The Crazy Lady Who Lived Under the Bridge

Just exactly what I needed. Everything going to hell at work, car broken down in the middle of the night -- in the worst part of town, yet. And here she came. Barefoot in the middle of all the urban mess. I needed a mechanic, not a nutcase. And the smell ...

They called her Crazy Rhonda Who Lives Under the Bridge. Always the whole thing. "Who Lives Under the Bridge" was part of the name. Everyone knew her by sight, though no one knew where she came from, or when. And everyone knew she was crazy. I mean, what else would she be doing living under a bridge? I fumbled in my wallet for a dollar. Anything to get rid of her as fast as possible.

"Thanks, no," she said softly, brushing aside the proffered greenback. "Don't need that stuff."

"Look," I said impatiently, "I don't have time. I have to do something about my car. And you should put on some shoes."

"Can't fix it, eh?" The barest smirk turned the corners of her mouth. But her smell ... wasn't quite what I expected.

"No, I can't!" I shouted in exasperation. "I'm hopeless with mechanical things! Satisfied?"

"Of course, I'm not satisfied," she said, softer still. "I might be able to help."

"Help? You?" I snapped incredulously. "How can you help? Look, thanks, but ..."

"I'm pretty good at ... getting things going," she said, placing a hand on the hood of the lifeless car. There was a purring noise. "There," she said.

"How did you do that?" I stared at her stupidly. Then at the key in my hand.

"You can go now," she said simply. But she was wrong. There was no way I could just walk away without understanding. And I was trying to place her smell.

"How did you do that?" I repeated.

"I told you. I'm good at starting things up."

"But you're ..." I stammered.

"I wasn't always Crazy Rhonda Who Lives Under the Bridge. Back home, I got a lot more ... respect."

"Where ... where is 'back home?'" I asked. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Do you know about perpendicular universes?" she asked.

"Perpendicular ...," I began. "Oh, you mean parallel universes. Sort of New Age mumbo-jumbo."

"No," she said firmly. "Universes are perpendicular. It's like a vast grid. Believe me, I know whereof I speak."

Nutcase began to look pale in comparison to what I was seeing, but, as I said, in for a penny ...

"You're saying, you come from a different universe?"

"My own fault," said Crazy Rhonda Who Lives Under the Bridge. "Not paying attention. I was arguing with ... with a colleague at an intersection point and got caught on the off-ramp. So to speak. Both of us did."

"What were you arguing about?" I asked, in spite of myself.

"The usual issues between us," she replied. "He was always destroying what I made. You see, I was in charge of Life, and he was in charge of War."

Oh, this was too loony. "You're telling me that you're some kind of ... deity?"

"Was," she said. "Back home. Not here."

"And this ... colleague of yours. Does he also live under the bridge?"

"Of course not. He's the President of the United States. God of War. Where else do you think he'd end up on a planet like this? He's home."

"A planet like ... what?" I asked.

"Well," said Crazy Rhonda Who Lives Under the Bridge, "did you ever read DC comics?"

"Sure," said I. "Who didn't?"

"Remember 'Bizarro World,' the planet where everything was ass-backwards? Well, this is it. You live on 'Bizarro World.' Metaphorically speaking, of course."

"Gods, huh?" I began derisively. The I happened to glance down at her feet. Bright green grass was shooting up between her toes. Right through the asphalt. Her smell. I got it. She smelled like the earth, in all its multiplicity. Like the earth and the wind and the sky and everything that lived and grew.

"My ... god ...," I mumbled.

"No, not really," she laughed. She laughed deeply, like a sea full of rolling waves.

"You ... you can really make things grow? And nurture life? And stuff?" I babbled.

She nodded.

"But don't you see?" I cried "We're bound to have a place for someone like that in this country!"

"You do," she said softly. "And I've found it. It's about a block and a half away, under that bridge."

"But ... you could ... overthrow that War God guy," I suggested.

"No, I can't," she said. "Overthrowing is his department. Mine is life, and this world has no respect for that."

"Then let me go with you," I begged.

She seemed to consider for a moment, then gave me a beckoning nod. I left the car, which was gone by morning. I followed her to the bridge. She not only smelled like the earth, she felt like it. The richest, warmest, deepest, most ancient aspects of it. And the sanest. By far, the sanest.

So, thanks, no. Don't need that stuff, though I appreciate your generosity. I haven't always been Loony Larry Who Lives Under the Bridge. I used to have a job and a house and all that, but it's not important now. I see you're skeptical, but let me ask you one thing. Have you ever made love with an earth goddess?

I thought not.