Bear v. Shark (6 page)

Is Dutch elm disease technically Dutch?

What do you mean by technically?

Is the elm Dutch or the disease or both?

It’s an example of what they refer to essentially as an unclear moderator.

Like large animal clinic?

Like dirty book publisher.

Like small Television room?

Like red wine glass.

Like thick juicy steaks?

No.

What about Dutch uncle?

You can’t say Dutch uncle anymore. That’s like calling somebody a dwarf. They like to be called little people.

Dutch uncles want to be called little people?

You can’t say Dutch courage anymore either because that’s offensive to drunk people.

How about Dutch oven?

That’s OK.

Dutch door?

Fine.

Dutch Guiana?

We say Suriname now.

Dutch cheese, Dutch auction, Dutch clover, Dutchman’s breeches, Dutch Colonial?

All OK.

Dutch treat?

Oh the flaming dessert.

No you’re thinking of bananas Florentine.

A public service announcement (PSA) from Jasper Palace, the voice of Uncle Jaws on the Tuesday-night situational comedy
The Sharkleys
:

Rise up, Jasp Palace here, and this is a big bullhorn to all the preadults out there. Hey, we all know how much funny fun bears and sharks are, right? Jam on toast, mes enfants!

But hear me out, you teen machines, there is a flip to the up. A bear or a shark can also be a very serious and even life-threatening matter. Last year alone, sixteen people were killed — that’s sixteen corpsy corpses, my deputy dogs — dozens were injured, and hundreds more were arrested when they tried to take American-style fun and entertainment into their own felonious, no-thinkin’ hands.

Use your lobe, kids. Leave the Bear v. Shark scrap to the computer tie-guys. If someone you know wants to get hold of one of these beasty beasts or arrange a real fight, just walk away. Show ’em your bakery! See, the cockfights ain’t pipin’. And parents, it’s never too early to talk to your kids about the dangers of obtaining live bears and sharks, or pitting them against each other in a real duel. Zip, let’s keep Bear v. Shark safe, fun, and lawful.
Yes, ma’am.

Fricky-frack, hypes. See you on Tuesday nights.

Don’t forget about the Normans.

They’re taking a trip to Las Vegas. They’re making good time, too, by the looks of the billboards and retail centers whizzing past. Sometimes you have to tear down a big store and put a bigger one where the big one used to be. The bigger store holds more stuff.

The family has traveled 194 American miles and Mr. Norman knows it.

A billboard says, “Exit now for Planet Peanut Brittle.” There is a picture of a guy in a space suit walking across lumpy brown candy, giving a thumbs-up to Mission Control. The image is somehow both futuristic and nostalgic. Janus-faced: It’s the sticky treat for the new millennium, but it’s also the irresistible snack you remember as a child. The aftertaste of time. Our special ingredient is memory. Those PR wizards, they’ve done what nobody thought they could do: they’ve dusted off peanut brittle, updated it, refurbished it, made it appropriate for today’s hectic world. It’s not your granny’s recipe. It’s PB2K. They’ve made peanut brittle timeless, cross-generational. Peanut brittle is back, more relevant than ever, exit
now
.

Mr. Norman exits. It’s good to be spontaneous on a trip.

Mrs. Norman is playing an electronic knitting game. The way you win is to make a scarf or an afghan or a turtleneck sweater, except it’s not a real sweater you can wear. There is a cross-stitch cartridge, too. And one called
Darning Mania!

Mrs. Norman says, “Where are you going?”

Brittle sticks, brittle logs, brittle rings.

Mr. Norman says, “I thought we’d get some peanut brittle.”

Matthew says, “What I’m saying is just try getting it out of your bicuspids.”

Mrs. Norman looks up from her knitting game. She’s on Mittens Level. There is the sound of a clock and then the sound of smashing glass. Game over. With knitting, you hesitate, you die.

Mrs. Norman says, “Larry, you know I’m allergic to peanut brittle. It makes my tongue swell up.”

Mr. Norman says, “What?”

Mrs. Norman says, “You know that.”

Mr. Norman parks the SUV in the spacious parking lot of Planet Peanut Brittle. There’s a guy with a fin taped to his back handing out coupons.

Mr. Norman says, “Well, we’ll get the kind without peanuts.”

Mrs. Norman says, “No, it’s the brittle that makes me so sick. I’m allergic to the brittle. I’m fine with peanuts.”

Mr. Norman turns off the car but keeps both hands on the wheel. He’s staring straight ahead. Sometimes he gets so tired.

He says, “You’ve always been allergic?”

Mrs. Norman says, “Something in the brittle. My tongue just fills my mouth.”

Curtis says, “Let’s see, Mom.”

Mrs. Norman says, “It was a nice thought, though.”

It’s brittle-rific.

Mrs. Norman says, “Let’s go ahead and get some lunch while we’re stopped.”

Matthew says, “Hey, how many bears does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

Was Mrs. Norman a graceful water skier? Where is her birthmark and what is its shape? What really funny thing did she do when she was five? Does she like the pulp in her orange juice? Where was the honeymoon? What is the feel of your naked belly pressed against someone else’s? Quick, what grade is Matthew in? How is Curtis doing in school? Do the other kids like him? Just who
are
these people in the car with Mr. Norman and what makes their tongues swell? It’s 618 miles to Las Vegas, but then what? A bear, a shark, a level playing field.

Mr. Norman rests his head on the steering wheel.

He says, “Five.”

Here’s what happened, essentially:

HardCorp told Las Vegas that if the city didn’t build a 65,000-seat arena for “Bear v. Shark II: Red in Tooth and Claw,” the big show would move elsewhere. The corporation had gotten plenty of nice offers from other cities, including Los Angeles and Buffalo and Miami.

Vegas officials crunched the numbers and figured out that the city could tear down three casinos, build the Darwin Dome for the big event, then tear down the dome and rebuild the casinos, and still come out in the black.

Done deal, technically.

The best tickets went to executives, politicians, military officers, movie stars, professional athletes and wrestlers, TV personalities, foreign dignitaries, puppet despots, models, gangsters, and game show hosts.

Fifteen thousand tickets were available through a lottery. Over 21 million (21,000,000) people entered the lottery, and the lucky winners were given the opportunity to buy two tickets for $2,500 each.

A handful of tickets were given away in Specially Marked Boxes of Sea-n-Lea Meat Snacks, void where prohibited, check package for details.

And four tickets were given to the family of the winner of a national essay contest open to elementary school students. Students were to write a 250-word response to the question, “What does Bear v. Shark mean to America?”

Curtis Norman of America, who had gotten chubby on Sea-n-Lea Meat Snacks, won the essay contest.

How many bears does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

How many?

Five. One to screw in the bulb and four to pick sharks’ teeth out of their asses.

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Bear.

Bear who?

Bear with me while I kick this shark’s ass.

An invisible bear goes to see the doctor and sits in the waiting room.

The receptionist, who just happens to be a shark, says to the invisible bear, “I’m sorry, the doctor can’t see you right now.”

Why did the chicken cross the road?

To get a better look at the [
bear
or
shark
] ripping off the [
shark’s
or
bear’s
] head and feasting on its entrails.

Hey, do you know what they used to call the Internet when it first became available?

I give up.

Get this: The
Information Superhighway
.

The sign says, “Ma’s Old-Fashioned Interstate Tavern.”

Another sign says, “Bear and Shark lottery tickets sold here.”

Another sign says, “If you can bearly stand the heat, then shark your car and come on in!”

Mrs. Norman says, “This looks good.”

The hostess says, “Four for lunch?”

She (the hostess) says, “Smoking or nonsmoking?”

She says, “Internet access?”

The Normans follow the paw prints on the tile floor to their booth. Mr. Norman wonders what might be the best way to kill yourself. He saw it on a Television program. It was a contest.

Mrs. Norman asks the waitress if Ma’s Old-Fashioned Interstate Tavern BearBurger is really made out of bear or if that’s just a cute name like the Sharka Colada.

The waitress says, “I’ll go check.”

A pop singer says, “Baby baby baby baby.”

Thoreau says, “We are in great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas;”

There is a Television mounted to the wall above the Normans’ booth. A reporter is on some busy city street, interviewing passersby. It might be New Orleans, maybe Lansing.

Matthew plays handheld Bear Killer. The game says, “Beep, beep. Grrrrrrr.”

He (Matthew) says, “I saw on the Internet that people get
real
bears and sharks to fight.”

Mrs. Norman says, “Yes, I read about that. They’re called cock-fights.”

Curtis, the youngest boy, raised on sugar substitute and embedded chips and digital enhancement, says, “What?”

Mrs. Norman says, “They’re called that because male sharks and male bears are known as cocks.”

Curtis says, “What do they call the women?”

Mr. Norman stares at the Television. You could jump off something high, for instance. He says, “They say the shark almost always wins.”

Matthew pokes Curtis in the neck. He says, “See.”

Curtis says, “Ow.”

The pop singer says, “Oooh yeah, don’t you feel it, baby?”

The waitress says, “It’s just a normal hamburger.”

Mrs. Norman says, “So it’s made from a cow?”

The waitress, who sometimes cries for no apparent reason and who answers “strongly agree” to the question, often posed on psychological evaluations, “Do you often have feelings of despair and hopelessness?,” says, “I’ll go check.”

Bear Killer says, “Tick tick tick tick.” Time is running out. See, if you don’t find the bear den, infiltrate it, and kill all three cubs with a big rock in a certain amount of time, the mother bear comes home and gores you with a halberd.

The guy in the booth next to the Normans says, “I saw one cock-fight Web site that said the bear picked up the shark over his head and threw it into the audience, injuring five.”

Curtis says, “Fricky-frack, hypes.”

Matthew says, “Yeah, but that same Web site also said that the bear shouted, ‘I vanquish thee,’ as he threw the shark which I doubt very seriously he did.”

Thoreau says, “but Maine and Texas, it may be, have nothing important to communicate.”

Mr. Norman looks down from the Television at the guy in the next booth over. The guy’s eyes look funny. The guy keeps glancing at Mr. Norman and making quick jerking motions with his head. Toward something, the dessert case or the rest rooms or the Zoloft Smoothie Kiosk (ZSK).

Curtis says, “The Internet raises some thorny issues about credibility and ethos.”

Everyone looks at Curtis, this preadult, this virtual madman. At his Keyboard he has taken countless lives, ain’t no thing, he has received outrageous sexual favors from CyberWhores with tits out to here, digital fucking machines born to pleasure Curtis Norman.

Matthew (to Curtis) says, “Shut
up,
fag.”

Mr. Norman knows that you would want to wait until after Bear v. Shark II, of course. You could electrocute yourself easily enough, it seems. There’s electricity everywhere.

A woman on the Television clutching a bag of groceries tells the reporter that sharks are, like, 90 percent teeth.

Curtis says, “It was on the Internet. Some professor had a Web site. He turned out not to be a professor, just a fisherman who reads a lot, but I think his point about ethos still holds.”

The waitress says, “It’s mostly cow.”

The Normans order BearBurgers. And Sharky Temples for the kids.

Curtis says, “Can you pass the sugar substitute?”

A guy on the Television wearing a bike helmet and a blood-soaked shirt says that bears are as fast as cougars.

Matthew says, “What you have to remember is that a person who reads the Sunday
New York Times
gets more information than a French villager in the eighteenth century got in his whole lifetime.”

Mrs. Norman says, “
Their
whole lifetime.”

The head-jerking funny-eyed guy in the next booth says, “Yes, but people are living longer now.”

Mr. Norman, there was always carbon monoxide, says, “Where did you hear that information?”

Matthew says, “Some show on French villagers. Turns out they had real problems with gum disease.”

Mrs. Norman says, “The way I heard it was that a person who habitually reads newspapers knows more, in essence, than an eighteenth-century French person.”

Curtis says, “The point is that it’s hard to know what to believe.”

Matthew says, “No, the point is that there is a lot of stuff to believe.”

Mr. Norman says, “Isn’t the point that you shouldn’t believe anything?”

The waitress says, “Aren’t those all the same point?”

The reporter on the Television says, “Back to you, Derek.”