Not QUITE the Classics (7 page)

“Yes,” said Little Brother. “Though I do not believe that he did what he did out of any patriotic feeling. Are you blind, Big Brother? Did you not notice how he looked at our new Queen from the very first time that he saw her? Tyro did all of this because he loves Madwyn. It's just that simple.
He loved, Big Brother.”

INSPIRED BY CHARLES DICKENS'S

A TALE OF TWO CITIES

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.
To be more specific, it was Tuesday.

Every momentous occasion of my life seems to have occurred on a Tuesday. I was born on a Tuesday. The day I fulfilled my destiny was a Tuesday. And it seems that the day I cease to exist will be a Tuesday. That's today.

Watching those words flow from my pen as I sit in this wretched little cell has quite a surreal aspect. As I write this, I notice every detail of my enclosure, the peeling paint of the walls, the thickness of the bars; I calculate its exact dimensions—wall to wall and floor to window. As my peripheral vision scans over the bed shoved between the wall and toilet, the image sparks a brainstorm. The bedsprings could be converted to…oh, and the sheets! The radio that doesn't work could easily… Yes, yes… carry the nine, and…

Apologies. I didn't mean to write down my thoughts verbatim. One of the problems of being a genius is you can never write as fast as you think. Just
one
of the problems, as you will soon discover. Shall I opt for a more linear narrative and begin at the beginning? I want to get this all down before the end comes.

As with all creatures great and small, I was born. In a cave in the Arizona desert I breathed my first breath and met the world with the cry of my kind. That was the last time that I did anything remotely characteristic of my genus. Within days, the differences that would set me apart from my brothers began to appear. To start, I learned to walk upright on my hind legs. The quizzical looks from my mother and father as I strode forward (quite gracefully in my opinion) quickly gave way to fear and suspicion. When I spoke, it was not the cry or howl of a pup, but the refined intonations of an Oxford don. One day, barely out of my infancy, I awoke to find my parents gone. They left no trace of their habitation and no note explaining their destination. Of course, no note was perfectly understandable. They were coyotes.

As you know, dear reader, coyotes have no concept of composing or of writing. (A quick glance at the list of every writer that ever lived would show that not one was a coyote.) Of course, there are a multitude of reasons for this. Coyotes have no opposable thumbs. Their artistic instincts are next to nil. They are consumed with the business of being coyotes. They hunt, they eat, they sleep. They yip-yip-yip at the moon. That is the life of the coyote, the life my parents led. I often pitied them, although if I am being completely honest, just as often I envied them their simplicity.

I have no idea why I am the way I am. My genus is
Canis latrans,
but my
genius
…ah, that is something quite unique. Perhaps my singularity is the result of some highly advanced genetic mutation or perhaps some cruel joke by the Creator. Perhaps my mother ate a bad javelina during my gestational period. Who knows? But I suspect that my mind was so powerful that it willed my body to evolve so I would not follow the path of my parents and forebears. It always seems to come down to dysfunctional families, doesn't it? Not that I ever bore ill will to the ones who sired me. They did the best they could; they were simply not properly equipped. Would things have been different if I were like the others? If I hadn't been born with the IQ of a genius? Yes, I suppose they would.

After my parents left, I tried to embrace the life of the average coyote—for perhaps an hour. It was so boring! Oh look, I'm lazing in the sun. Gee whiz, I'm hunting for food. Hey, I'm lazing in the sun again! Oh boy, it's time for bed. Really? That's living? How do animals do it? It's mind- numbing. I realized then that I could not change what I was. If the life of a coyote wasn't for me, perhaps the life of a more sophisticated vertebrate was. And so I tried to assimilate into human society. As you might imagine, it was disastrous.

Born with a deep love for culture, I was especially drawn to theatre. Shakespeare, Chekov, Shaw—their words drew me into a world I could only dream of inhabiting. I slipped with ease into darkened theatres and playhouses and relished this world of costume and make-believe. It was a world that seemed made for me. And so when I stumbled upon an ad in the
Desert Times
for extras for a film shooting a few miles away, my path grew clear. With the help of a straight razor, a freshly purloined suit, and more than just a little acting talent, I secured the role of Mutant Coyote Man #3 in the exotically titled
Beast Men of Peru
. (The movie, although derivative of many superior horror films, benefits from some sharp performances, first-rate production values, and a script that keeps the genre fresh. But I digress.) I thought living the life of a desert creature was interminable, but it was a circus of fireworks compared to that two-week period. Acting, I soon discovered, was even more boring than hunting for voles all day. And actors! My God! I don't know if all human beings are that self-involved, but if they are, bring on a meteor.

“Oh, I got very close to a Froot Loops commercial.”

“Martin Scorsese
nodded
at me after a scene!”

“I'm on the Lipto-Low-Fat-Good-Fat-No-Cholesterol-Suck-on-Leather diet. I've lost a pound and a half of self-loathing.”

Hour after hour, day after day, they rambled incessantly about themselves. Rabbit Man #6 was in the middle of a re-enactment of his fourth-place finish on
The Biggest Loser
when I couldn't take it anymore and savaged him. I was fired from the production, but in retrospect, it was all for the best. I really wanted to direct anyway.

So there I was, living between two worlds, a part of neither. But then it happened: a seemingly small event that changed the course of my life forever.

One scorching-hot afternoon, as I wandered through the desert—like Moses, but instead of leading the Israelites, my only followers were three gnats buzzing about my backside and a wasp named Darby—I came across a flyer impaled on a cactus. It was an advertisement for “The Company That Makes Everything” and was looking for beta testers—hardy souls who would try out their mail-order inventions and devices. I was on that job application faster than
Anas platyrhynchos
on
Polyphylla decemlineata
. (For those not up on their binomial nomenclature, I was on it faster than a duck on a June bug. And shame on you for not knowing that! A mind is a terrible thing to waste.)

Within months I was The Company's most prolific tester. I tried out everything from Dehydrated Tyrannosauruses to Solar-Powered Jet Sleds. I often marveled at the ingenuity of the nameless inventors whose products came to my door. Just as often, I was perplexed. I mean, Dehydrated Tyrannosauruses? Really? What possible use would that be to anyone? (Here's a helpful hint: Never carry a box of dehydrated T-Rexes in your Company Sponge Suit during a rainstorm. Trust me.) No matter. I had a job to do and I did it. And I did it brilliantly, I must say. My reports were extremely detailed, and I even offered suggestions for improvements. They were all eventually implemented, and I received generous royalties. With the money I made, and with the contacts that my brief sojourn in show business brought me, I invested in a couple of blockbuster movies (thank you,
Titanic
), sold some of my simpler patents (ShamWow is mine—no thanks necessary), and within months had a nice little nest egg.

You might think that I was a true success story, that I would never go hungry again. You might surmise that I could eat in the finest restaurants if I so wished. That would be true if the finest restaurants didn't object to the patronage of a five-foot-six talking coyote. Needless to say, they did object, and quite strenuously, too. So I had to go elsewhere for nourishment. Those frozen Company dinners were delightful, but they didn't always satisfy. And, if I am to be completely truthful, the ancient urge to hunt my food was strong, no matter how civilized I thought I was. In the early days it bothered me that I was at the mercy of a deeply embedded animal instinct found in the simplest of life forms. You can take the coyote out of the desert, but you can't change the neural patterns ingrained in the species for millennia. (I realize that last sentence isn't snappy enough to be a bumper sticker, but I'm sure you catch my drift. I needed to hunt.) Voles, prairie dogs, snakes, lizards, even livestock were no match for my lethal combination of savagery and intelligence. Not a single one—until Him.

The first time I laid eyes on Him is as clear in my mind as though it happened yesterday. It was a particularly hot day (I'm fairly sure it was a Tuesday) and hunger gnawed at my belly. I was checking out my usual haunts: Dead Man Boulder Cliff, Steep Fall Peak, Swollen Tongue Creek. All proved fruitless—well, meatless, actually. Suddenly, I caught the scent of something bird
like
but gamier and with the slightest whiff of ozone. The aroma filled my senses and made me mad with desire. The blood lust was upon me—I imagine it was much like what those handsome vampires in novels go through. (Why are all vampire protagonists incredibly handsome? I'd like to write a book about an ugly, cross-eyed vampire. You, know raise the stakes. Stakes! Being a genius and being funny aren't mutually exclusive, as you see. I know for a fact that Einstein was fond of dumb-blonde jokes.) I was almost painfully overcome with need. I wanted, I
thirsted
for this prey. I truly and completely hungered for Him.

Now, as you are no doubt aware, coyotes hunt in pairs. If you weren't aware, might I suggest catching the Discovery Channel every once in a while? You might learn something. Being an outcast from my species made a partnership impossible, but, up to this point, I had never needed anyone else. When you're a genius, the lower forms tend to get in the way. So, as I had done in all of my previous hunts, I crept slowly along the desert floor following the scent of my prey. I spotted Him pecking at some seed, just off the highway that curved all through our little desert world. (There never seemed to be any traffic on that highway, unless of course I was standing in the middle of it.) There He was—a giant bird. I had never seen one this big before. He was a magnificent specimen: bright blue feathers covered His plump little body, and purple plumage adorned His head. One enormous tail feather completed the ensemble. He looked more ostrich than anything else. Like me, He seemed quite unique.

Excitement filled me to capacity, almost bursting from my pores. I shook with anticipation and every nerve ending pulsated with life. Keeping downwind, I crept forward slowly, patiently, silently until I was within pouncing distance. I stiffened, and with a twitch of my powerful haunches I launched into a beautifully defined arc towards my unsuspecting prey. At the height of my attack, He blinked His obscenely long eyelashes at me, stuck out His tongue, and ran. No, He didn't run—He
exploded
with motion. With a speed that outpaced The Company's Turbo-Charged Rocket Crocs, He disappeared into the horizon, dust clouds billowing in His wake.

Surely my eyes were deceiving me? There was no possible way that He could have traveled so far so fast. I was alternately dumbfounded and enraged. And I have to admit, I was intrigued. Later that day the same thing happened. I spied Him crossing the desert freeway between two enormous boulders. Then: track, sneak, pounce—dust cloud. This time, to add insult to injury (I was agonizingly hungry at this point), He had the audacity to mock me with an inane vocalization that sounded very much like “meep meep.” My blood boiled. How could I, a genius, be outwitted by this idiotic bird?

My days and nights were consumed by my efforts to catch Him. I tried every trick I could think of, every maneuver imprinted on my hunter's DNA, and yet our battles—if I can call them that—always ended the same way. I landed on my face, He stuck out His tongue, burped a “meep meep,” then shook His absurdly perky tail feather in my direction and sped out of sight. He was becoming an obsession to me, but I refused to accept it. I convinced myself He was merely a puzzle that my scientific nature wanted to solve (and my highly evolved gullet wanted to break down in its gastric juices). When solving that puzzle proved difficult, I made up my mind to forgo the ancient hunting strategies of my ancestors and modernize. The Company had a giant catalogue of devices and weapons that would help me in my quest to catch this devil bird.

Looking back, I am amazed at my blindness to two extremely obvious truths. The first was that eating Him was becoming secondary to just wanting to kill the bugger. What exactly would be left to consume if I detonated Him with TNT birdseed? Or the Nitroglycerine Milkshake? The Nuclear Bazooka? I suppose I was more concerned about why these explosive gadgets didn't detonate on cue. How did He escape unharmed every time? Which led me to the second truth I blissfully ignored: What kind of an idiot was I, that it didn't dawn on me that any one of those explosions should have ended my life? How and when did I accept I was immortal? After the exploding X-39 Sled, the TNT Cyborg Doberman, the Giant Boulder Catapult, the Avalanche Simulation Pills, the Bolo Grenade? Every one of those The Company devices malfunctioned. But somehow, through every explosion, every maiming, every bone-breaking misadventure, I survived. If you don't believe me about the force of these barrages, simply take a tour of the many cliff faces that have a perfectly shaped coyote silhouette etched into them. And the falls! Heaven help me! From heights unimaginable, I fell. Sometimes straight as an arrow, sometimes bouncing off canyon walls, sometimes alone, sometimes with cartoonishly large boulders that steadfastly refused to observe Newton's law of universal gravitation. I swear whether we fell at the same time or I fell seconds after, I always ended up underneath one as I hit the ground. And don't get me started on anvils!