God Hates Us All

I’ll later find out that he — along with most of the party — is on something called “Adam,” a psychedelic that by the time I get around to trying it, a few years later, is better known as “Ecstasy.” What I know now is that every conversation seems to wind up with someone rubbing my sleeves to feel the texture or offering a non sequitur commentary on the shine of my hair. Undue credit, I think, for a guy who simply hasn’t bothered to shower.

Later, while K. dances with a shirtless, muscled man who Ray reassures me is “one of Roscoe’s boy toys,” he proposes that I join him on a weekend trip to South Korea. “I’m going to see a goddess,” Ray says.

“You’re on drugs, Ray. Try to keep it on Earth for us in the cheap seats.”

“I shit you not, man. She’s a real live goddess.”

“Really? Does she ride a unicorn?”

“She’s a Kumari, man. A bodily incarnation of the goddess Taleju.”

“Tally who?”

“Taleju. It’s the Nepalese name for the goddess Durga. A total bad-ass. Like, she’s got ten arms and carries swords and shit. She rides a fucking tiger.”

“I’ll admit that the ten arms present some interesting possibilities, but take it from me: Women and sharp objects, they do not mix well.”

Ray claps his hands. “I’m not saying she is Durga. The point is that Devi — that’s her name, Devi — was chosen from like thousands of girls to be Durga’s earthly incarnation.”

“Kind of like the Miss Universe pageant,” I suggest.

“Exactly! Only a lot more hardcore. She had to have what they call ‘the Thirty-Two Perfections.’ A voice as soft and clear as a duck’s. A chest like a lion. A neck like a conch shell.”

“Every time I start to take you seriously, I remember you’re on drugs.”

“I am being totally serious, man. For ten years, her feet were not allowed to touch the ground.

Some dudes carried her everywhere in one of those, you know, canopy things. People lined up to touch them — her fucking feet! — for good luck. Even the king of Nepal, once a year he got down on his knees and kissed those hoofers.”

“And you think she’ll slum with a mortal like you?”

“That’s the best part. She’s not technically a goddess anymore. Taleju means ‘virgin.’ Once she, you know, bleeds, the gig is up — Durga’s got to find herself a new host. And Devi? One day she’s a goddess, the next she’s a woman with serious selfesteem issues. Or what I like to call my wheelhouse!”

“You’re kind of a fucked-up guy, Ray.”

“I know. But what can I do?” He grins evilly.

“How’d we get started on Devi?”

“You were going to Korea …”

“Korea!”

“… to see a goddess from Nepal who … Why is she in Korea again?”

“She’s a model. Vicky’s hired her for the same campaign as K. Which is why we’re going to Korea.

You can surprise her. Chicks love that shit. It overloads their brain so much that they can only think with their pussies.”

“As tempting as it might be to turn K. into a drooling sex zombie, I don’t exactly have the fundage for international jetsetting.”

“Nobody pays for travel. You can fly for free.”

“No, you fly for free. You’re a photographer. Drug dealers pay full fare.”

“You go as a courier. There are a bunch of places down-town that will hook you up. You find someone that needs something delivered to Korea, and they pay for the trip.”

“A courier? Doesn’t exactly sound like it’s on the up-and-up.”

Ray laughs. “Didn’t you just say you were a drug dealer?”

“The redistribution of certain herbal products is one thing. International smuggling, that’s an entirely different cup of tea. I take it you’ve never seen Midnight Express?”

“I’m talking about legitimate businessmen. A buddy of mine does it all the time. Important documents — contracts and shit. You take ten minutes to drop them off, the rest of the trip is free.”

“Isn’t it, like, a ten-hour flight?” I say. My resistance is starting to soften. “I can’t exactly ask for any more time off from work.”

“Ten hours? More like twenty.”

“I’ve got to be back on Monday. Unless I’m missing some-thing, a day there and a day back leaves me zero time there.”

“You’re missing something,” he says with a stupid grin. “The international date line.”

“Spell it out for a college dropout who’s never been farther than Canada?”

“You’ve got to fly across the date line, which, I don’t know exactly how, but it turns back time. You leave Korea at six o’clock Monday morning, you get back to New York at six o’clock Monday morning.

Maybe even earlier.”

“That doesn’t sound possible.”

“Neither did you nailing K. But look what happened.” We both turn toward the dance floor. K. catches us looking at her and smiles back, rolling her eyes at her partner’s enthusiastic interpretation of MC Hammer.