erogenous zone
fins
hat
maw and gulf
neck
pajamas
ravined
skin
sleep
swimming backward
teeth
tongue
shower cap
Shut up, Helen
silence, moment of
Siskind, Murray Jay
snacks:
cheese
meat
Spartacus
Sport Utility Vehicle
squirrel eater
Sterno
St. Louis, Tennessee
Taft, William Howard
Tampa Bay, Detroit
TeleTown
Television:
commercials
ESP TV
old
Outrageous Accomplishments Network
PayView
Prison Network
Pundit Network
on staircase
see also weather
Television Room:
small
large
Thigpen, Elton
Thoreau, Henry David
toga
tongue, swollen
topiary, artichoke
truth, bloody meat of
unrest, civil
Van Buren, Martin
vertebrae (see posture)
village:
French
global,
Virtual Water Park, World’s Funnest
visit, conjugal,
Wallace, David Foster
Wall of China, Great,
War of the Worlds, The
Washington, Los Angeles
waterfall
weapons:
battle-ax
gun, derringer
gun, lightning
gun, turquoise
halberd
harpoon
ice pick
machete
pocket knife, contraband
scythe
see also bombs
weather:
Bear Index
clouds, cumulative
dew point
Extreme Weather
fish-clouds, bloated
hot as . . . I don’t know
sun, chemical
Tsunami Tsurvival!
Weather Europe
Weather Network
Weather Network Plus
Welles, Orson
Wells, H. G.
Wittgenstein
world:
arid
dog-eat-dog
hectic
natural
violent
wrestling, professional
yes, ma’am
Zen, Extreme
zoo, petting
97
The Hand of the Diligent
Forty-one minutes.
If a bear and a shark.
There are picketers and protesters outside the Dome. They have their chants and their signs. They’ve been watching too much American Television. Some people throw rocks at them. The unrestful inciting unrest.
One picketer’s sign says, “Let a man meet a she-bear robbed of her cubs, rather than a fool in his folly (Proverbs 17.12).”
Another picketer’s sign says, “Like a charging bear is a wicked ruler over a poor people (Proverbs 28.15).”
Another picketer’s sign says, “Woe to you who desire the day of the LORD! It is darkness, and not light; as if a man fled from a lion, and a bear met him (Amos 5.19).”
The Bible is pretty quiet when it comes to sharks.
Las Vegas police members round up these zealots and scofflaws in a big truck and take them somewhere. What do you think this is — America?
Some punk in a chocolate cake costume climbs to the top of the Dome with a dog and a guitar. A crowd gathers outside the Dome to watch and listen and videotape. Nobody knows what the cake is singing about. Not once does he say Yes, ma’am, and people start to boo. Even the protesters in the police truck are booing the cake. The cake sings two and a half folksongs before LVs finest catch him, cuff him, and smash his guitar in the bright glinting light.
The crowd cheers, then disappears into the dark arena.
The Darwin Dome has four main entrances. On the north side, fans enter under an enormous arch made by statues of Charles Darwin and Jesus holding hands. On the east, fans enter under an enormous arch made by statues of Charles Darwin and Andre Agassi holding hands. On the south side, fans enter under an enormous arch made by statues of Charles Darwin and Martin Luther King Jr. holding hands. On the west, fans enter under an enormous arch made by statues of Charles Darwin and HardCorp CEO William T. “Ducky” Riggins III holding hands.
The Normans enter on the north side. Mrs. Norman holds Matthew’s hand. Mr. Norman holds Curtis’s hand. Darwin holds Jesus’ hand.
A plaque underneath the Darwin statue says, “But as all groups cannot thus succeed in increasing in size, for the world would not hold them, the more dominant groups beat the less dominant.”
A plaque underneath the Jesus statue says, “A slack hand causes poverty, but the hand of the diligent makes rich.”
There’s no reason these guys couldn’t get along.
The Normans climb switchback ramps, they’re high up with the Sea-n-Lea winners. Scholastic success can get you in the door, but it takes a little something more to get a ringside seat or a luxury box.
Mrs. Norman says, “Larry, if he’s not feeling better by tomorrow, I think we better take him somewhere.”
The Normans, well, Matthew and the parents, anyway, keep seeing people that look vaguely famous. You want to smile and wave at these people because you think you know them, you do know them, in fact, and you love them, they are a big part of your life, but heres the thing: They dont know you!
Things are for sale, plenty of things. Beer and shark meat and bear meat and popcorn and T-shirts and baseball caps and key chains and Styrofoam No. 1 hands and mixed drinks and commemorative pins and belt buckles and stuffed animals and other souvenirs, memorabilia, knickknacks, bricabrac, trinkets, gewgaws, cheap plastic shit made in Taiwan.
Where is Taiwan, exactly?
You just know there’s something called the Beer-n-Bear Special and something else called the Great White Wiener and something else called Bearbecue.
And of course there are Gambling Stations. The bear is a slight favorite. The revenge factor.
People are speaking in hushed voices. The whole thing has a feel that is different from the feel that they expected the whole thing to have.
Mrs. Norman says, “What?”
Matthew clings tight to his mother’s hand. He says, “This place is so big.”
Mr. Norman says, “You doing OK, Curt?”
Curtis stays pretty quiet.
A sportscaster says, “I had a chance to take a peek at the bear and the shark earlier today, Rich, and let me tell you, I wouldn’t want to run across either of them in a dark alley.”
The clock says 23 minutes.
Mrs. Norman says, “We better find our seats.”
It’s a sad cake and a dog in that police truck.
98
Bear Milk
A commercial.
Pays the bills, builds suspense.
Telephone rings, Cute Young Mother, tastefully breast-feeding her infant in a warmly lit and tasteful Television room, answers.
She (Cute Young Mother) says, “Hello?”
Older Sister, also cute, more rugged, tomboyish, roughing it in some exotic locale, unmarried, worldly, not ready to settle down, don’t fence her in. We are to understand from foliage and bird noises and no-nonsense ponytail and khaki vest with numerous pockets that she is working in a foreign country, some sort of nature job, would love to be home to see her sister and new baby but can’t, she’s got career responsibilities. You think monkeys, but there are none in sight. The phone line is clear, this could be a phone company commercial, bringing people together, but it is not.
She (Older Sister) says, “How’s my kid sister?”
CYM says, “Oh, Molly, I wish you could be here.”
Molly says, “Me, too, Sis. I’ll be there soon. How’s my brand-new niece?”
Sis says, “She’s beautiful and wonderful. I just sat down to feed her when you called.”
There is a small pause here.
Molly, concerned, says, “Sis, you’re not breast-feeding, are you?”
Sis, just a trace of worry in her voice, says, Yes, Molly, I am. Why?
Molly says, “I just thought you would be using bear milk, that’s all.”
Sis, chuckling but still a bit nervous — this is a baby we’re talking about here, completely helpless, everyone wants to do the right thing for the baby, it needs you to make sound developmental decisions — Sis says, “But Molly, human babies have always been raised with human milk.”
Molly, amidst exotic animal noises, says, “Sis, in today’s hectic, competitive world, human milk just doesn’t cut it. Human milk is fine for average children, but truly exceptional children like my niece need more. . . .”
Cut now to a laboratory with busy white-coated actors bustling in the background. There are test tubes that clearly show. There is a bar graph that clearly shows. There is a Daytime Drama Star in a white coat who clearly shows. Turns out bear milk is 46 percent fat, while human milk is a paltry 4 percent fat. Turns out that bear cubs, relatively speaking, are the smallest of mammals when born, only 1/420th the weight of their mother. Human babies, in comparison, are 1/20th the weight of their mother. So how do bear cubs grow up so fast to be so strong and fast and mean? That’s right, bear milk. Damn rocket fuel, that stuff.
Cut back to Cute Young Mother feeding a warm bottle of bear milk to her happy and remarkably healthy infant.
The doorbell rings and it’s Molly! Home from the jungle to see her niece for the first time, her niece who is destined to be strong and extraordinary, don’t we all want what’s best for our children, do we dare settle for less?
The embrace.
“Oh, what an angel! And so big and exceptional-looking!”
“Big sister always knew best.”
Laughter.
What I’m getting at is everything turns out OK.
99
Bear v. Shark III: The Third Coming
Shit, for that kind of money, if Miami wants us, Miami’s got us.
Miami wants us, sir.
We’ll need a dome.
They say it’s no problem.
Done deal, then.
I’ll let them know, sir. We’ll schedule a meeting to hammer out the details.
Maybe we can shake it up this time. You know, call it Shark v. Bear or something.
I think that would be a mistake, sir.
SvB3: The Third Time’s the Harm! What do you think?
We can discuss the finer points later, sir.
Or I don’t know, make them three times as big, or make it three-on-three or something.
Sir, change is sometimes dangerous. Our marketing research shows that people love their BvS just the way it is.
Yeah, I guess so.
We’ve got an excellent product, sir.
And not a bad profit, either.
Quite true, sir.
Hey wait, what if we used a real bear and a real shark, and passed them off as fake? We could save a shitload of money.
We’ve thought about that, sir. But there is concern that a real bear and a real shark would not be real enough to be convincingly fake.
Real would be too fake?
Real would be too real, sir, which would be fake, but not in a real way.
Real is not real enough.
Exactly, sir.
You’re probably right.
But I think we do need to change the time frame, sir.
Explain.
Two years is simply too long to wait. People start shooting themselves in the heads and beating up their kids. We’ve got to come back sooner.
OK, we can do eighteen months.
Sir, I’m thinking more like eight months, an April bout.
That’s soon.
Our research shows that eight months is optimal. We can do tie-ins to Easter, the whole resurrection theme.
That’s real soon.
Yes, sir, but I think we can swing it.
A spring fight, though, I like it.
Yes, sir.
Here’s the thing.
Yes, sir.
If there’s a third fight.
Yes, sir.
And the shark won the first fight.
Yes, sir.
Then.
Sir, I don’t think the programmers are going to like that. Well, do you think the programmers like having jobs? I’ll talk to them, sir.
100
And Now This
The Normans in their seats, high above the ring.
Sixty-five thousand fans and tens of millions more worldwide on PayView.
Oh man, not too long now until a bear and a shark get in a fight and who would win if they did.
The announcer says, “HardCorp asks that you take a moment of silence to pray for American troops.”
The Vice President of Las Vegas says, “Nobody told us about no moment of silence.”
The moment is, well, silent. Or close. Not very.
One thinks of wind-kissed meadows. One thinks of bomb shelters.
And then the lights go out and the loud extreme music comes on.
The announcer says, “Welcome, fight fans, to the Greatest Spectacle in Recorded History.”
Then a dancing spotlight on the ring. Some crisscrossing lasers. There is clear, blue water, some small trees and brush, a sandy shore.
A person would not be alarmed to see either a bear or a shark in this setting. This is a level playing field.
The announcer says, “In one corner, the challenger, a large mammal of the family Ursidae, found almost exclusively in the Northern Hemisphere, with a large head, a bulky body, short and powerful and clawed limbs, and coarse, thick fur, standing almost nine feet tall and weighing more than 1,500 pounds, Shakespeares darling, well rested and looking for revenge . . . the BEAR!
Stunned and terrified fans clap as a gigantic bear materializes in one corner of the ring. Angry drool, realer than life, drops in strings from its truth-white teeth.
The bear’s head is, well, enormous. One Internet site will call it “slightly enlarged.” Another will call it “grotesque in its dimensions.” Another will call it “roughly proportionate to the body.” Another will call it “understandably and justly bloated given the debacle of Bear v. Shark I.” And so on.
Decide for yourself.
Mr. Norman is feeling a little queasy. He sets down his Bearrito.
The sports announcer says, “Wow, what a specimen, Rich.”
The ringside announcer says, “In the other corner, twelve feet long with six senses, multiple rows of triangular, razor-sharp teeth, a tough, cartilaginous exterior, if it stops swimming it sinks, a legendary predator, unmentioned in the Bible, absent from the night sky, ravined as all get-out, the undisputed champion of BvS . . . the SHARK!
Some clapping, some booing, as the shark materializes, menacingly, in the opposite corner. Matthew is pale in the dark. He doesn’t clap.
Some people, a few people, leave their seats and head down the aisles. Of these, some are seeking a rest room, but others are leaving the Dome, they can’t say exactly why, but they have to get out of there. Years later a social scientist will seek these people out for interviews, but he will find no trace of them.
And then.
And then there’s a bell and the bear and shark engage.
Bear and shark, natural and sworn enemies, set upon each other with a ferocious and violent and long-standing enmity. The natural world is horrific, there’s no denying it.
And then the screaming.
Flesh is shredded, bones shatter.
The bear roars and shrieks.
The shark makes some awful noise like nobody has ever heard before.
Neil Postman says, “Who is prepared to take arms against a sea of amusements?”
Mr. Norman looks to his left, where Matthew and Mrs. Norman are seated.
Shark-loving Matthew, like so many others in the Dome, has his face buried in his hands. He is wailing and biting his palms.
A small and badly placed bomb goes off in Section 234, far away from the Event. Amateur work, but the blast looks awesome.
Mrs. Norman appears to be passed out against the back of her seat. She is remiss in her posture. Her gum with long-lasting flavor has fallen out of her mouth and is stuck to the commemorative pin on her blouse. Her eyes are rolled back in her head. She quivers, in shock.
Down in the ring it is realer than life.
The blood geysers and spouts. Cartilage in ribbons.
Red-gilled fish gasp for air in the lobby of the Roman Coliseum.
Mr. Norman looks to his right, where his youngest son is sitting. Curtis stares at the Event with bruised, watery eyes, a blank, drooling face. There are still pink wisps of cotton candy in his tousled hair. A sticky Finsicle melts in his pudgy hands.
Accordion knot.
His T-shirt says, “I won the Bear v. Shark essay contest and you didn’t.”
Mr. Norman says, “Curtis?”
He says, “Buddy?”
The sports announcer says, “I think we all expected a good fight, but none of us, Rich, none of us expected . . . this.
Bloody and innocent and nonfamous bomb victims in Section 234 say, “Help.” They try to say it.
Curtis makes a noise with his mouth. Did he just say, “Yes, ma’am? Mr. Norman thinks the child said, Yes, maam. Was it that or just some nonsense phrase?
The bear’s arm, realer than life, is torn from its bulky body. The shark looks to have been caught in a helicopter blade. The animals writhe. There is glistening meat.
In TeleTown they wait. They’re always looking for new members in the unique, self-sustaining community.
In the dark Mr. Norman thinks he sees the corners of Curtis’s mouth turn up slightly. Is this kid smiling? Is he happy and well adjusted? Is Mr. Norman the World’s Greatest Dad, as it says on three Father’s Day coffee mugs back home in America? Who would win in a fight between Mr. Norman and other kids’ dads?
Mr. Norman says, “Curtis, you in there, pal?”
Bear v. Shark Page 17