A House of many Names

"…Zenith, Zodiac, Ulrich, von Bek, Corum… Elric-Alaric-Ulrich-Odalric or Erkosë, Seaton, perhaps Una - what's in a name…what's in a face?" The little man wearing an unusual hat and a brown velvet bell bottomed suit with contrasting cravat whispers, followed by a silent laugh. "I've worn all of them. I've been all of them. And some of them have even been me - we don't have time to quibble, dear heart!"

The little black and white cat pauses grooming its sleek black wings and makes a sound of assent before returning to its careful preening.

"You fuckers can't make up your minds, can you?" I sit back on my ass in the mud, the guitar case that was also an EXIT door at my side. "I'd say leave me out of your fuckery, all of you!" I hiss, "But it's a little too fucking late for that, right?"

My new companion jerks as if I'd smacked him a good one, lifts his unusual hat with both hands, rotates it once, twice, thrice, replacing it backwards on his shaggy brown hair with a stifled laugh, eyes merry. The huge men and one woman who loom over our heads in the black corn maze look our direction but over us – Magritte figures, garish in this frozen vortex of black, silver and red…

…

…a shout.

The house on dragon's legs dolphins over us, forcing us face down flat in the mud, reptile feet flopping comically along the foundation as its pursuers thread through the maze concealing me in hot pursuit– I've evaded them twice – a rat in a grain bin pursued by terriers in bowler hats.

The tank quivers, scarred bright paint garish, broken doll heads crunch underfoot as we face each other, coated in mud except for the cat.

The little man watches the retreating hullabaloo, carrion flies a drone punctuated by the pursuing giants and their residential quarry. "I agree, Jerry. She isn't what we were told to expect…well, then, ahem…dear heart, a word if I may—duck!"

We crouch, the house of my great grandparents rattling overhead from a different direction, landing with a squelch, clots of sticky black earth, midnight poppies, dead flies and staring glass doll eyes pelting us. The little man spits out a doll eye, studies it, carefully dropping it into his pocket as if nothing has happened. He then pulls out a large red, green, black, and white Paisley silk handkerchief, blots muck from my face, and then his, takes a really big blow, examines the contents, and folds it before carefully returning it to his front breast pocket, cat on his shoulder, ancestral house galloping clumsily across the distant horizon, hunters hampered by having to follow the maze which it so blithely ignores.

"…as I was saying," The little man continues in a thick accent that's not Irish but not English either. He takes my hands, head cocked, studying me.

I resist, but he persists, "What?"

"The Angel of the Perverse does what he does and always has - such is the nature of counterbalances." He releases me, "Ahem, still, the Conjunction is coming fast. We no longer have time to fool around dear heart– tell me of the house of your great grandparents."

"What does—"

"Shush, shush, dear heart!" We are now all but in each other's faces. The little man with the unusual hat places a finger over my lips. It smells of oil paint and ink, diesel and opium, and is no larger than mine, "Tell me of the house of your great grandparents and I'll tell you how to get out of here. Deal?"

Deal.

The house of my great grandparents, as I remember it, was one of those tiny homes that now are so very fashionable for highly educated people with one or less child to live in because it is "sustainable".

Someday, if it still exists, I will see it on the Internet, all shiny and restored in a shiny, restored neighborhood that anyone with a six-figure income or below cannot help but envy because they can't afford the HOA fees much less the recent increase in property taxes if not inflation itself.

In its day, it was one degree above a shack – on a patch of land in a neighborhood where once upon a time, an assembly line worker or a day laborer like my great grandfather, could afford to live and own property if they and their many, many children didn't eat.

With work, this near shack was made livable, the yard a tiny farm complete with chicken coop long before poverty became fashionable and changed its name to, "sustainable living" and chicken coops became small works of art to be displayed like fine thrifted China on Instagram.

There was no basement.

My great grandfather, in-between day labor, dug a basement.

There was no plumbing.

My great grandfather, in-between day labor, installed plumbing as they could afford it, likewise, electricity.

There was no furniture.

My great grandfather, in-between day labor, fixed broken furniture he found on the curb or at the junk yard.

At the same time, my great grandmother canned tomatoes, gathered eggs, made curtains, and kept the place immaculate all while raising my grandmother.

Eminent Domain

Somewhere downtown, a decision was made by highly educated people who'd never been there much the less met my great grandparents. A decision that such neighborhoods were slums and that such neighborhoods needed to be replaced by freeways. Once that happened, everyone would be happy.

It was, after all, not their neighborhood.

Or their home.

It was merely a place on a municipal map marked, "slum".

Therefore, it had to go.

It was an easy decision: highly educated people in offices generally don't have to move due to "Eminent Domain" and find a place where the compensation check might, just might, be a down payment for something even smaller.

If not, there is always public housing.

Problem solved they said and went home to martinis in their six-bedroom three car garage tract houses in one of the better burbs because beer is for the Scrubby Dutch.

You know, poor people.

Anyway, the office downtown people took the money they made from such decisions and used it to send their children to good schools and then good universities to become Socialists and possibly vegans.

And those children, or their children's children, when not discussing the redistribution of wealth over artisan beer, discovered the remnants of the neighborhoods that my ancestors lived in and said, "Ah ha! Let's rebel and be urban pioneers!" and then have the joy not only of home ownership, but of living sustainably while rejecting their parent's and grandparent's unsustainable greedy late-stage Capitalist ways in an ethically sourced, egalitarian manner.

Anyway, Aldi's is for losers, but Whole Foods is just off the freeway on the way back from dropping the kiddos off at Montessori where they can eat ethically sourced vegan lunches in beautifully restored historic buildings because, and let's be frank, while diversity is wonderful, you do not want your littles to go to local public schools or actually put any effort/resources into any school where true diversity exists because, well, you know!

Or something like that.

I open my eyes. The little man with his toy tank, his unusual hat, and his cat, silently points behind me.

"Shhhhhhhhhh..."

Welcome Mat

The house of my great grandparents, or pieced together memories of the house of Al and Agatha as seen through the eyes of four-year-old me, lurks behind me with its pot of pink begonias, morning newspaper, and empty milk bottles awaiting pickup on the well-scrubbed concrete front stoop.

"You've got to be kidding, THAT'S the way out?" I hiss from our shared crouch.

Arguing, the Magritte squad turns right and then right and then right again, red stars and black branches writhing overhead.

Eyes sparkling, the little man nods with a grin, gesturing that it's safe to stand up.

The tank gives a final whirr and slowly topples, "Clink." A dying blowfly in the silence.

The cat begins cleaning one black and white paw with a bright red tongue.

The house of my great grandparents notices that I've noticed it and ponderously turns around on dragon's legs so that it's tidy mop rack and garbage can faces me, screen door shut firm.

The little man with the unusual hat frowns, cocks his head as if listening, nods, and gestures for the two of us to step closer, finger once again over his lips.

The back door flies open with a bang, the spring singing out with a loud, "Goinggggggg-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g—g!"

Hindered by right turns, Magritte's favorite subjects charge towards us, Sir Seaton Begg in the lead, watch of ten thousand dials on one gigantic palm.

A sudden long-fingered hand on my arm swings me to the left as the guitar case that is also an EXIT door forces itself into my hands.

The screen door slams shut – bang!

And the house of my great grandparents… runs away a third time.