Bear v. Shark (4 page)

Family vacation, big day, it’s important to start your day off, you know,
right
.

If you can’t have a nutritious breakfast, then at least have something that is an important part of one.

The Normans all together except for maybe one of the kids, sitting at the kitchen table in front of a Television like families used to, damn Rockwell print here.

The kid outside is at the edge of the lawn, pretending to juggle four sharp objects.

Chocolate waffle bears, chewy caramel sharks, and little marshmallows in the shapes of lawyers, guns, and money. Shark Pup Scratch-N-Sniff in Specially Marked Boxes.

The cereal box (Specially Marked) says, “Now available in Family Size and Today’s Hectic World Size.”

The cereal box says, “Kids love the taste, adults love the mid-morning competitive advantage that it confers.”

The cereal box says, “Did you hear the one about the foolhardy mouse who clicked on a sleeping bear? (Punch line inside!)”

The cereal box says, “Provides 75% of your daily nougat and 100% of your daily fun!”

The cereal box says, “Warning: Pregnant women should not eat the marshmallows.”

The cereal box says, “Test your knowledge of bears and sharks with this fun True or False quiz.”

The cereal box says, “Wallace might have beaten Darwin to it if he’d only had an entertaining and nutritious breakfast!”

The cereal box says, “Visit our Web site.”

The cereal box says, “Free pager inside.”

The cereal box says, “Ten simple things you can do to cut down on mass starvation.”

Mrs. Norman says, “Well, I guess we should get the car loaded.”

The punch line (inside!) says, “The bear didn’t get mad, he got even. He waited until the mouse and his family were all asleep inside their den and then he burst in and opened fire, killing everyone. Sweet revenge!”

The Television says Bear v. Shark Cereal is the official cereal of Bear v. Shark II.

One of the boys says the way he heard it was that the bear hacked the mouse family up with one of those curvy-bladed Grim Reaper – type deals.

Machete?

No, a scythe.

The Normans load the Sport Utility Vehicle (SUV). There is no rain. The morning sky is sky blue. Bloated, billowy clouds float gently across the sky like dead fish in a lake. The sky is not so much blue as it is brown.

Someone says, Cumulative clouds.

Someone says, Calamari olives, tubal litigation, ulterior motif.

Curtis says, “That one looks like a derringer.”

Matthew turns his head sideways and stares at the bloated fish-clouds. He says, “It looks more like a battle-ax to me.”

Curtis says, “No, not that one. Over here. See the harpoon? It’s just to the left of that.”

Matthew says, “Whatever.”

Mrs. Norman checks the thermometer on the side of the house. She says, “Golly, no wonder it’s so hot.”

The e-atlas says it’s 812 miles to Las Vegas. It recommends that the Normans take two days to get there (Thursday and Friday), which gives them much of Saturday to see the sights in what is often referred to as the World’s Most Amusing Country. The big show is Saturday night at the Darwin Dome — 9
P.M.
Eastern Standard Time, 6
P.M.
Pacific.

The e-atlas recommends that the Normans visit the World’s Largest Billboard, the World’s Funnest Virtual Water Park, and the World’s Original Gambling Monkey, all of which are located within the Museum of Las Vegas Secession.

The families in the houses on each side of the Normans’ house gather at curtained, pressure-treated windows to peek out high and low at the lucky American family next door. Think about it, it could have been us. What’s so special about the Normans? It
should
have been us. Dammit, why can’t our family go to Las Vegas to be healed and entertained? The disappointments in this life just stack up.

Mr. Norman looks at his front yard. He thinks it is beginning to crack, chip, and peel. He thinks it is beginning to flake and fade. It is not a healthy lawn.

He hoists suitcases into the SUV. He says, “How did you get the CD out?”

Mrs. Norman says, “What?”

Mr. Norman, his dental work tingling and popping with colorless, odorless waves of data, says, “Your dream. The turtle. The CD.”

A man’s sign says, “Down on luck. Can you spare any change. God bless.”

Mrs. Norman says, “Oh, yes.”

Mr. Norman says, “How did you get the CD out of the turtle?”

Curtis walks over to the other kid on the lawn. The kid’s name is Lloyd and he lives five houses down and he’s not really like the other kids. His front yard was once orange for a few days before the threatening letters, the midnight calls, the broken windows. It’s green now.

Mrs. Norman says, “Oh, it was the darnedest thing. I had to take an ice pick and smash the turtle’s shell.”

Lloyd says, “Hi, Curtis.”

Curtis says, “Hi, Lloyd.”

Lloyd is pretending to jump rope. Occasionally the imaginary rope catches his foot and he says “darn” or “for Pete’s sake” and he begins again. Lloyd says, “Do you have your passport ready?”

Curtis says, “I don’t know.”

Lloyd says, “My mother won’t let me play Bear v. Shark.”

Curtis says, “Everyone knows.”

Lloyd says, “She thinks it’s dumb and violent.”

Curtis says, “It’s just for fun.”

Lloyd practices the fox-trot, smirking coyly at an invisible partner.

Curtis says, “Is she plotting its downfall?”

Lloyd says, “She’s not plotting anything. She never comes outside anymore.”

Curtis says, “Everyone knows.”

Lloyd winks and says, “The pleasure is all mine.”

Curtis says, “Is she crazy?”

Lloyd stops dancing. His small sneakers have too many stripes to be the right kind.
Way
too many. His shirt is terry cloth.

He says, “Maybe.”

Matthew says, “Curtis, get over here and help.”

Lloyd says, “My mom told me to come here and tell you to be careful.”

Curtis says, “Me?”

Lloyd does a crisp cartwheel on the lawn, and then another one. He says, “Yes. She said to be very careful.”

Matthew says, “Come
on,
butthole.”

Curtis has been in and out of plenty of dangerous situations, and he’s got the calluses on his gaming thumb to prove it. He says, “Nobody gets hurt in Bear v. Shark, Lloyd.”

Lloyd does a magic trick and holds out his open hand to Curtis. There’s a small glassy ball in his palm.

Curtis says, “At school, when our class voted. It was tied. Fourteen bear votes and fourteen shark votes.”

Lloyd says, “Curtis, do you want my lucky marble?”

Curtis says, “But there are twenty-nine of us in class.”

Lloyd says, “You should take it.”

Curtis says, “You didn’t vote, did you?”

Matthew throws a stick at Curtis.

Curtis says, “’Bye, Lloyd,” and walks back to the driveway. The driveway is painted black.

Lloyd takes off toward home, on either a pretend horse or a pretend motorcycle.

Matthew says, “His mom is totally crazy.”

Curtis says, “Hey Matt, what’s a marble?”

Meanwhile.

The Last Folksinger and the Last Folksinger’s Dog climb into their beat-up van and point it toward Las Vegas. The Last Folksinger is tired.

His guitar says, “This machine kills fake animals.”

While he drives, the Last Folksinger opens his fan mail.

One letter says, “If I were you, I wouldn’t step one foot across the border, you pinko shithead.”

Another letter in blue crayon says, “Your going to be dead fucker.”

Woody’s got his head out the window, he’s licking the wind, ears pinned back, eyes all squinty.

Another letter says, “1. You are useless. 2. This is America. 3. I hate you.”

The Last Folksinger closes the mailbag and takes a harmonica from his shirt pocket and plays “Rambling BvS Blues No. 8,” one hand on the wheel.

The weigh station is closed, the left lane ends, the speeding fines are doubled in a work zone.

Woody turns three times on the ripped vinyl bench seat, sighs, and puts his big yellow Lab head on the Last Folksinger’s lap. His brow looks kind of furrowed and worried the way a dog’s can.

Mr. and Mrs. Norman checking the house one last time. Some of the little red lights are flashing and some are not. Everything seems OK.

What exactly are hatches and how does one batten them down?

A phone rings.

Hello.

Mr. Norman.

Yes.

How are you today?

I’m happy with my long-distance service.

And yet?

I’m afraid I have to go. I’m on my way out the door.

I know.

What?

Mr. Norman, you don’t really care who wins, do you?

Who is this?

One of you.

I’m happy with my Internet service provider.

It’s not really important, is it? The outcome.

Who is this? I’ve got to go.

Mr. Norman, have you ever heard of TeleTown?

Of course.

What do you know about it?

Everyone knows about TeleTown. It’s the scenic bivouac featured on so many postcards and calendars and screensavers.

There’s more.

Gypsies live there and make cookies. There are a million TVs, with more arriving all the time.

You don’t know everything about TeleTown.

I don’t really know what a bivouac is.

Just know that we’re out here.

Who? Where? What are you selling?

Travel well.

Wait.

Yes?

Help me.

What?

I’m happy with my car insurance.

Good-bye.

Mrs. Norman says, “Who was that?”

Mr. Norman says, “A mysterious caller.”

Mrs. Norman says, “Well what did they want?”

Mr. Norman says, “That is exactly what I don’t know.”

The Normans of America aren’t even out of their suburban driveway when Curtis, the younger of the two boys, starts talking from the back of the Sport Utility Vehicle (SUV) about this couple that had a baby even though the woman had been in prison a long time but the husband had met her on a conjurer visit and they cut holes in their jeans and hid from the security cameras in the visiting room.

Mr. Norman (driving) says, “Jesus.” He is mildly aroused. The part about the holes in the jeans.

Mrs. Norman (front, passenger side) says, “That’s
conjugal
visit, Curtis.”

Curtis says, “What did I say?”

Mr. Norman, neck cradled in the Vibra-Dream Plus, says, “You said jugular visit.”

Curtis says, “Oh. Well that’s what they said on the Television.”

Mr. Norman says, “They said jugular visit on the Television?”

Curtis says, “Yeah, on the Prison Network.”

Mr. Norman says, “Huh.”

Mrs. Norman, feet resting flat on the floor shoulder width apart, says, “No, honey, you said
conjurer
visit.”

Curtis says, “I could have sworn I said jugular.”

Mrs. Norman says, “And I don’t really want you talking about prison sex back there.”

Somewhere nearby something explodes, rattling the futuristic cup holders in the Sport Utility Vehicle. Somewhere nearby someone screams.

Curtis says, “Well, that’s just what they said on the Television.”

Mr. Norman says, “Gosh, people do find a way, don’t they?”

Mrs. Norman says, “Larry.”

The Normans (husband and wife) have not slept in the same bed in some time. Mr. Norman sleeps not well. Mrs. Norman has turned to Posture. They met somewhere and they fell in love and they both just
knew
it was right and there were nights, weren’t there nights?, all coiled up with their silly, tender jokes and their fingers tracing faces, the ruined sheets, the smell of their bodies, the ache and shimmer of the future, some clock somewhere chiming three, then four, on a weeknight. Curtis says something and then Matthew says something. There were nights, his lips on the pulse of her neck, whispering Sweetheart let’s make love in every state of the union and Vegas, too. Sweetheart I want to memorize you.

It wasn’t a movie. It may have happened. It wasn’t a movie.

Mr. Norman drives the Sport Utility Vehicle through neighborhoods lined with splendid trees, their thick trunks columned in classical decay, their black, leafless branches like skeleton fingers reaching over the oily streets.

It always seemed like her hair, Mrs. Norman’s hair, got curlier while she slept. In the morning a beautiful mess.

Mr. Norman says, “What kind of trees, boys?” A quiz.

The boys say, “Dead.”

Mr. Norman says, “Aha, but a dead mouse is still a mouse.”

Mrs. Norman says, “It’s all this heat.”

Mr. Norman says, “I thought it was all those chemicals in the ground.”

Matthew says, “I thought it was Dutch lime disease.”

Mrs. Norman says, “Well, yes, but it’s the heat that makes the chemicals so bad. It’s a symbiotic relationship.”

She (the cordless vibrating pillow) says, “You, sir, are a fantastic driver.”

Matthew says to Curtis (his younger brother), “
Conjurer
visit?”

Matthew says, “You a moron.”

Curtis says, “You.”

They met and fell in love. He had never seen anyone ski like that. A woman skimming across the top of water will melt your heart. A woman with tan arms and her own life vest will make you forget all the others.

Matthew says, “You a dick sandwich.”

Curtis says, “
You’re
the dick sandwich.”

Matthew says, “I don’t need this from you, bear-hugger.”

Mrs. Norman says, “It’s penis, boys, and that’s enough.”

Matthew says, “You don’t even have an idea what a penis sandwich is.”

Curtis says, “I do, too.”

Mr. Norman says, “Neither do I.”

He (our hero) steers the burgundy Sport Utility Vehicle (SUV) around the entrance ramp and onto the freeway, weaving a slalom course around the scorched black husks of burned-out American sedans with power windows and antilock brakes.

The Normans are on their way.