Wide Eyed Read online

  The bat didn’t eat the mantis.

  I moved to the desert to escape the noise and crap in Los Angeles. L.A.’s air felt gunky on my skin. Just walking outside I’d acquire greasy layers. I washed my face three or four times a day. Four hounds next door started barking at dawn every morning. The city felt claustrophobic and dingy, even at night when I was most alive. I couldn’t see stars. I’d sit at my desk spying through binoculars into other people’s houses. Even then, I only saw TVs flickering— no naked woman dancing, no stoner getting high. Everyone was so boring. Worst of all, I hated driving the grids; it made me feel stupid, like a termite. All the daily plugging away in the car, on the phone, on the computer, in the kitchen, shopping, getting dressed, talking, thinking, behaving, and controlling amounted to nothing more than survival, something that a termite does so easily with no financial security or brains.

  It wasn’t fair: all the responsibilities, all the years of moral preparation and schooling, for no more accomplishment (a rented house, decent meals) than that of an insect. You think humans are superior, but they’re really not—think of all the amazing feats termites can pull off that we can’t: chewing and digesting wood, carrying things hundreds of times their weight, building massive muddy towers and secure tunnel systems, communicating telepathically without language. Being human is a gyp.

  So when my first cat was fatally hit by a car, I decided to move where animals lived more naturally, where the species intermingled, where I could feel more like an animal. But then my second cat died.

  The only official party I hosted in the desert was a Burgertime Party. About eight friends drove out from the city to spend the night. They were old friends whom I hadn’t seen in months. They’d been offended when I moved away, as if I were snubbing them for being dull. At the time, I was. But after a year of solitudinous living, I was tired of hosting animal parties, during which I’d down a couple bottles of red wine while searching every room and porch for other living things—kangaroo rats, moths, lizards, scorpions. Here’s a typical animal party:

  1. Snoop through the vegetable bin in the refrigerator for leafy greens. Tear half a leaf off something.

  2. Hunt the pantry for seeds, sunflower or sesame, for instance, and put some in a cup.

  3. Look for something to feed the snacks to. If nothing reveals itself, go visit the black widow in her web on the back porch, leaving a small food pile beneath her. Do not hand feed.

  Nights became so nonverbal.

  So at the video game event we sat in a tendril-like arc around the TV screen with cords connecting us to the electronics. The Middle Eastern–inflected Burgertime theme song made us feel like we were surrounded by belly dancers in some exotic, smoky nightclub. I tried to remember how to make conversation.

  “Put the cheese down before you sprinkle pepper on the egg. That’s the only way you’ll have time to finish the level,” I told my friend Belinda.

  “I’m so bad at these games!” she yelled, and threw down the controller.

  Jordan, a more serious video game player, told me, “You must’ve mastered this thing by now. You have so much time to play.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m pathetic. Even if I played twentyfour hours a day, I couldn’t win. The pickle kicks my ass every time.” This confession made me somber again, since I thought about the irony of hosting a party featuring a game I sucked at. It was like hosting a pie party with burnt-up pie. Or a hat party while wearing a stained and faded baseball cap.

  “What do you do all day, then?” another girl asked.

  “Not much. I look around a lot, listen to sounds. Watch the sun rise and set.” It sounded histrionic, but I was just summarizing.

  That was the end of talking. No one had much to say on those topics. Before, I thought they were boring, and now I was boring. I wished I were at an animal party.

  Toward the end of the night, my neighbor Mildred called. She was ninety-three and survived on a respirator. She’d lived her whole life in the desert working as a waitress at the local diner. Sometimes she’d call me if her oxygen cords were tangled around the leg of a table, or if she needed a hand moving the boxy air machine. But this time she called to warn me.

  “Is your cat in?” she asked.

  “I don’t have a cat anymore, remember?” I answered sadly.

  “Well, the bobcat’s making its way up the street, and it’s headed for your yard,” she said. “That same one came around here about five years ago and got Hal’s cat. Lock the door and you’ll be all right.”

  I thanked her for calling and hung up. I’d always wanted to see a wildcat close up. We stopped playing Burgertime and killed the lights. This was enough action to impress my city friends, and we rolled another joint. Once we were settled and stoned, the cat wandered up casually onto the patio, and stared in my window. It had pointy fuzz on its ear tips and was three times as big as a house cat. Orangish-brown coat with slight stripes. Everyone had a peek, then went back to talking. Their chattering annoyed me.

  I kept peering out until the bobcat and I finally made eye contact. I tried not to blink. The intensity of relating to a wildcat gave me mystical dreams for weeks. I dreamed about being half-human, halfanimal— mixed genera. When I spoke, meows came out. Not even my parents understood me.

  In one dream I lived with woodrats under a boulder. I sat there naked and shivering while I watched them nestle into their rough bed, huddling together in a furry, warm mass. They winked at me with their long black eyelashes looking glamorous in the breeze that was freezing me.

  When your cat dies, sleeping feels so empty. It’s that same emptiness you get when everything’s predictable, planned. The running errands, empty. The not-enough-time-in-the-day, empty. You can’t bury your hand in the cat’s belly fur or pull its whiskers up to inspect the tiny fangs. Interaction with pets helps me sleep more soundly.

  I got my first cat—the one who was run over— because she was free and cute. I lived alone, worked at a deli. In the evenings I’d make her cat-sized sandwiches with cheese, fish, kibble, cantaloupe, bologna, peas, and other favorites. We ate out of the same dish. She had a triple-row turquoise and pink rhinestone collar that accentuated her blue eyes. We were both horny, but neither of us wanted to give it up for just anyone.

  When you’re female and single, a female single cat is a surrogate sister. Two innocent creatures, not virgins, just sweet. I hated my job and was so broke I didn’t even open bills—just tossed them, sealed envelopes, into the dumpster. I bought an ice cream cone for my cat and I to lick. Cats serve as pillows. They pull weeds with you out in the garden, eat roaches and other bugs you hate to squash, and perform countless other duties—not every duty (like fixing broken light fixtures or taking the trash out), but enough. I don’t need to convince everyone of how great cats are.

  Lacking a cat combined with living in utter silence in the desert where there are no night sounds made me an insomniac. Video games are a treatment for this. That’s how Burgertime saved me.

  Playing Burgertime gives you this false sense of staying busy, as if you are personally responsible for delivering meat to mankind. Staving off starvation of the masses is an overwhelming task that requires total dedication. Catching the stuff on the bun takes on religious significance, as if it’s manna floating down from heaven. Don’t fuck up and drop the lettuce crooked on the burger or it will drift off the cliff beside you. As you read this, you think, Who cares about Burgertime? But when you’re awake all night because it’s too quiet and there’s no cat to wiggle your foot on, your deluded brain mistakes the Chef’s duties for your own. You’ll be making burgers all night sometime—just watch.

  Now I live in Los Angeles again with my new cat, an orange tabby. Last month, a friend and I went to the desert to camp and watch shooting stars. Driving in night wilderness with the high beams on, we saw an animal scurry across the road. Since I thought we were going to hit it, I yelled, Go kitty go!, thinking it was a cat. But a domestic cat wouldn’t be in the
middle of the desert. My mind had automatically gone into cat mode.

  When you go into cat mode, everything relates to your pet cat. When you walk past an aromatic shrub, you think, My cat would love that smell. You’ll wake up from a dream with a physical craving to touch cat hair. Going into cat mode is usually fine and entertaining, nothing too psychological. But death and nighttime complicate cat mode.

  I think of my cats when I see the moon, since throughout history cats have represented the moon in its various feminine forms. The goddess Diana transformed herself into a cat when Typhon forced the gods to adopt animal shapes in order to flee to Egypt. Diana traveled using moonlight to hide herself, thus associating the image of a sneaky cat crawling across the night with witchcraft. In the ancient Eastern world in which cats were worshipped, a coiled cat reminded people of the moon cycle and the divine darkness of nature.

  When I dream about the bobcat, its eyes turn gold and its fur turns black, silhouetted by cold light. Is it the proverbial Black Cat—“the cat who symbolizes that which is uncreated, the vast deep unknown, the limitless, formless, and inexpressible”1? I think back to the bobcat and wonder if it was a witch shapeshifted to illustrate some mystery.

  A bit of witch trivia—Isobel Gowdie, known as the queen of Scottish witches, was condemned to death in 1662 after revealing her spell that changed women into cats:

  I shall goe intill ane catt,

  With sorrow, and sych, and a blak shott;

  And I shall goe in the Divellis nam,

  Ay quhill I com hom againe.

  Now I never feel lonely, although I do frequently feel bored. This reminds me of an old friend who was so bored he got hooked on swimming with alligators. He was in Louisiana, near waterways where he could see the beasts surfacing and plunging down, disappearing. Every time he saw one, he’d take a swig of whiskey and jump on in. This was his cure for boredom. Will I one day be tying slabs of smoked salmon onto myself, sitting in alleys downtown waiting for feral dogs to gnaw me?

  If I feel lonely, I have my cat and I have my friends. If humans don’t work, and one cat isn’t enough (as is often the case), I can still throw animal parties with skunks, raccoons, hawks, and possums. I miss my black widow.

  My tabby loves skunks. She’s a mini-bobcat. I observe her in staring contests, and try to translate her hisses during late-night showdowns. Her eyes get slitted, turn iridescent gold, and her fur magically gets more auburn. The bristling displays her dark undercoat. I like to think of her slinking up tree trunks, pawing through grass, and catching baby snakes. But I also like it when she curls up like a cinnamon bun in my lap while I sit inside playing Burgertime.

  BIENVENIDO EL DUENDE

  Dear Elf,

  I was nine when I saw my dad placing presents under the Christmas tree in the middle of the night. The next morning I recognized my mother’s cursive on the gift tags labeled FROM: SANTA. I’d known it all along. That’s all I could think as I rode my Powder Puff Big Wheel around on the living room carpet. That’s pretty advanced thinking for a nine-year-old girl overwhelmed by piles of gifts, but I remember these thoughts. Still, sometimes I wonder, Could I really have been so savvy? Sometimes I imbue my younger self with an intelligence that couldn’t possibly have fruited. I’m also assuming elves are literate. I’ve always pictured you smarter than us, even as children.

  Anyway, after that real or imagined revelation, I just told my parents what I wanted for Christmas and got it over with. Santa was over; my slim hope that fantasy beings dwelled on Earth had been crushed. I felt defeated. Before my revelation, I was an elf busied by beliefs in the supernatural; then all at once I morphed into an adult human. I grew hairy armpits and a small shrub below.

  “Define the difference between REALITY and WISHFUL THINKING.” This was one of the many lessons that taught me fun and reality are indirectly linked. Maturity is a series of depressing realizations that what you wish for will not necessarily come true. Christmas is meant to be a remedy. It’s a distracting holiday—people temporarily forget their woes and allow themselves to be swept away by the Christmas Spirit. But why should we pretend to be happy?

  Sincerely,

  Human

  Dear Human,

  Thank you for assuming elves are literate. Most elves are born with the ancient language already within them. We can read and write in our cribs. It is not uncommon for elders to converse at length with their babies on such topics as philosophy and math.

  On the topic of celebrating depressing concepts, I’ve never understood the Catholic habit of feast days to commemorate martyrs such as St. Nicholas. I don’t understand martyrdom. What is so honorable about dying in prison, starving oneself, being burned alive, or dying of lye poisoning, for example, as was the case with my own baptismal saint, Rose of Lima?

  It’s true, I’m a Catholic elf. There are a few of us up here who have church-going parents. I happen to think going to church is the dullest pastime in the world, especially when the option of slinging gifts over Santa’s back entices me. Our church is very small; the spire is only thirty feet tall, and it’s the tallest building in the village.

  By the way, fantasy beings dwell on Earth in two forms: elves and gnomes. The gnome race is near extinction. The few remaining clans live in isolated pockets of pine forest—I can’t reveal exact locations. Elves live in cold regions. But to be accurate, fantasy beings by definition do not exist. Are you hopeless because your fantasies cannot be realized?

  Merry Christmas,

  Elf

  Elf,

  Talking to a baby about the meaning of life must be satisfying. Thank you for the tips on elves versus gnomes. If you can’t reveal village locations, can you send me a picture of yourself? Do you have a portrait you could spare? I imagine it would warrant a tiny picture frame. You must be a very cute man. Not to insult your manhood … I’ve only seen caricatures of elves: adorable green creatures with elaborate outfits.

  I’m amazed you wrote back!

  Human

  Dear Human,

  Why bother to write someone if you don’t hope they’ll write back? I don’t expect humans to write me back, but I do hope they will. It’s an innocent excitement. Enclosed is a picture of me on my 200th birthday. I have a few gray hairs that used to be green, but our greens are browner than the ones humans associate with elves. My hair used to be a ruddy green, more like the back of a bullfrog than that of the vibrant grass growing in meadows.

  Do you still think “fun and reality are indirectly linked”? Maybe you should visit the toy factory here. We eat candy and sing songs all day. And why not try writing to me about something I can relate to—like toys, snow, reindeer, or presents?

  Hopefully,

  Elf

  Dear Elf,

  You are so distinguished looking! Let’s start over. I am a middle-aged American woman, 140 lbs, 5'8″. How tall are you? Are your striped tights red and white? Do you attend elf school, or do you work in the North Pole Post Office? Who do like better, Mrs. Claus or Santa?

  To answer your question about reality, I’m saying that Christmas is a lie. Times that are supposed to be fun and aren’t are more devastating than times that you know won’t be fun, because hopes are crushed. Every holiday, especially Christmas, I think hope will sprinkle down on my head like snowflakes; just a few tiny flakes would suffice. I actually imagine hope as snow: crystalline, elusive, beautiful, unmistakable. People here hate snow because it’s depressing, but I’ve always thought hope is stored in snowstorms.

  Only recently have I begun to give up believing that good things will happen to me. All year long I work hard, but I’m underpaid. Bills stack up; I’ll never have money to own a house or car. I’m ugly with long, straggly hair that’s beginning to fall out. I keep it dyed black to look younger. Sometimes I fear I’m doomed to become as vicious as Mommie Dearest.

  There’s no wish list attached here. I have given it considerable thought and decided that to wish too many things at once can only inv
ite disaster. I’m taking some advice of yours—hope your wishes will come true. I have already wished that elves were real, and my wish came true. So I’m putting a lot of faith in you, Elf, for three reasons: you wrote me back twice, sent me a photo, and you’re Catholic, which seems significant. I’m working on Earth wishes this year, more concrete things, and if that goes well, I’ll wish for universal things in the future.

  Please write back!

  Human

  Dear Human,

  Another elf told me that some humans think Santa is Satan in disguise, since their names share the same letters. Is this true? Santa would of course disagree. Are you a Satan worshipper, and is that why you’ve been sending me such bizarre letters? If you are, please stop writing me. If you hate your life, why not end it? Suicide is plausible in elf culture. If there is an elf in crisis, we take him to the Supreme Elf Counselor in order to determine whether or not he can be alleviated of his pains. Then an Elf Council votes on his right to end his own life. Catholic Elves dispute this, but suicide has traditionally been the most merciful way to end misery. Very few elves wish to kill themselves, however. Only the males are allowed to contemplate it.

  To answer your question about which Claus I favor, I can’t answer that because Santa pays my salary and provides my family with food and cheer. Mrs. Claus brings trays of brownies and Pfeffernüsse to us while we’re toiling on the gift assembly line. Did you know each gift is not custom-crafted but rather mass-produced? I hope I haven’t caused any disillusionment by revealing this secret.

  You said you used to believe in fantasy creatures when you were a child, and now you are writing to an elf. How has your hope been crushed?

  Merry Christmas,

  Elf

  Dear Elf,

  I may be a descendant of the Vikings (I’m of Scandinavian origin), but I am not a devil worshipper. Thor is my own personal master: the god of thunder, the strongest supreme being alive. Thor is the real Santa Claus. In legends, he is old and robust, has a long white beard, and dresses in a red suit. His chariot is powered by two white goats, Cracker and Gnasher, who carry him to his palace in the North. No wonder, then, that your Claus stuffs himself down chimneys toward the hearth, the fire center. Fire is Thor’s element! How do you carry on knowing the man to whom you’ve dedicated your life’s work is a fake? He probably glues on his beard and shoves a pillow under his coat to make his belly bulge.