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“I shoot at wolves, ma'am," the hunter stares blankly at the scattered bullseyes, shoaled, and his second-half breath draws out a wispy “they just become human after.”
“After?”
“Well, after being shot, of course.” That is Jannes Nairama. He claims to see wolves at the corners of his eyes. The shapes persist, he says, and lounge around his periphery, stretching occasionally. Whenever he turns to greet them, however, they have already packed their bags and left for Hawaiian summers.
…Mister Nairama is a very interesting someone. For five months now—or rather four, seeing as February has just begun—I have been learning such curious things, things that have accumulated and worked to shape my understanding of the head guard. I should think I know a lot.
As of the present moment, I possess the following knowledge: a full name, a sex, a specific height, age and weight, a common blood type and of course, a mark thirty-two teeth would leave if a stubbled jaw were to close over textures similar to skin. Teeth are often overlooked; overflowing with personality, they deliver fresh crunch and gore. Mine, for instance, are crooked bottom-set. What does this tell my dinner about me? Does my slight overbite contribute to insentient despair? These are the sort of questions Nairama would ask during a professional chit-chat between him and his wall that vaguely resembles “ma'am”.
*Ma'am, good morning. Ma'am, good evening. Ma'am, I saw you in my dreams, I scritched your chin and you started off purring, then I stopped to pinch myself and you hissed exactly as a Siamese’d do and your spikes sprang out, and it hurt me, so it was real. Ma'am, get out of my sleep. Ma'am, ma'am, I am twice your size and I am armed, always I am armed, you can see the shine, yes? Do not upset me.*
“Do I upset you?” I tend to have my own gun pointed.
“Only when you stress yourself out. Or when you knock glass over.” He smiles with those crunchy teeth, as if he expresses himself, as if he were a pure man, as if that were possible. As if when I point out that *he* broke the glass he will not go on to run the greased snout of his revolver through horribly unhealthy blonde hair, for it’s dyed jet black, like his pubic hair—and I know this simply because Nairama can be, at times, very generous with intimate facts about himself. He apparently believes that black hair makes him a bear, and wolves, according to the bear, are deathly terrified of bears.
“If I am a bear—which I am, to them,” and he checks the room immediately, before remembering to continue, “then I must be a bear completely. The armpits, the groin, the ass, even; I must be a flawless bear. The head is not enough, ma'am.”
He won’t ever have to wait for it. My compliment bleeds upwards into the ends of the anticipatory twinkle in his snow-blue eyes. “Black is wonderful on you, bear. I mean what I say.”
…And he laps it up like honey. Or wild berries. I don’t know; I’m “Ma'am”, not a zoologist.
My degree means papers and wood pulp and bark and dry embers to him. “Psychology? You specialise in psychos?” He’ll giggle, but his pupils narrow like a male mountain goat’s when he tries to be happy. It betrays his pulse humiliatingly. I usually do not engage right then; I just let him snarl.
He asks, with enough time, “Is that why you talk to me?”
“I talk to you because you’ve signed up for it, Jannes. And because you’re charming and I enjoy our conversations.” I do not lie to him anymore. Lying is generally not recommended. I am also quite bad at the activity; the one time I lied, we found an oily barrel kissing my throat tight. Honesty is the way to go about it. Thanks to honesty, I am alive to mourn the fact that he knows my real address and has exploited it by leaving a banned copy of unnecessarily explicit literature about an antisocial pianist and her muse’s lemonade jug. Thanks to honesty, *Lemon in his pitcher* is now one of the less obscure topics we pore over on our informal outings.
*“Lemon in his pitcher is such a great book, no?”*
*“Yes, yes. What I especially love about it is how you surprised me with it. I was shocked, to say the least. To say the most, I was terrified.”*
*”Oh, sweetheart, you are extraordinarily welcome. Now, more coffee?”*
*”Jannes, I don’t drink coffee.”*
*”Are you a cat? Indeed; you *are*! Milk, then? Milk for my adorable Siamese?”*
*”…Can I have soup? Or just water, please.”*
*”Oh no you mustn’t, love. Soup and water are for prim, proper prudes. Now you may be one in the walls, because you have to be polite and whatnot, but we are on a field trip. You are different out here; I know this, *Miss two-face*. Oh, I know you. Out here you are a bear too. Your hair is dark, your eyes are so…animal, and I will guess that your other hairs are black as well—I am guessing, of course, I have no evidence, yet. But here you are a bear like me. But you are not so big. Which is not a problem, not at all, do not be ashamed. In fact you are perfect for picking-up. By me, obviously! Who else? The notion is ridicu—now, now. Do not be disheartened! You are positively lovely. Well, at least to me, you are. Come now, not every bear can be two-hundred-and-thirty pounds. Not every bear can be six-foot-five. Or do I say six-paw-five? Oh, really. Really, that makes you laugh? Laugh at me, then. Laugh at the large, embarrassed bear. He is so embarrassed, see; you have turned his face from olive to pink!”*
…
Recently, these field trips have begun to affect me. Have I become more bearish? Unlikely. Not psychically, at least, though the mentality resonates with the hungry part of me. More berries. More fish. More intimidation. More after-hour, mutual outdoor expeditions. More studying, definitely. He gives much insight into absurd fixations; one day, he may fancy speaking about his wills and wants. The next day, he may entertain silence merely to bore me. It amuses the both of us, and earns its place in our odd dynamic.
But I am unsure about where this is going. He is getting more genuine. His crimson trenchcoat has gotten redder, someway and somehow, and he now hangs his pistol next to my cap once he walks in. He’s started considering hanging the revolver too—which is concerning.
*“My bear! My cat-bear, my Ma'am, bright eyed and bushy tailed and beaming at me. Beautiful; this is what I love to see. I am so tired of the wolves. My wrists are so heavy, sweetheart, because of wolf-duty.”*
That puts us right back in the fire again.
Now that he has learnt to expect teasing, my go-to responses do not function as well as they used to. *New socks today?* no longer suffices. We have progressed to “how’s the father?”, knowing his is in a potty-urn and mine enjoys joining children on potties. I do not share blood with that one; the other one, the non-step one, beats children, but he is not near. Near, far, whatever—distance is no matter, for I will forever be grateful to both of mine. They’ve inspired me; I look forward to sitting down opposite them on one of these unsuspecting days. *Welcome to therapy, sir. Oh, apologies, I’ve read that wrong; welcome to ‘minor consequences.’ Yes. Yes, that’s right. It says here that you’ve—oh. You haven’t? No? Well, that’s…uh, unfortunate. It must’ve been a mixup, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience. You can exit through that door—yep, that one, and Hellfire should be to your left. You’re booked in for…let me check…ah, right, eternity. Goodbye, violent sir! Farewell, depraved sir! Enjoy the rest of your lives!*
…
Unlike Jannes, I do not have an urn in the corner of my bathroom which I use to ground my feet during intense periods of diarrhoea. What I do have, however, is a vendetta against wolves, never mind their summer vacations—they have decided on transport-via-urn. Vectors of death, an urn is; and what is death, if not rest?
In the forest, pain is temporary—judgement merely adopts its fleeting nature and lies sleeping under mossy ground. Grief, regardless of intensity, cannot wake it; ancient evil is too stagnant for any run-off modern tears can attempt to create. Has a mother ever mourned her child back into her arms? Will she ever, with wretched crying, resurrect her baby girl? If one attempts to wake the altar lamb before time by knocking on death’s door, they should find it is only plump moths that crawl out, scuttling along on their blackened bellies, their wings flat and dry and tainted with a silver flutter as reluctant answer to whoever the impatient visitor may be. Good justice is never early; this we will all learn. Torture
paces
itself.
*I* pace myself. I pace, living—
—as testament to their failures. This andante voice of life is here to testify: *the wolves should feel free to watch me thrive.* They enjoy watching, anyway, so why not watch my lungs expand with the rhythm of post-storm fresh air? It really isn’t about the breast, but the chest, and the vital courage it nurtures—though I suppose a coward forever remains a howling finger-pointer. It is clearly never their fault; leave the poor, pious Pharisees alone!
Leave them alone in my office.
I promise not to be a bore. I’ll put up activities for them, since they so love to use their bodies; for instance, they may star in circus acts where they make clowns out of themselves, while I perform my professionalism and balance on their tightrope spines. In fact, I sincerely invite them to come in and have a seat. Come on in, have some popcorn. Have a nice cup of tea—no milk, two sugars, done my way—because this is my event, and I’m offering a sweet discount to any wolf that registers for my assessment program and of course I will not be telling them that the sessions are normally free. They can discover that from my security bear; peek him, he stands guard—guarding his olive paws from a retributive maul, that is. Sorry, ignore his itching knuckles—he’s hugely allergic to wolves. It’s exactly like how one may be allergic to dust, you see?
As in…
…allergic to dust to dust, ashes to ashes—desire to defile—try it; unsheathe your claws and die in salmon style—that’s how bad wolves end up as ugly red splatters upon sacred soil. Like spilled tomato soup, or minestrone, or even oxtail—I remember looking up from my oxtail soup, beaming. Soups have such transformative effects on me.
*”This is delicious, Jannes! Would you like to try some?”*
*”…No. I do not condone soup.”*
*”Oh dear. Why not?”*
*”Soup is proper. Soup is butthole-lipped.”*
*”Hmm. Is that because people blow on their soup as if they’re kissing the mirror for the first time?”*
*”Yes, smaller bear.”*
*”...Let me show you how I drink soup.”*
For a minute or so, it is pure observation. I observe my soup. He observes me observing the soup. He does not, not even once, rush me. When the steam finally settles elsewhere, I pick up the bowl and hold it to my teeth, and I gulp its warm contents down between throaty gurgles.
*”Oh, my sweet bobcat-cub! You look as though you’ve been gorging on a wolf’s insides!”*
*”I’m so sorry, Jannes.”*
*”Why are you sorry for doing the right thing?”*
…
Thankfully we were not kicked out of the diner, and were able to leave on our own accord. Jannes was quite impressed; he now drinks soup without hatred, and he regularly brings me canned soups that remind him of our trials and tribulations. I provide the bread we break in white heat-clouds, and we say “Cheers!” when we really mean “In faith we overcome.”
…And we speak freely.
It has gotten to that point.
We speak about the wolves freely; through this, I have the honour of lifting Jannes’ spirits—though I’d argue I in no way manage his sort of lifting—not many can, not many aspire to lift how he’d lift a sun-struck, shell-shocked fighting bull out of a sandy arena by its maroon scruff because “he looks lonely”. Not many aim to lift their chins during a stroll—maybe the sky’s a bit gloomy, maybe the park is too quiet, maybe luck is running so low—
*“My joyful bear, look up! Look up at all times, or you are bound to trip and fall. Focus on your stride, not the ground you stride on.”*
*“That is very encouraging, dear Jannes. But what if the ground is uneven and must be paid close attention to?”*
*“Well, then you must pay attention. Looking down is not always bad; I look down when I look at you. But with you, I look up with my heart, I think. Or maybe I feel. Because my heart is speaking now.”*
*“Does your heart speak separately from your mind?”*
*“Not separately. They want the same bear—as in they want the bear, uh, not want the bear, I mean—I am saying, my mind and my heart are at one in terms of wanting, sorry—or *wants*, if that’s more appropriate. It’s merely that my heart is obsessed with loudness and I hear it in my ears even through my thick, hardened ear wax, whereas my mind is just a peaceful prairie. So calm and so green.”*
*“I see. Do you prefer either?”*
*“Yes, my loud darling; I prefer either.”*
…
*”May I visit?”*
*”The prairie? Or the extremely noisy heart?”*
*”May I visit both? Well, that is only if you don’t mind.”*
…
Then comes his crunchy smile. He resists it less and less and I meet his texture with my soapy one—for I must; I cannot help it. He is, clinically, my beautiful bear—my pride, and my joy.
*“Do I mind? Oh, that is funny, I tell you; you’ve never left either, ma’am!”*
…
I prefer either, too. I prefer them all; I prefer having my chin skyward, I prefer taking my luck low, I prefer gradual healing how I prefer open wounds in a rigged sword fight. I prefer my brawls nude how I prefer cool, moonlit sand as a solo-podium, and I prefer a soup-drunk Siamese’s content purrs against a roughened paw how I prefer the afterlife's one-way tickets dispensed to wolves with a satisfying *click* and *whirr* and a zealous *“Smile for the black-and-white picture!”*
…
In this way, I am not unlike Jannes the bear. We always, simply, choose to prefer.