Minos. Burt Weissbourd

thought about that. “Huh,” was all he offered, along with another tap to her far shoulder.

      ***

      At the end of his day, Abe returned phone calls. He rubbed his thumb over a well-worn spot on the old oak desk and dialed Jim Peterson’s number at work. Abe believed the groove in his desk had been worn while he waited for doctors. As he held for Dr. Peterson, he was thinking about Sara, how she was so sensitive, even hypersensitive; Sara didn’t miss much. And the mythological universe she’d constructed was, at first glance, both orderly and detailed. No small accomplishment. Still, he had no idea why she’d built it, or what purpose it served. He hoped to answer those questions. He couldn’t do that, though, without her help. And why would she ever want to help him unless she thought he could help her? She didn’t think that now; he knew that much. After holding for a very busy receptionist and an even busier nurse who asked if he was waiting for “Doctor,” he explained that he, too, was a doctor returning Dr. Peterson’s call, and Abe was put through right away.

      “Jim, Abe Stein,” Abe said. They’d had patients in common, and though they didn’t know each other well, Abe liked and respected Jim. He was sure Jim wouldn’t have sent Sara to see him if the feeling wasn’t mutual.

      “Nice to talk with you, Abe, sorry about the circumstances. I’m worried. I’d appreciate your take on Sara.”

      “My take?” Abe was wary—something about the way some doctors assumed they were part of some special club, that Abe would just tell him about Sara, his daughter, Abe’s patient.

      “I’ll level with you, Abe. I’m okay with the black clothes, the Wicca, the spells. I’ve learned to live with the piercings, the pentagrams, even the tattoos. And Lord knows, since she was a child, I’ve encouraged her interest in Greek mythology. But this is different. She’s depressed. She’s become uncommunicative and reclusive. In the past few weeks, it’s gotten worse. To her, these Greek stories are becoming real. And setting a fire at school is a felony. Help me out here. I’m lost. I don’t know what to do.”

      “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

      “Can you help her? What’s the matter with her?”

      Abe hesitated. “Jim, you’re putting me in an awkward position. If I’m going to treat Sara—and I suggested we meet three times a week—I can’t have side conversations with you. If you want to come in, I’ll talk with Sara first and work out what I can and can’t say.”

      “Cut me a little slack here, Abe. I know how this works.”

      Abe was quiet. “I’ll do my best to help Sara,” he eventually offered.

      “Okay. I know. That’s why she’s seeing you.”

      “Jim, I need time with her. I can’t say yet how long. I can only help her if you give us time and room.”

      “I’m sorry if I was out of line, I’m just—I’m just upset, and honestly, sometimes I’m so worried it’s hard to bear.”

      “I understand.” And he did. Abe could still see Sara—she was imprinted, indelibly, in his mind—waving her Athame, calling on the Oracle of Delphi to help her. It was as if she’d embraced, no, ingested, Greek mythology, then added a dash of the occult. And now, she was insisting that worrisome aspects of her modern life were driven by the strict rules and harsh consequences of the ancient Greek Myths.

      Abe could hear Jim, taking a slow breath, using his inhaler. “Take what time you need, Abe,” he eventually said, “But please work out with Sara some way to keep me in the picture. Okay?”

      “I’ll try.”

      “Thanks for your help.” Jim said.

      “I haven’t helped yet,” Abe wanted to say. “And I’m not sure I can.” Instead, he said, “I’ll do my best.”

      Abe set down the phone, wondering why Sara had retreated to a world that existed, what?—he checked a mythological timeline. It estimated that Theseus was born in 1273 BC—more than 3,200 years before her father was born.

      ***

      Minos still kind of liked this stretch of Broadway. Even though it had changed, lost its funky, one-of-a-kind character. Even though the best places, like Meteor Man, were gone. Change is usually for the worse, Minos thought. But he liked how he still knew his way around both sides of the street: he knew where to find wallets, cheap jewelry, funny T-shirts, Pagan trinkets, CDs, cigarette cases, dirty magazines, even exotic knives. He knew the stores for rich kids, like the Gap or Urban Outfitters. What was bothering him then? What it was, he decided, was that he missed the old Broadway Market. He missed the candy store, and the newsstand with papers from all over the world. Most of all, he missed the men’s underwear place, Meteor Man, and the Rubber Rainbow Condom Company which used to be upstairs and was very cool. He wasn’t sure why he missed these things, but he did. The Oxygen Bar had been upstairs, too, but Minos thought it was, at best, some kind of joke. Breathing fancy air was a fool’s game.

      What he still liked about this stretch of Broadway—the one big thing—he realized, were the people. Especially the kids. Weekends there were always kids, passing through, checking it out. All kinds of kids. That’s what he liked, yeah. He thought the kids from everywhere else tried to look like they belonged here, and sometimes that made them weirder looking than the real street kids. There were ordinary people, too—tourists, parents, suburban kids, local high school kids, college kids, shoppers. In fact, statistically speaking, most of the people cruising Broadway were mainstream. But it wasn’t their place, and they knew it. That was what drew them here. The street folk set the tone. Leather, metal, piercings and tattoos meant to shock, and, always the hair, the wild and crazy hair. Some days, it was like getting a little glimpse of the marketplace from Star Wars, some of the kids were so wonderfully weird-looking. Which was good for Minos. He fit in. He belonged here. He was the genuine article, the real deal. Minos was a grown-up version of a wonderfully weird-looking kid. Grown-up on the outside, anyway. On the inside, he was like the other kids, more or less. He smiled, liking how he could feel old and young at the same time. This was a good place for it, too. Often, he would sit at one of the little tables in the coffee shop and watch the kids go by.

      Minos sat, checking out a handsome boy with green hair. Before long, he was thinking about the boy he’d lost. He thought he might turn green with envy, remembering how Minos, the Cretan Bull King, had gone to the Delphic Oracle to find his missing son. Unbeknownst to the Bull King, his son, Glaucus had gone into the cellar at the palace, where he’d fallen into a great jar of honey, head downward, and drowned. The Oracle had said, “A marvelous creature has been born amongst you: whoever finds the true likeness for this creature will also find the child.” The Bull King learned that a heifer-calf had been born that changed its colors three times a day—from white to red and from red to black. He brought his soothsayers to the palace and Polyeidus of Argos said, “this calf resembles nothing so much as a ripening blackberry,” and Minos sent him to find Glaucus.

      Polyidus found Glaucus drowned in the jar of honey. Minos demanded Glaucus be brought back to life and locked Polyeidus in a tomb with Glaucus and a sword. A serpent approached the boy’s corpse and Polyeidus killed it with the sword. Another snake came and seeing its mate dead, this snake slithered off and returned with an herb that brought its mate back to life. Polyeidus used this same herb to miraculously resurrect Glaucus.

      Minos loved that story—the serpent, the resurrection of the boy, and especially the part about the wondrous heifer-calf. He could bring that heifer-calf here, to the new market, Minos was thinking. The kids would stop by and watch it, pet it, maybe get stoned and hang out, ooing and ahing as the calf changed colors. Never knowing its meaning.

      Today, he had business, the Master’s business. He stood up, then began walking his walk, keeping it slow, head down, sort of a shuffle. He walked straight past The Smoke Shop, then flared out his long leather coat and straddled one of the high stools at the Space Station.

      The Space Station was out-of-date-high-tech sci-fi. Sleek futuristic lines, metal,