by Mark Nutter
8 October. I meet my Inuit guide, Kuda. He arrives in a sled pulled by eight dogs. “Eddie!” he says. “Sir Desmond,” I correct him. Kuda speaks very little English. He probably practiced saying “Eddie” for a week. We communicate with gestures and grunts. I grunt slowly and loudly in his face, because he’ll understand me better that way.
In exchange for his services I promise Kuda a three-day pass to Disney World in Orlando, with the understanding that he will pay for his family out of his own pocket. In order to cement the deal I give him a pair of mouse ears. He smiles, but I can tell he’s clueless. Maybe “Disney World” means something different in the Inuit tongue. Maybe “Disney World” means “snow.”
I check the sled and see a dozen crates of dog food. Not cheap cans either, but the stuff with real beef chunks. Kuda rubs his belly and licks his lips. Well, if he thinks he’s going to get any of this quality stuff he’s got another thing coming. When Kuda’s not looking I make sure my private stash of turkey jerky is secure under my shirt.
We leave tomorrow at the “top o’ the mornin’” as an Englishman might say if he were mocking the Irish.
***
10 October. It’s really cold. I mean, man, even with two pair of socks.
All the dog food is gone. I understand dogs work hard and need nourishment, but Kuda is sporting a suspicious real beef moustache. Just to be safe I shift the turkey jerky down into my pants.
The good news is that the sled is much lighter without the dog food. The bad news is that the dogs will soon starve to death.
***
12 October. Progress is slow, about six inches per hour. At this rate we’ll reach the North Pole in twelve years. The dogs aren’t looking too good. You can see their ribs. I had to shave off their fur to see, so I did and there they were: ribs.
I can hear clanking when Kuda walks, as if he’s hiding cans under his parka. “Are you hiding cans under your parka?” I ask him. “Eddie,” he says. “Sir Desmond,” I correct him. Kuda clanks away behind a snow drift, and I reach into my pants for a snack.
At this point, I face the terrible prospect of killing two dogs and feeding them to the others. No way will I do the killing myself. I will coerce Kuda into doing it. It will be hard. Inuits consider their dogs to be family members. (I think a Red Cross person told me this.) If I can get Kuda to imagine the dog is a son or daughter he isn’t crazy about, maybe a teenager, it might make the killing easier.
As I’m figuring out how to explain this with the right choice of grunts, I glance up and see he’s already slaughtered two dogs and is slicing off bits of flesh and feeding them to the others. “You read my mind,” I say. Kuda smiles. I go behind a snow drift and retch violently.
***
15 October. In retrospect, it may not have been a good idea turning our dogs into cannibals. We’re spending more time keeping the team from eating each other than we are moving forward. Still, our progress has improved. Some days we travel as far as nine feet.
One dog in particular is growing stronger. I ask Kuda the dog’s name. I think he says, “Kuda Junior.” I really hoped he didn’t say “Kuda Junior,” but I’m afraid he did.
Kuda Junior had been doing such a good job of sled pulling that when he takes bites out of his fellow dogs, Kuda and I look the other way.
***
18 October. We’ve been looking the other way too much, probably. Our sled is now being pulled by one massive slobbering vicious cannibalistic sled dog and several sled dog skeletons dangling from their harnesses.
Kuda was strangely proud of Kuda Junior. At the same time, I could see that Kuda was hungry. His meat moustache had faded. Pride and hunger. Here was one conflicted Inuit.
I was pretty hungry myself. I’d managed to choke down the last of the jerky from my pants. The jerky had provided the added benefit of insulation. Now I was cold in my nether regions. And still hungry. I don’t know which was worse. Yes, I do. The hunger was worse. I could always keep my privates warm by rubbing them vigorously, after getting Kuda to look the other way by pointing and saying, “Dancing polar bears!” Seeing him fall for this is a bright spot in an increasingly dismal expedition.
***
20 October. I can bear the hunger no longer. In spite of my mental weakness, I know what eating Kuda Junior will mean for the expedition. It means Kuda Senior will have to pull the sled.
I feel I should sweeten the deal. “Besides Disney World, what else would you like?” I grunt loudly in his face. He must have understood. He starts groping and kissing me. I push him away. “No,” I said. It took hours of grunting, but eventually Kuda communicates he doesn’t want anything up front but will be satisfied with twenty-five percent of the gross of the sale of books or movies based on the expedition. We shake hands and I make a mental note to get something in writing first, if I ever hire another Inuit.
***
22 October. There is something special about the relationship between an explorer and the Inuit guide who pulls his sled. But is it so special that I would never ever consider eating the Inuit guide? If things got bad? I don’t know, I’m thinking out loud.
I could justify it this way: what did Kuda have to live for? Just a few days ago he’d eaten Kuda Junior. How could he go home and face his family, or other dogs who were the same as family? Plus, life is cheap on the Arctic tundra. (The Red Cross told me so.) That’s two good justifications right there.
And another thing. Twenty-five percent of the gross? Come on. Nobody gets twenty-five percent of the gross. At the end of the day Kuda should feel honored to donate his flesh to aid in the survival of the brave white explorer who was his master and cargo.
My justifications are getting more and more far-fetched. I know it’s time to stop justifying and take action.
“Kuda, stop!” I say, tugging on the reins attached to the bit in his teeth. Kuda waits patiently for his feed bag. I turn the feed bag upside down, indicating no more dog meat. Kuda takes the bag so he can see for himself. While he is thus occupied I take the knife out of my duffel bag and hold it behind my back.
“Look!” I point, “dancing polar bears!”
He falls for it one last time.
***
24 October. You know that thing where you have an argument and then walk away and immediately think of the clever things you could have said but didn’t. It’s kind of like that when you eat a person and then think of the clever things you could have said but didn’t. I guess you’d have to eat a person to really know what I’m talking about.
Actually there isn’t anything I wanted to say to Kuda. I was still steamed about the twenty-five percent.
I give him a decent burial by throwing his bones into the snow as far as I could. Is that a decent burial for an Inuit? I don’t know, I really didn’t research their culture.
“This sled won’t pull itself,” I say to myself after sitting in it for an hour. I go to the front and tug. Man, it’s heavy. How did the dogs do it? How did Kuda do it? I choose to lighten my load. I leave behind what I’m now certain is a barometer, take the rest of the compasses, and set off on foot.
***
29 October. I’m leaving my compasses behind. They’re just too heavy, even the little Statue of Liberty one. Maybe when I get to the North Pole I can borrow a compass from somebody.
The fact is, I am delirious from hunger. They say a man can go for weeks without food but only a few days without water. Well, I’m sick of water. I’ve been chewing snow like it’s a calzone. I really miss food, and snow is no substitute.
So I’ve passed the stage of being worried that I’m a cannibal. Really, it was only after I finished feasting on Kuda that I flashed on the ‘C’ word. Dude, you’re a cannibal, I realized. I had to balance my guilt with that nice, drowsy, loosen-your-belt feeling you get on Thanksgiving.
Sadly, there turned out to be not that much
Kuda meat under his parka. Good for a couple days of compass toting. That was all.
I’m feverish. Crazed with hunger. Was there anything in the literature the Red Cross gave me that said you could survive by eating your own flesh? I’m sure there was, but at the time I didn’t think it applied to me. It might have said eating yourself was either a last resort or a good source of protein. Really should have done more than skim that brochure.
I can balance on my right leg longer than my left. This is my justification for deciding to eat my left leg. I wonder if, when I’m done, it will be even easier to balance on my right leg. Only one way to find out.
I take out the same knife I used on Kuda and wash it in the snow. I don’t worry about anesthesia. I’m already numb from the cold. Turns out it isn’t all that cold, and I’m not all that numb.
Ow, that smarts.
***
The something or other of November.
Why didn’t I eat an arm? Didn’t really think it through. Didn’t think about all the one-legged hopping through the snow I’d be doing. Really not worth the slight improvement in my balance.
Should have eaten an arm. Should have eaten an arm. I wish I had a stupid pop song stuck in my head instead of the phrase: should have eaten an arm.
***
Another November day, probably.
I’m patting myself on the back for having the foresight to eat my left arm and not my right, which is the arm I use for journaling and also for patting myself on the back.
Unfortunately, this throws my balance way off. I think the good balance on my right side had a lot to do with complimentary limbs on the other side.
So now I’m dragging myself along the tundra with my right arm. I wish I could say my right leg was helping with my forward motion. But instead it feels like a useless dinosaur tail.
I’ll give it one more day.
***
Probably a holiday somewhere.
I have a cold. Everybody knows you can’t catch a cold by getting cold. It has more to do with catching the virus from somebody. I can’t imagine who I caught it from, unless it was those dancing polar bears.
Regardless, all I want to do is curl up by a cozy fire. What can I burn? Not snow. Snow doesn’t burn. I wasted a pork chop trying to grill it over a snow fire.
I glance down at my right leg. It’s sheepishly hiding inside my pants.
“I see you down there,” I said. “It’s time for you to start pulling your weight, instead of me pulling you along with my arm.” I laugh really hard at the joke I almost made.
Then I have my brainstorm. I can burn my right leg. I can warm myself, and I can cook my dinner too.
But what to eat, what to eat. I settle on my internal organs. Not all of them, of course, I’m no dummy. I’ll keep my heart and one lung. All the others, well, I don’t really understand what they do, can’t even name them all, so no big loss, especially you, Mr. Stomach, who’s been keeping me awake at night.
I think it’s fitting to say goodbye to at least a few of my organs.
“Liver, I guess I’m finally going to learn to like liver.”
“Kidneys, I’m pretty sure I only need one of you, but I’m still eating you both.”
“Intestines, you’d better believe I’m going to cook you for a good long time.”
“Other Organs, thanks, I guess.”
***
Christmas Day, possibly.
With renewed vigor I use my remaining arm to drag my head and heart and lung across the tundra to my destination.
And I’ve arrived! There’s a red and white barber pole to mark the North Pole. There are signs on the pole pointing in four directions. Each sign says ‘South.’
The fools! I will prove them wrong. I will retrace my path and find the compasses I left behind.
My journal entries have become shorter because my hand is tired at the end of the day. No matter. My hand has served me well, and I am grateful to it. But hunger is once again consuming me. I’ve started biting my nails. Do I really need all these fingers? I’m thinking out loud.
The Final Interview:
Only One Qualification
At Leo DiPaolo’s “Get That Job!” weekend seminar, they taught us the importance of affirmations. Some people think affirmations are nonsense. But here’s one I wrote: “I, Tom Schlatter, am depressed because I haven’t been on a job interview in two years.” That one really worked. I’d say it ten times every morning and feel horrible.
Here’s another affirmation: “I, Tom Schlatter, make $3,995.00 per day at my new job,” That’s how much the seminar cost, and since I didn’t have a job, that affirmation made me feel horrible too.
I kept searching and searching online. Finally I got an interview. The only qualification for the job was a heart beating in the applicant’s chest, which I thought was poetic.
The address of the interview was an abandoned warehouse. I had to move a dumpster aside to get to the door. Well good, I thought, I’m not so intimidated now. And here I was feeling self-conscious about my half-price suit from Kohl’s.
I pushed open the iron door and entered the waiting area. As my eyes adjusted to the dark I saw I was the only applicant. Another good sign!
A small man with black hair and no shirt sat on a wooden crate. Must be No-Shirt-No-Chair Friday. I liked the casual vibe.
“Hi,” I said, smiling not only with my mouth but with my eyes. “I’m Tom Schlatter. I’m here for my ten-thirty.”
I offered my hand, thinking I could practice my friendly yet firm handshake on the receptionist before meeting the man in charge.
“Gaagh,” said the small man. No return handshake was forthcoming.
“Great. Can I go in now or should I wait?”
“Gaagh.”
“Does that mean wait?”
“Gaagh.”
There was nowhere to sit. After an awkward moment I said, “If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly do you do here? And also, what’s the name of your company? If the answer to either of those questions is ‘gaagh,’ you don’t have to respond.”
“Gaagh.”
“Thank you.”
At the Leo DiPaolo weekend we spent an afternoon going over techniques employers use to intimidate interviewees, things like turning up the AC too high. I mention this because even in the dim light I knew I was standing in blood. This was a technique not covered at the seminar, and I made a mental note to email Leo about it.
“Gaagh,” said the small man, pointing to a heavy door in the back.
“Have a great day,” I said, and exited.
Okay, make that two techniques that weren’t covered. I’m speaking now of seeing, in an otherwise normal office setting, a six-foot-eight-inch man wearing a feathered headdress and armbands shaped like snakes.
“Sit,” intoned the Interviewer, which I did, promptly. He came around from behind his desk.
I clasped his right hand. To my surprise he drew me close. With his left hand he tore open my shirt and felt my chest.
“Your heart beats within your breast.”
“Where else would my heart be beating?” I said smiling.
“In my fist!” declared the Interviewer. I laughed, in case that was a joke.
He returned to his desk and stared at me for a very long time.
I guess he wanted me to start.
“So I’m Tom Schlatter. Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
I was never good at remembering names. But after the seminar I was confident, having acquired a new technique for matching names with faces.
“I am Quetzalcoatl Tlaoc Tlamacazqui.”
I abandoned my new technique and forged ahead.
“Well, I’m super excited about the prospect of working here. I can already tell everyone is highly motivated, even the guy in the waiting
room who keeps saying ‘gaagh’... “
The Interviewer showed me the necklace he was wearing. Hanging off it was a human tongue. That explained the ‘gaagh’ and the blood on the floor. It could’ve been worse for the guy, I thought. At least they didn’t fire him.
“It would be really useful for me at this stage if you could flesh out the job description a bit. What will I be doing?”
“You will bring good weather. You will cause the crops to grow.”
The Interviewer rose and spread his arms.
“You will nourish the gods! You will make the sun rise in the sky!”
“Hm. Bit of a learning curve there. Will I be paid while I’m training?”
Mr. Quetzo-Something pressed a button in the wall and a panel slid aside. He stepped through and motioned for me to follow.
***
I’m always amazed when buildings look bigger inside than from outside, especially when they contain Aztec pyramids.
Man, what a great illusion. I figured the pyramid probably went up about ten feet and the rest of it was painted on the ceiling.
I followed the Interviewer up the steps. We kept climbing and I expected to bump my head but never did.
After about half an hour, we reached the top. We weren’t alone. There were other applicants. Four guys wearing loincloths and feathered headdresses. Damn, I wished they’d mentioned a dress code.
Mr. Quartzo pointed to my clothes. “Off!” he shouted.
“Really?”
And now I understood. This was a hazing.
I was no stranger to hazing, although this one didn’t seem too bad. I didn’t see any paddles or black candles or rubber tubing, so I thought, piece of cake.
But I did notice Mr. Quatzadoo was holding a long knife.
The four guys clustered around me as I disrobed completely.
They picked me up, carried me over to a cold stone slab, and held me down. Clearly I had misread the situation. These guys weren’t applicants, they were employees. Great, I thought, my odds keep improving.
The Interviewer approached, holding the knife above his head.
Now I started to get nervous. It was time for another affirmation.