Lobbying the Chac-Mool
By Joe Greco
Every morning the Chac-Mool’s jagged shadow inched across Alyssa’s bedroom shade. She'd learned about him last year in seventh grade World Cultures class. Lucky for her. Otherwise she might have dismissed him, stupidly, as the plant hanging outside her window. But, educated, she'd immediately recognized the Mayan rain god, come north to Modesto.
Alyssa’s problem was that no one believed in the old gods anymore. They wouldn’t listen to her explain what an opportunity had presented itself. The name “Chac-Mool” would barely leave her lips when her parents, neighbors, friends would screw up their faces and ask, “Who? What? Are you crazy?”
By Joe Greco
Every morning the Chac-Mool’s jagged shadow inched across Alyssa’s bedroom shade. She'd learned about him last year in seventh grade World Cultures class. Lucky for her. Otherwise she might have dismissed him, stupidly, as the plant hanging outside her window. But, educated, she'd immediately recognized the Mayan rain god, come north to Modesto.
Alyssa’s problem was that no one believed in the old gods anymore. They wouldn’t listen to her explain what an opportunity had presented itself. The name “Chac-Mool” would barely leave her lips when her parents, neighbors, friends would screw up their faces and ask, “Who? What? Are you crazy?”
On the Fourth of July her father drained the swimming pool in their backyard. “The drought,” he said. “We have to make sacrifices.” Sacrifices? She’d heard that crap all year. Can’t wash the car. Can’t water the lawn. Two-minute showers. Now there’d be no swimming either. Venture outside and she’d be sweating like a horse, staring at the dry pool baking in the Central Valley sun. Why? How stupid was it to keep performing these sacrifices when the drought just kept getting worse?
She'd learned it was so much easier with the Chac-Mool. You wanted water? He wanted blood. You cut out a heart for him; he gave you rain. Simple, straightforward, quid pro quo.
It was time for action. She waited until night, crept out of bed, tiptoed to the kitchen. She turned on a small light. She slowly opened the drawer, grasped a large steak knife.
Her little brother’s goldfish, Elmer, floated, ghostlike, in his large, round glass bowl. She found the net, captured Elmer, squirming, and carried him to the sink. He flipped, flopped, floundered.
Alyssa took aim with the knife and plunged the tip into Elmer’s fat white belly, skewering him into the metal sink until his movement stopped. She laid Elmer on a plate, cut open his belly all the way to the mouth. Then she sliced out the tiny heart. She removed the carcass, put it in a plastic bag, and stuffed it deep down into the garbage pail.
She gently tiptoed out the back door into the backyard. The moon was full, yellow, bright. Not a cloud in the sky. She held the plate bearing Elmer’s heart high above her head, then placed it, reverently, on the patio. She crept back inside the house and went to sleep.
The Chac-Mool’s shadow awoke her the next morning. Her heart sank. The sun was shining brightly against a clear, azure sky. Her sacrifice had not been sufficient.
Alyssa walked to the kitchen. Her mother was holding her sobbing little brother. Her father shook his head. “We can’t figure out what happened to Elmer,” he said. “Must’ve jumped right out of his bowl, but we can’t find him.”
The family cat prowled into the kitchen, purring, and began pawing at the garbage pail. “What’re you doing, Fluffy?” Alyssa’s father said. He picked up the cat and carried it to the bereaved little boy. “See, Timmy,” the father said. “It’s OK. You still have Fluffy.”
Alyssa looked on with the haughty aloofness of a high priestess. How much? she wondered. How much blood would the Chac-Mool require to bring the rain, fill the swimming pool? She fixed her gaze on the cat, which was now sitting on her little brother’s lap. The cat, noticing Alyssa’s stare, hissed, jumped away from the boy, and scurried out of the kitchen.
Joe Greco is a Northern California lawyer and writer. His short stories have appeared or will appear in Emprise Review, Bartleby-Snopes, 34th Parallel, and FictionDaily.
She'd learned it was so much easier with the Chac-Mool. You wanted water? He wanted blood. You cut out a heart for him; he gave you rain. Simple, straightforward, quid pro quo.
It was time for action. She waited until night, crept out of bed, tiptoed to the kitchen. She turned on a small light. She slowly opened the drawer, grasped a large steak knife.
Her little brother’s goldfish, Elmer, floated, ghostlike, in his large, round glass bowl. She found the net, captured Elmer, squirming, and carried him to the sink. He flipped, flopped, floundered.
Alyssa took aim with the knife and plunged the tip into Elmer’s fat white belly, skewering him into the metal sink until his movement stopped. She laid Elmer on a plate, cut open his belly all the way to the mouth. Then she sliced out the tiny heart. She removed the carcass, put it in a plastic bag, and stuffed it deep down into the garbage pail.
She gently tiptoed out the back door into the backyard. The moon was full, yellow, bright. Not a cloud in the sky. She held the plate bearing Elmer’s heart high above her head, then placed it, reverently, on the patio. She crept back inside the house and went to sleep.
The Chac-Mool’s shadow awoke her the next morning. Her heart sank. The sun was shining brightly against a clear, azure sky. Her sacrifice had not been sufficient.
Alyssa walked to the kitchen. Her mother was holding her sobbing little brother. Her father shook his head. “We can’t figure out what happened to Elmer,” he said. “Must’ve jumped right out of his bowl, but we can’t find him.”
The family cat prowled into the kitchen, purring, and began pawing at the garbage pail. “What’re you doing, Fluffy?” Alyssa’s father said. He picked up the cat and carried it to the bereaved little boy. “See, Timmy,” the father said. “It’s OK. You still have Fluffy.”
Alyssa looked on with the haughty aloofness of a high priestess. How much? she wondered. How much blood would the Chac-Mool require to bring the rain, fill the swimming pool? She fixed her gaze on the cat, which was now sitting on her little brother’s lap. The cat, noticing Alyssa’s stare, hissed, jumped away from the boy, and scurried out of the kitchen.
Joe Greco is a Northern California lawyer and writer. His short stories have appeared or will appear in Emprise Review, Bartleby-Snopes, 34th Parallel, and FictionDaily.
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