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Greek to Me
Paradise Lost and Found: My Homeric Journey
© 2009 by Michael Raysses
I grew up in a family that was so close-knit we had our own mutant theory of relativity. It stated that no one could go anywhere without the other four. Obviously, this limited my own personal movement, and for the first 18 years of my life, the farthest I was able to get away from my home was when I went on vacation with my family (of course) to some ramshackle cottages a mere hour and a half from where we lived. And though our time spent there was remarkable in its own right, it cemented the notion that I was rooted to a place with no prospects for escape, temporary or otherwise.
I decided that had to change. So the summer after I graduated high school, I would journey to Greece to walk the land where my ancestors trod, while connecting with my ancient Greek forebear Homer, epic poet and author of The Odyssey. (Oh, I should mention that my odyssey was going to include a beautiful blonde classmate whose golden mane smelled of Flex shampoo and promise.)
When I told my father of my plan, he was unmoved. He asked how I was going to fund my sojourn. When I expressed the hope that he might be of some help, an all-knowing smile crept across his face. Heartfelt and swift, he assured me of his assistance. The following week he “helped” me alright—by securing me a job working on garbage trucks for the city of Hammond.
As one odyssey died, another was born.
That first morning when my Mom dropped me off on her way to work, I stood outside the bunker that was the municipal garage where I would be working for the next three months. As I approached the large metal door, it opened as if it were an ancient dragon’s mouth, preparing to devour me whole.
Entering the maw of the garage, I was assaulted by the smells that lived there: a dizzying swirl of sweat, grease, and Men. They clumped together, a writhing radioactive mound of masculine energy, each form blending into the next. Then, a tall black shadow of a man descended from a catwalk above the garage floor. Coincidentally, his name was Homer, too. He was aptly named. In a sonorous voice he announced, “Everybody, this is Michael. He’s going to fix flat tires. Show him around.” With that, he retreated to his office.
The first member of the swarm to address me was a guy named Freddie. His thick glasses sat on a nose so red it almost looked fake. At the time, I wore glass beads on a choker around my neck. When Freddie saw the beads, he mockingly pointed at them, crudely questioning my sexual orientation. It was going to be a long hot summer.
But I made peace with Freddie. I’d drop him off at his favorite tavern while making our morning run. He’d get his “liquid breakfast” while I worked. I’d pick him up on my return to the garage, his crimson snout even redder then when I dropped him off.
He was just one of many men I got to know that summer.
My favorite was Jimmy the Preacher. He was like some aged lightning bolt in a compact body taut as piano wire. Jimmy often took refuge on the roof of the garage, where he’d play a knife game called mumblety peg. He’d splay his pristine fingers on a chunk of gnarled tree stump, spearing the wood between them with staccato thrusts of the blade.
As the summer wore on, each day melted into the next. I came to understand the rhythm of the garage. With no rhyme or reason, I became adept at tasks for which I had never exhibited any facility. I made the unthinkable transition from being all thumbs to becoming handy. Best of all, though, I learned that the best way to get along with everybody was by pulling my weight. And I got along well with everyone except one of the garbage men who inexplicably hated me. He’d follow me around, cursing me. Naturally, I avoided him. But one day late in the summer, he cornered me. I retreated to the rooftop where The Preacher was hiding out. Seeing Jimmy, my nemesis shifted his focus. He stood over him as he crouched on his stool, taunting him for being an old man. Jimmy seemed oblivious, which only fueled more violent threats. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Jimmy levitated off his stool, his switchblade materializing at his foe’s throat. It turned out Jimmy was a master knife-fighter, storing his blade in his boot. As I saw his extended arms, I noticed a lattice of scars on them—mementos of past clashes. The knife’s point poked a hole in the bully’s bloated ego as he evaporated into thin air.
On my last day as I waited on the garage floor for my check, I looked around. The faceless gang had become Ted the Greek, Blind Tony and the Flying Hunch, among others. As Homer descended from the catwalk, he called for everyone’s attention. They all gathered around me. He told me that when I started, no one thought I’d last more than a week. But because I’d worked as hard as they worked, he had lobbied his bosses for a pay raise for my last check so that I was paid commensurate with what everyone else made. As he shook my hand, he said, “Take this check. Remember your work here.” Then out of nowhere, he spoke words that hit me like a wrecking ball. “And don’t ever come back—you have better things to do.”
By going to Greece I’d hoped to experience life in grand proportion, in realms I’d never seen before. Working in the garage that summer, I’d done just that. But Homer’s words still resound to this day, as I ask myself whether I have met the standard of “better things done.”
Michael Raysses is a writer/actor/National Public Radio commentator living in Los Angeles. E-mail him at MichaelRaysses@hotmail.com.