A Bizarre Journey ep 24: That Time when we interview the Greek Gods
Author: Nguyen Leon
Heartwarming;Thriller
After Quan finished performing the philosophical poem he’d improvised entirely out of spite, Tram and I immediately hauled him off campus before he could unveil Part Two, which appeared to involve Hermes filing a formal complaint on Athena’s behalf, and before the students’ increasingly horrified stares burned our remaining dignity to the ground.
We moved on to Quynh’s favorite “inspiration spots” around the university and the surrounding streets.
That decision transformed our search into a public nuisance.
Quan, still running entirely on righteous indignation and whatever chemical imbalance powered his imagination, marched straight toward the nearest street vendor.
“Excuse me, kind mortal!” he announced with a theatrical bow. “Have you encountered a young woman radiating overwhelming Athena energy who occasionally attempts to summon Zeus using ordinary kitchen appliances?”
The uncle behind the banh mi cart paused halfway through spreading pâté.
He looked at Quan.
Then at me.
Then quietly resumed buttering the bread, as if pretending none of this had happened might make it disappear.
I stepped in with what I considered a more reasonable approach.
“She’s about this tall,” I said, gesturing. “Wears glasses. There’s a chance she asked you to pose as Poseidon holding a plastic trident by the canal sometime last month.”
The woman running the nearby sweet soup stall blinked several times.
“Poseidon?” she repeated. “The Greek god?”
“…Yes.”
She frowned thoughtfully.
“No Poseidon. But there was a strange girl who paid my husband to stand perfectly still while she photographed him looking…” She searched for the right phrase. “…’eternally disappointed’?”
Quan snapped his fingers.
“That’s exactly her artistic process.”
“My husband wasn’t acting,” the woman added.
“I know.”
She looked strangely offended by how quickly he accepted that.
Beside us, Tram pinched the bridge of her nose so hard I was mildly concerned she’d leave fingerprints.
“Loc. Quan. Just leave it to me.”
She took over with the calm efficiency of someone who had accepted that civilization would collapse unless she personally prevented it.
“Did she mention where she was going?”
“When did you last see her?”
“Was she alone?”
Simple. Direct. Perfectly normal questions.
Unfortunately, Quan and I kept contributing.
“Did she recruit anyone into Greek mythology?”
“Did she attempt to overthrow reality?”
“Did she declare a random pigeon to be Hermes?”
Every conversation Tram carefully steered toward useful information somehow drifted back into ancient Greece within thirty seconds.
After nearly an hour of confused locals, increasingly bizarre conversations, and exactly zero Quynhs, Tram finally found someone who recognized her immediately.
An elderly man sitting outside a tiny repair shop scratched his chin.
“Oh, that photography girl?”
All four of us straightened.
“Yes!”
He nodded toward the river.
“She hired a bunch of retired uncles over there last week. Had them pose under the old bridge with broomsticks and plastic flowerpots.”
“What for?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Said they were her ‘temporary pantheon.’”
Quan’s eyes widened with genuine admiration.
“Her victims.”
“I mean… collaborators.”
“They looked like they were having fun,” the old man admitted. “One of them kept introducing himself as Zeus for the rest of the afternoon.”
Quan placed a hand over his heart.
“She changes lives.”
“She confuses pensioners,” Tram corrected.
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
For the first time that afternoon, Tram allowed herself a relieved sigh.
“Finally.”
She pointed toward the riverside.
“Let’s go.”
At last, we had something resembling a trail.
Finding Quynh herself, however, was proving far more difficult than finding the increasingly bewildered mythology enthusiasts she left behind.
~~~•••~~~
Following the old man’s directions, we eventually found three surviving members of Quynh’s self-appointed Olympic pantheon gathered beneath the old bridge.
Retired.
Traumatized.
And, judging from the way they greeted each other, still refusing to use their real names.
The first was a lanky uncle everyone now called “Zeus.”
He was sitting on a tiny plastic stool, sipping tea with the solemn dignity of a man who had seen things.
The moment Quynh’s name came up, he sighed so deeply his shoulders seemed to age another decade.
“That girl?”
He pointed accusingly at the sky.
“She made me stand on a plastic chair for two hours yelling, ‘I AM THE KING OF THE GODS!’”
He paused.
“Every time a motorbike drove past, she yelled, ‘Louder! Olympus is losing signal!’”
Quan nodded approvingly.
“Reasonable direction.”
“My back still hurts.”
The uncle wasn’t finished.
“Then she handed me two aluminum spoons.”
“…Why?”
“So I could bang them together every time I threw lightning.”
He demonstrated with a perfectly miserable expression.
“‘KACHOW!’”
He looked at us.
“She said my thunder lacked emotional commitment.”
Quan placed a respectful hand over his heart.
“She believed in your potential.”
“She believed I could dislocate both shoulders.”
The second uncle—formerly Apollo—was repairing a guitar string that looked older than I was.
He laughed the tired laugh of someone who had already accepted that no explanation would ever sound sane.
“She wrapped me in a gold bath towel.”
“It was a toga,” Quan corrected automatically.
“It was my wife’s bath towel.”
“…Fair enough.”
He continued.
“Then she told me to sing to the sun because ‘Apollo doesn’t lip-sync.’”
“Were you any good?” I asked.
“No.”
“So what happened?”
“She said authenticity mattered more than talent.”
“That’s surprisingly wholesome.”
“Then authenticity ran across the street.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“My inspiration.”
He sighed.
“She pointed at a stray cat and screamed, ‘Your muse is escaping!’”
“And?”
“I chased it.”
“Why?”
“I was getting paid.”
He stared into the distance.
“I almost became one with a delivery truck.”
Quan nodded again.
“Apollo has always had transportation issues.”
“That’s Helios.”
“Close enough.”
The third uncle burst out laughing before we’d even introduced ourselves.
“Hermes,” he declared proudly, tapping the rusty bicycle leaning against the wall beside him. “Former messenger of the gods. Current owner of two functioning knees, though just barely.”
“What did Quynh have you do?” Tram asked.
“What didn’t she have me do?”
He counted on his fingers.
“Love letters.”
“Food deliveries.”
“A handwritten apology from somebody’s boyfriend.”
“A wedding invitation.”
“A grocery list that somehow became a prophecy.”
I frowned.
“…A prophecy?”
He reached into his pocket and unfolded a faded receipt.
“‘Three tomatoes. Fish sauce. Do not forget onions. Destiny depends on it.’”
We stared.
“I asked her if she’d made a mistake.”
“And?”
“She said all grocery lists are prophecies if you’re hungry enough.”
Quan wiped away a tear.
“That’s… actually beautiful.”
“My knees disagree.”
Despite their complaints, every story ended the same way.
With laughter.
With someone accidentally quoting Quynh.
With a reluctant smile that suggested none of them truly regretted saying yes.
Then Zeus stood up.
“Oh.”
“I almost forgot.”
He disappeared behind his stool and returned carrying a cracked plastic lightning bolt painted silver.
“A souvenir.”
Apollo dug through an old shopping bag.
“I’ve still got the toga.”
He unfolded what had once been an elegant curtain and what was now unmistakably an exhausted piece of fabric with “PROPERTY OF MRS. HA” embroidered into one corner.
“My wife still wants this back.”
Hermes searched through the basket attached to his bicycle before pulling out a folded notebook page.
“She drew all of us.”
The page was filled with quick pencil sketches.
Zeus stood triumphantly atop a chair that was noticeably bending under his weight.
Apollo chased a tiny cat carrying a glowing sun over its head.
Hermes pedaled furiously while winged sandals flew several meters behind him because, apparently, even they couldn’t keep up.
Every drawing was messy.
Every expression was exaggerated.
Every single one somehow captured exactly who they were.
No captions.
No notes.
Just joy.
For a long moment, none of us said anything.
Quan smiled first. It was the smallest smile I’d seen on him all day.
“She really gave everything she had.”
Tram traced one corner of the paper with her thumb.
A quiet laugh escaped her.
“This…”
She shook her head.
“This is so Quynh.”
Looking around at the battered props, the ridiculous sketches, and three ordinary men who had somehow become Greek gods for an afternoon, I felt something tighten in my chest.
She hadn’t just taken photographs.
She had wandered through the city collecting people, convincing complete strangers to become part of impossible stories, then leaving them with memories bizarre enough to retell long after the costumes were gone.
And now the person who had created all of that had disappeared without leaving herself anyone to laugh with.
The three former gods wished us luck.
Zeus raised his plastic lightning bolt in farewell.
Apollo saluted with his guitar.
Hermes rang the rusted bicycle bell with all the dignity of an Olympic herald.
Then they drifted back to their ordinary lives.
We still had no idea where Quynh was.
But somehow, after walking through the wonderfully absurd wreckage she’d left behind, finding her felt more important than ever.
~~~•••~~~
After saying goodbye to Quynh’s retired pantheon, the three of us wandered down to the riverbank and quietly admitted defeat.
For today, at least.
We settled onto the concrete embankment as evening spread across the city. The river gathered the last light into ribbons of gold and orange, carrying them downstream as though daylight had simply decided to leave us behind.
No one spoke for a long while.
It wasn’t awkward.
Just… the kind of silence that comes after spending an entire day trying to save someone you care about and realizing you can’t do it for them.
Tram finally broke it.
“She’s been carrying this alone for a long time.”
Her voice almost disappeared beneath the sound of the water.
“I knew her father expected a lot from her.”
She paused, watching the current.
“I just never realized every photograph had started feeling like another exam.”
Quan hugged his knees.
“I always thought she was just…”
He searched for a word.
“…professionally insane.”
“She is,” I said.
He nodded.
“Yeah.”
“But I thought she was fearless.”
He looked out across the river.
“Turns out she was just… better at hiding how scared she was than the rest of us.”
Nobody corrected him.
Because nobody could.
I leaned back against my hands.
“We only knew the version of Quynh she wanted us to know.”
“The one recruiting strangers into Greek mythology.”
“The one who somehow convinced retired uncles they were Olympian gods.”
“The one who could spend six hours searching for a puddle because it had, apparently, ‘emotional depth.’”
A small smile found Tram before fading again.
“We laughed at all of that.”
She looked down.
“But we never stopped to ask why she needed the world to look magical in the first place.”
The words settled heavily between us.
For the first time since meeting Quynh, I wondered if all those ridiculous adventures hadn’t been an escape from reality.
Maybe they had been a way of surviving it.
No one was ready to break the silence. The river seemed content to do enough talking for the rest of us.
As we sat watching the current carry the last ribbons of sunlight downstream, something farther along the bank caught my eye.
An old man sat on a broad stone with a bamboo fishing rod resting loosely across his knees. Beside him, a skinny orange-and-white stray cat watched the river with exactly the same patient expression.
Neither of them looked particularly interested in fishing.
After a while, the old man sighed.
“No luck today.”
The cat answered with a short meow.
“I know,” he said with a nod. “They’ve unionized.”
The cat blinked.
“You think better worms would’ve helped? Fair criticism.”
Quan frowned.
“…Is he negotiating with a cat?”
Before any of us could answer, the old man murmured almost to himself,
“…Πάντα ῥεῖ.”
The cat meowed again.
“I suppose everything does flow,” the old man agreed. “Though I imagine even Heraclitus would’ve complained about the mosquitoes.”
Something about his voice made my chest tighten.
Months ago, after I’d run away from my apartment and hidden inside a filthy public restroom, I’d heard that same impossible calm drifting through the stall door.
I had never seen the man’s face—only a stray cat and a stranger who somehow made receiving life advice while taking a dump seem perfectly reasonable.
Before I realized I was moving, I was already walking toward him.
“I know him.”
Tram and Quan exchanged a puzzled glance before following.
The old man never looked away from the water.
“Took you long enough.”
Quan stopped.
“…Excuse me?”
“I’ve been waiting almost twelve minutes.”
The cat meowed.
“I know,” the old man replied. “Traffic.”
Only then did he glance over his shoulder. Most of his face remained hidden beneath the worn hat, but the smile was unmistakable.
“Hello again, kid.”
“You remember me?”
“You were hiding in a public restroom because life had become inconvenient.” He chuckled. “That’s not the sort of meeting one forgets.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
“…Fair.”
He looked me over with quiet satisfaction.
“Still running?”
“Less than before.”
“Good.”
His gaze drifted to Tram and Quan.
“You’ve collected more trouble since then.”
“We’re not trouble,” Quan protested.
The cat looked directly at him.
“…We’re memorable,” Quan corrected.
Tram impatiently stepped forward.
“We’re looking for our friend, Quynh. Do you know her?”
The old man’s smile softened as he watched the river for another moment, as if he was being carried back by quiet nostalgia.
“I knew Poseidon.” He suddenly spoke. “For four hours. When a remarkably enthusiastic young photographer decided Poseidon was mismanaging the sea and promoted me with a plastic trident.”
All three of us exchanged glances.
“It bent almost immediately, but I accepted it anyway. One shouldn’t refuse gifts offered with that much sincerity.”
“Tell me,” the old man said. “When your friend photographs the world, what is she looking for?”
“The honest,” Tram answered without hesitation.
“You’re smart.”
He nodded approvingly.
“Funny thing about people. They spend years searching for somewhere they can finally become themselves, only to overlook the one place where they already are.”
Quan scratched his head.
“…I don’t think I followed that.”
“You will.”
The old man slowly reeled in his empty line.
“You’re asking where Quynh went. I’d ask a different question.”
He looked at me.
“Where did Quynh never have to pretend?”
The cat gave a quiet meow.
“I know,” the old man agreed. “It’s a rare place.”
My thoughts raced.
University?
No.
Home?
Definitely not.
Then..
“The old apartment rooftop.” I whispered. “Where she first made me Hades.”
Quan’s eyes lit up with realization.
It’s the place where Quynh’d first put a paper crown on my head, declared me King of the Underworld, and transformed an ordinary evening into the beginning of all this beautiful nonsense.
Back then I’d thought she was simply inviting me to a game.
Little did I know she’d led me into her own world—a world where she could freely be as unhinged as she wanted. Not just me, but she’d also opened that door for Minh, Quan, and Tram. Probably because of how much trust she had for us.
The old man gathered his fishing rod beneath one arm as the cat stood beside him.
As they walked away, he raised a hand without turning.
“Don’t search for Athena.”
He paused just long enough for the words to settle.
“Search for Quynh.”
The cat glanced back with what looked suspiciously like disappointment that we’d needed the explanation.
Or perhaps that was simply the natural expression of all cats.
I couldn’t tell.
They disappeared into the evening crowd, leaving only the sound of the river behind.
Tram let out a slow breath.
“So… we just took directions from a homeless philosopher.”
“…Whose cat was somehow involved,” Quan added.
Then he clapped his hands together.
“Well, I’ve made worse decisions.”
I looked toward the fading skyline where the rooftop waited beyond the buildings.
For the first time all day, we weren’t searching blindly anymore.
We knew exactly where to go.
