the Hamsterfish can tell, raises his hand for a question.

“Yes, Paul Todorov,” the Hamsterfish acknowledges.

“I’ve been here long enough. Why, why with all of the classes?”

The Hamsterfish glares at Paul Todorov for a few seconds and then shoots back, “Because I say so.”

Mon., Sept. 23, 2:06 p.m., Kyoto Sushi Restaurant

Luigi didn’t even bother to take a shower. He just slipped on some shorts, a t-shirt, his Saints Crocs and drove his happy ass to Kyoto.

Upon sitting at the Sushi bar, he quickly jots the number 9 next to the words Fresh Salmon and pops it up atop the fish refrigerators in front of him.

The sushi chef grabs the sheet and looks at it quizzically. “You want nine pieces?” he asks.

“No, nine orders. Eighteen pieces. And lots of wasabi.”

Luigi’s hangovers occasionally leave him with a hankering for some raw fish, but today’s hunger is quite extraordinary. He has a mental image of what the plate will look like when it arrives, and even the eighteen orange and white striped slabs of flesh atop sticky white rice might not cure his sudden lust for fish.

Luigi scans the different species on display behind the window of the fish fridge. There are all the usual, tuna, yellowtail, octopus, some white fish, probably some cousin of red snapper, the usual cake of egg, but then there’s something else, something that catches his eye. It’s a slab of Toro, a chunk of the fatty belly of the prized bluefin tuna, a rarity to be found in a restaurant at this time of year. Luigi likens it to the soprasetta of the sea.

“Toro?” Luigi points at his quarry, a three year old saying the word “cookie.”

The sushi chef opens the drawer of the refrigeration compartment, roots through the assorted fish slabs until he gets to Luigi’s chosen delicacy and then shoots an angry look down at the other end of the bar, after which he fires off a bunch of harsh sounding words in Japanese at his apprentice. He turns back to Luigi. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, “but this should have not been on display. This time of year, it is very difficult to get the Toro and it has already been reserved for another guest later today.”

I rush of disappointment flows through Luigi’s body. “Not even a morsel?” he pleads.

“Again, my apologies. Perhaps you’d like some lemonfish sashimi, on the house?”

Luigi shrugs. Although he feels cheated, it’s not Toro, but it will have to do.

Sat., Sept. 21, 13:42 GMT, Stamford Bridge, Fulham Road, London, England

The second half has been better for Didier Drogba, at least, up until now. He has scored three goals and Chelsea now lead 3-2 with only seconds left in the game, all of them coming off of his right boot. The third, which he just put past the outstretched arms of Manchester United’s goalkeeper, Edwin Van Der Sar, seems to have taken its toll on Didier’s leg. As he slid to hit his teammate’s cross into the net, one of his cleats got caught in the turf, and although the ball went in, at the same instance, he felt a snap in his knee, followed by a sharp pain.

Chelsea will be victorious today, but Didier Drogba has a sneaking suspicion the next game he plays won’t be anytime soon. His knee, he is certain, is wrecked.

Mon., Sept. 23, 2:07 p.m., 341 Octavia

When Arthur Cole answers the phone, he hears Sunshine on the other line weeping.

“I need help,” she says.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t fix it. It’s all messed up!”

Art stands up from his computer chair and turns off the monitor. He had been checking out a couple of Velvet Elvis knock off prints, but there hadn’t been anything online that had his Velvis fetish fully erect. “What’s all messed up, Sunshine?” he asks.

“My kitchen,” Sunshine bellows, her weeping becoming more pronounced.

His finger tugs at one of the curls over his left ear. “What?”

“My kitchen,” she continues, this time weeping almost uncontrollably. “Bad,” she says.

“Are you on fire?” he asks, carefully walking to the front room of his shotgun double, as if his footsteps would cause fire to leap from the floors.

“No!” Sunshine shouts.

Arthur’s hand, the one that had been twirling his curly hair, juts outward as if to ask a question. “So, what is the problem?”

“The mop!” Sunshine screams, before wailing loudly. She cries for a couple of seconds and then hangs up the phone.

Monday, Sept. 23, 2:08 p.m., Place d’Armes Hotel

Paul Todorov has finally had enough, enough of that abomination’s shit, that part hamster, part fish creature. He steams through the foyer and out the front door of the hotel. What about this is a proper afterlife?

A man with a mule promises a fabulous French Quarter tour. PT ignores the man and his mule. There is a corner café with coffee and pastries just right up the street. Fuck that. A man in his condition needs more that a little java and some sugar to fix the ailments he has acquired. Something stronger is necessary salve to help him ponder his confusion. A bar, one with lots of free-flowing booze will cleanse the dour exploits of the last few weeks, what with learning the way to be dead, a walking zombie, an ambling ghost tour the man with his mule would most certainly be able to squeeze more than a few bucks out to detail. He is the tour, and now he has a very strange name: Paul Todorov. So now his name is Paul. It worked will for Mr. McCartney, but he was a Beatle. PT isn’t sure he fancies himself as a Paul.

Nothing makes sense. Why in the hell would they want to bring him, of all people, back? Famous, yes, but in a very un-famous way. He was little more than a moderately successful game show host. How in the hell does that put him in the same class as the likes of a pair of Russian leaders, an international racing superstar or Ingrid Bergman, for God’s sake? He’s been asking himself these same questions since the day he found himself here, alive, but this time without his departed wife who happened to have the misfortune of going down with him in the plane, but who also didn’t manage to have the appropriate cache to qualify for whatever in the hell this existence is. None of it makes any sense.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he notices a woman in a window across the street, alternately looking directly at him and scribbling things in a notebook. The girl sees that he’s caught her watching him. She holds his stare for a moment, and then with a quick flick of her wrist, pulls the blinds closed.

Mon., Sept. 23, 2:09 p.m., 343 Octavia

It is clearly crisis hour in Sunshine’s kitchen. The mess is amazing. Oranges, pieces of orange, pulp and orange juice litter the entire room, floor to ceiling. Hardly any surface has not been sullied by some form of citrus. The walls above her countertop look like some kind of abstract artist’s tribute to Florida. Sunshine stands in the middle of this scene, holding her mop horizontally in both hands, staring at the business end of it in pure confusion.

“What in the hell happened in here?” Art asks.

“I was making screwdrivers.”

Art notices a few empty orange-splattered bottles of vodka on the counter. He also sees that there are six different blenders arrayed across the counter top. “That much I can see. But, um, Sunshine, pardon me for being obtuse, but you were making them in blenders, with the tops off. That doesn’t seem like the best way…”

“It’s for aeration,” Sunshine interrupts.

“Um, okay.” Arthur Cole deliberates momentarily, and then decides Sunshine should explain further.

“But that’s not the problem, Artie.”

Arthur Cole scratches his head, glances at Sunshine and then back to the row of blenders and vodka bottles. He decides to ask, against his better judgment, “Okay, Sunshine. So what exactly is the problem?”

She sobs, not uncontrollably, but with a sense of defeat.

“It’s okay, Sunshine. We can clean it up.”

“But Artie, I’ve forgotten how to use the mop!”

Mon., Sept. 23, 2:11 p.m., 626 St. Ann, #2A

Maggie Flick knows he saw her watching, and she also knows that this time, she got a really good look at his face. And if he is who she thinks he is, well, that would be a red herring indeed.

She closes her notebook, says a silent prayer and decides to go check in with her deceased friends. Hopefully, they’re over at the Absinthe House having an afternoon cocktail. The bird suit does seem like it would get quite warm, and September in New Orleans is no day at the North Pole.

After a quick check on the items in her purse, Maggie says goodbye to her goldfish and leaves the apartment.