What’s up?”
He looked up with a patient smile. “Good morning noble
friend, though rosy dawn has already flung herself high into the smog-gray sky,
we welcome you.”
“Okay. I give up. What are you doing?”
“Translating,” he said.
“Translating?”
“Yes, translating. Your species needs modern versions of
your great literature. And I am the servant of the Muse.”
“You are translating what?”
“Homer,” he said. “It is about time someone drew strength
from the gods and waded sword-fresh into the task.”
“Uh …”
“In short, you need updated versions of The Iliad and The Odyssey.
And I’m here to do it.”
“You would update The
Iliad? How?”
Oh please, weary traveler,” he said. “Your species doesn’t
comprehend the idea of rich men’s sons fighting wars.” He took a breath and
bowed his head. “Give me a break, oh Muse of lowly word-workers. King Priam
sending his son Hector to fight to the death with Achilles? That would be like
sending one of the Romney boys out to fight a Koch Brothers offspring. Why, you
might even have the sons of Wall Street bankers and Halliburton CEOs slugging
it out on the beaches of Troy.” He looked directly at me. “Ridiculous.”
I had to admit he had a point.
“So,” he continued, “The fighting must be done by those with
the least to lose. Agamemnon’s ships will pick up African slaves on the way to
Troy. Your species will understand the concept of their doing the heavy
lifting, so to speak.”
“C.W., I said. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Anyway,” he said. “This hand-to-hand combat has to go. I’ve
come up with an improved version of so-called ‘Greek Fire’ that can be launched
from 16 miles out to sea. The armies should not even see one another.”
“So that’s it? Slave soldiers and aerial bombardment?”
“For The Iliad.
Now I’m working on The Odyssey.
“Any problems there?”
“No, just opportunities. I’m using the Kardashians as models
for the Sirens.”
“Ah, …”
“And,” he said. “Penelope has to be a bit more of a ‘cougar.’”
C.W. often leaves me speechless. This was one of those
times.
“And,” he said. “This bloody combat in the final scene is
much too personal.”
“Too what?”
 |
| What could be more old-fashioned than combatants in a war actually touching one another? C.W. |
“Personal. I’ll abstract it by placing Odysseus in Pylos and
Telemachus in Sparta. They will each have a god, or goddess if you wish, to undertake
the actual killing in Ithaca with no danger to either of our heroes. Brilliant
eh?”
“Hardly,” I said. “You can’t have great heroes killing
people by proxy from half a world away with no actual contact.”
“Oh no, Mr. Know-it-all? Well, it so happens that I do
actual research for my work, unlike some people.” He rummaged on the desk and
retrieved a copy of a recent newspaper. He point to a headline and smirked. It
read “U.S. military to give Bronze Stars to drone operators—will rank higher in
honor than those received by actual on-the-ground combatants.”
I sank into my seat as Rosy Dawn dipped her cheerful fingers into every unlighted corner of the world.
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