The Musky Scent of Bear
Marilyn Whitehorse
I feel something against my leg and jerk awake. What the hell is it? My head is pounding. I crack one eye open and see a man with a huge floppy hat hunched against an adobe wall. Oh God, where did I wind up this time? I turn on my side. My head is on fire. I reach up to scratch my scalp and brush against another body. I crack my other eye open and see a man’s greasy black hair and several day old beard. Then I smell his foul breath. It appears I’ve been sleeping with a bear. I glance around the room and see black-framed glasses on the nightstand on his side of the bed. Next to the spectacles, a bottle of Jack Daniels. That's what I need: a drink to set things straight. I reach over him so as not to waken the bear from hibernation, for there is not enough left in the bottle to share. I hang my head over my side of the bed and slug it down. As the liquor runs down my throat, I gasp in pain as it trickles past my ulcer. It hits my stomach and the warm glow makes everything all right for a moment. I can get up now. I throw my feet over the edge of the bed and sit up. I pull my thick black hair out of my eyes. Gingerly I stand, bracing my hand against the wall for support, and inch my way along until I find a door.
I crack open the door and the white porcelain of the toilet bowl and sink blinds me. My stomach lurches. I fall on my knees in front of the bowl and heave the whiskey up. After, I moan as I rest my head on the toilet seat. I reach up for the handle, kick the door shut, flush, and then use the sink to pull myself up. I get a washcloth and soak it in cold water, laying the thin rag across my eyes. I sink back to the cool tile floor, hoping I won't heave again. I huddle there, trying to piece together events from the night before. The man has no name--only the bottle is familiar. I look down at my naked body and know I've done it again: traded my body for a bottle.
I have to leave before he comes to. I hang on to the sink and struggle to my feet.
I'm shaking and feel like I might faint. I need another drink--one that will stay down this time. I creep back into the room, leaving the bathroom door open a crack for light. I find my bra on the floor near the foot of the bed, my dress flung over the back of a chair. I put them on as fast as I can. I see his pants at the bottom of the bed and fish his wallet out of the back pocket. Damned if I want to know what his name is. I go straight for the bills. I am tempted to take it all, but hold myself in check. I'll take half, that way it won't feel so much like stealing. I take two twenties, then shrug. My resolve vanishes and I help myself to a third twenty--that little extra will get me cab fare. I slide his wallet back in his pocket and turn to the sleeping lump in the bed, "Whoever the fuck you are, I hope you had a good time." I wave adios to the sleeping Mexican in the oil painting and let myself out the door.
A bus comes as I step outside the liquor store. "Cheaper than a cab," I mumble as I fling some money at the bus driver and stumble down the aisle. I find a seat by the window near the back. The bus pulls away from the curb and I silently thank the John Doe I just ripped off in the motel room for providing my morning bottle. A man sits down next to me, sniffs, and moves to another seat. "To hell with you," I laugh out loud. "Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes." That's a good Indian name I think, and look out the window embarrassed to think I might have really said that out loud. I watch the rain run down the window in rivulets. The bus slows; stops. I watch people fold their black umbrellas and step onto the bus. Damned dreary rain--just like my life. My stomach churns as the bus starts and I swallow hard, hoping I don't heave. I'm so thirsty and want a drink bad, but I know I don't dare open the bottle on the bus. I'll get kicked off for sure. I wrap my arms around myself, hugging the bottle close to me so that the woman who sits next to me won't see me shaking.
Who was that guy from last night? All I really know for sure is that it started with drinking--it always starts with drinking. So, just quit drinking, I tell myself. You can quit any time you want. Another voice inside says, I just don't want. I chuckle out loud. Everyone stares. I look out the window. Maybe I should straighten myself out and get a job like these folks. What the hell? Maybe I'll just ask Wayne if they need any help down at the Five Points--then I'll be set: a job in my favorite bar. The bus slows by the entrance to the zoo. A woman and a little boy get on. Why isn't that kid in school? What the hell time is it anyway? The woman sits in the empty seat beside me holding the little boy on her lap.
"Yew--that lady stinks, mommy!" The woman tries to hush him, but it's too late. The kid looks me straight in the eye. "You stink. You need a bath."
I turn back toward the window before he sees the tears in my eyes. Can't let a white lady and a snotty-nosed kid get to me. At least the kid didn't have sense enough to call me a dirty Indian, but I know that's what the people are thinking. How is it that I have lowered myself enough to fit that stereotype? I want to sink into the crack in the filthy plastic seat and be swept along under the bus near the greasy transmission--down where the gears mesh and the black tires go around and around, pounding the concrete. Thinking of spinning tires makes my stomach queasy. It happens too fast and I have no time to control it. I only have time to open the bag and heave.
The boy announces to the bus, "That lady puked in the bag."
I see the driver look up in his rear-view mirror. I yank on the cord and he pulls to the curb immediately. I crawl over the woman and the little boy, clutching at the dripping bag of vomit because it also holds my precious bottle. Just as I splash through the puddle at the curb, the soaked bag gives way and the bottle drops to the gutter. It is raining hard and the run-off sweeps the bottle along. I chase it down the curb and catch up with it. I bend over. It's the last thing I remember.
Grizzly tears at my flesh and sucks the marrow from my bones. His glistening white incisors rip hunks off my legs and arms, but I feel nothing. My blood drips on the ground, splattering in perfect round dots. Mother Earth is bathed in blood.
I can't breathe. I pant through my open mouth. Drool runs down my chin. My teeth chatter as if I'm cold yet my skin feels as if it is on fire. Bugs crawl up my arms and down the inside of my legs. I try to swat at them. No matter how I struggle, I can't move my arms. The louder I scream, the faster the bugs rush up my neck. This is no dream--it's a fucking nightmare!
Lady Death speaks to me, and I listen to her voice calling through the fog. "Follow me! Follow me." Her dance seduces me. I see her skeleton: straight spine, the curve of ribs. She whirls as she passes near me. I want to dance the song of death with her, but I cannot. I breathe too deeply yet and do not know how to let go. I do not know how to die.
Bugs crawl across my face and drink from the corners of my eyes like fleas on a dog. I scream.
I am one more brown leaf fallen among many. I am one bent twig. I am the weed growing through the crack in the sidewalk. I am but a link in the chain, a spoke in the wheel. Without me, the earth will still spin. Without me, the sun will still shine, the clouds scuttle across the sky, the raindrops fall. I blend in and my going leaves not a trace. I am smoke, falling to earth as ash. I have no form and I fill no void. I belong to no one and no one belongs to me.
Every fiber of my body is hideously alive, shockingly awake. I struggle. I fall on my side when I try to sit up. My arms are crossed at my waist and strapped behind my back. The sharp smell of urine coaxes vomit up in my throat.
I slip through all the cracks--that's how little space I fill up: through the floorboards, under the doors, between the pane and the casing, over the transom. I feel small because my spirit is small. If I were not here it would not matter one whit. I don't fit in. I've never belonged anywhere. I don't even belong to myself. After awhile wanting stops. It slips away on kitten feet, stealing past me so that I don't notice its leaving…so that…so that it doesn't matter anymore.
My tears pool on the rubber mat. I stand, finally, and circle the padded cell, bouncing from wall to wall . I bend forward, gripping the straightjacket between my teeth and pull back against the canvas. I pull and pull until the corners of my mouth are raw, my gums bleeding.
I smell rain. I open my mouth and let the drops fall on my face. I want the rain to soak me through and through, to bathe me like a child. The drops fall harder, beating out the only rhythm I truly understand. Like herds of thundering Appaloosa horses, the storm clouds gallop across the slate sky. Lightening arcs off the hooves of the dark steeds, the sharp fragments shooting straight into the ground. The speckled stallion, Thunder, whinnies, defending his mares. Hail beats the ground, ricocheting high as the pony's knees. The rumps of the shrieking Appaloosa clouds, measled with white dots of hail, slowly roll past. The storm passes. I hear the echo of the stallion's hooves pounding in the distance. I smell the wild and remember that I, too, am wild. Too tame I've become: roped, branded, hobbled, and then shackled. Loud noises frighten me and I shy from my own shadow.
I come to when light from the open door falls across my face. I wonder how many days have passed. I see myself through a stranger's eyes: flimsy, fragile, faltering.
Now I inch upwards, like a plant unfurling its cotyledons. I reach for the sun. I inhale the air. I feel the sap of my blood rising. True, second leaves appear. Corpuscles flow through marrow. Calcium hardens into bone. Yes: guts and gristle. Blood. Sinew. Muscles twitch awake. Yes! Alive!
A man and woman bend over me. Their rubber-gloved hands grab my elbows. They hoist me to my feet and drag me down a hall to a shower. The lacings are untied. They strip off my soiled hospital gown and turn on the warm shower. The male holds me under my arms while the female bathes me. The water runs down my back; a thousand needles prick my flesh. When they dry me off, every fiber of the towel grates against my skin. They comb my wet hair, pulling it back from my face. They lead me to a bed; pull the covers up to my chin and I sleep. I dream.
I am running through the pines. I hear footsteps behind me. I don't dare turn to look over my shoulder. I might trip on gnarled roots. If I fall, the thing would be on top of me for sure. My heart is pounding and my breath comes in gasps. Suddenly the thing behind me is in front of me and I smack straight into it. I fall into its arms, sobbing. For the first time in my life, I feel safe, and settle against its muscular chest, fur tickling my face. I breathe in the musky scent of bear.
I crack open the door and the white porcelain of the toilet bowl and sink blinds me. My stomach lurches. I fall on my knees in front of the bowl and heave the whiskey up. After, I moan as I rest my head on the toilet seat. I reach up for the handle, kick the door shut, flush, and then use the sink to pull myself up. I get a washcloth and soak it in cold water, laying the thin rag across my eyes. I sink back to the cool tile floor, hoping I won't heave again. I huddle there, trying to piece together events from the night before. The man has no name--only the bottle is familiar. I look down at my naked body and know I've done it again: traded my body for a bottle.
I have to leave before he comes to. I hang on to the sink and struggle to my feet.
I'm shaking and feel like I might faint. I need another drink--one that will stay down this time. I creep back into the room, leaving the bathroom door open a crack for light. I find my bra on the floor near the foot of the bed, my dress flung over the back of a chair. I put them on as fast as I can. I see his pants at the bottom of the bed and fish his wallet out of the back pocket. Damned if I want to know what his name is. I go straight for the bills. I am tempted to take it all, but hold myself in check. I'll take half, that way it won't feel so much like stealing. I take two twenties, then shrug. My resolve vanishes and I help myself to a third twenty--that little extra will get me cab fare. I slide his wallet back in his pocket and turn to the sleeping lump in the bed, "Whoever the fuck you are, I hope you had a good time." I wave adios to the sleeping Mexican in the oil painting and let myself out the door.
A bus comes as I step outside the liquor store. "Cheaper than a cab," I mumble as I fling some money at the bus driver and stumble down the aisle. I find a seat by the window near the back. The bus pulls away from the curb and I silently thank the John Doe I just ripped off in the motel room for providing my morning bottle. A man sits down next to me, sniffs, and moves to another seat. "To hell with you," I laugh out loud. "Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes." That's a good Indian name I think, and look out the window embarrassed to think I might have really said that out loud. I watch the rain run down the window in rivulets. The bus slows; stops. I watch people fold their black umbrellas and step onto the bus. Damned dreary rain--just like my life. My stomach churns as the bus starts and I swallow hard, hoping I don't heave. I'm so thirsty and want a drink bad, but I know I don't dare open the bottle on the bus. I'll get kicked off for sure. I wrap my arms around myself, hugging the bottle close to me so that the woman who sits next to me won't see me shaking.
Who was that guy from last night? All I really know for sure is that it started with drinking--it always starts with drinking. So, just quit drinking, I tell myself. You can quit any time you want. Another voice inside says, I just don't want. I chuckle out loud. Everyone stares. I look out the window. Maybe I should straighten myself out and get a job like these folks. What the hell? Maybe I'll just ask Wayne if they need any help down at the Five Points--then I'll be set: a job in my favorite bar. The bus slows by the entrance to the zoo. A woman and a little boy get on. Why isn't that kid in school? What the hell time is it anyway? The woman sits in the empty seat beside me holding the little boy on her lap.
"Yew--that lady stinks, mommy!" The woman tries to hush him, but it's too late. The kid looks me straight in the eye. "You stink. You need a bath."
I turn back toward the window before he sees the tears in my eyes. Can't let a white lady and a snotty-nosed kid get to me. At least the kid didn't have sense enough to call me a dirty Indian, but I know that's what the people are thinking. How is it that I have lowered myself enough to fit that stereotype? I want to sink into the crack in the filthy plastic seat and be swept along under the bus near the greasy transmission--down where the gears mesh and the black tires go around and around, pounding the concrete. Thinking of spinning tires makes my stomach queasy. It happens too fast and I have no time to control it. I only have time to open the bag and heave.
The boy announces to the bus, "That lady puked in the bag."
I see the driver look up in his rear-view mirror. I yank on the cord and he pulls to the curb immediately. I crawl over the woman and the little boy, clutching at the dripping bag of vomit because it also holds my precious bottle. Just as I splash through the puddle at the curb, the soaked bag gives way and the bottle drops to the gutter. It is raining hard and the run-off sweeps the bottle along. I chase it down the curb and catch up with it. I bend over. It's the last thing I remember.
Grizzly tears at my flesh and sucks the marrow from my bones. His glistening white incisors rip hunks off my legs and arms, but I feel nothing. My blood drips on the ground, splattering in perfect round dots. Mother Earth is bathed in blood.
I can't breathe. I pant through my open mouth. Drool runs down my chin. My teeth chatter as if I'm cold yet my skin feels as if it is on fire. Bugs crawl up my arms and down the inside of my legs. I try to swat at them. No matter how I struggle, I can't move my arms. The louder I scream, the faster the bugs rush up my neck. This is no dream--it's a fucking nightmare!
Lady Death speaks to me, and I listen to her voice calling through the fog. "Follow me! Follow me." Her dance seduces me. I see her skeleton: straight spine, the curve of ribs. She whirls as she passes near me. I want to dance the song of death with her, but I cannot. I breathe too deeply yet and do not know how to let go. I do not know how to die.
Bugs crawl across my face and drink from the corners of my eyes like fleas on a dog. I scream.
I am one more brown leaf fallen among many. I am one bent twig. I am the weed growing through the crack in the sidewalk. I am but a link in the chain, a spoke in the wheel. Without me, the earth will still spin. Without me, the sun will still shine, the clouds scuttle across the sky, the raindrops fall. I blend in and my going leaves not a trace. I am smoke, falling to earth as ash. I have no form and I fill no void. I belong to no one and no one belongs to me.
Every fiber of my body is hideously alive, shockingly awake. I struggle. I fall on my side when I try to sit up. My arms are crossed at my waist and strapped behind my back. The sharp smell of urine coaxes vomit up in my throat.
I slip through all the cracks--that's how little space I fill up: through the floorboards, under the doors, between the pane and the casing, over the transom. I feel small because my spirit is small. If I were not here it would not matter one whit. I don't fit in. I've never belonged anywhere. I don't even belong to myself. After awhile wanting stops. It slips away on kitten feet, stealing past me so that I don't notice its leaving…so that…so that it doesn't matter anymore.
My tears pool on the rubber mat. I stand, finally, and circle the padded cell, bouncing from wall to wall . I bend forward, gripping the straightjacket between my teeth and pull back against the canvas. I pull and pull until the corners of my mouth are raw, my gums bleeding.
I smell rain. I open my mouth and let the drops fall on my face. I want the rain to soak me through and through, to bathe me like a child. The drops fall harder, beating out the only rhythm I truly understand. Like herds of thundering Appaloosa horses, the storm clouds gallop across the slate sky. Lightening arcs off the hooves of the dark steeds, the sharp fragments shooting straight into the ground. The speckled stallion, Thunder, whinnies, defending his mares. Hail beats the ground, ricocheting high as the pony's knees. The rumps of the shrieking Appaloosa clouds, measled with white dots of hail, slowly roll past. The storm passes. I hear the echo of the stallion's hooves pounding in the distance. I smell the wild and remember that I, too, am wild. Too tame I've become: roped, branded, hobbled, and then shackled. Loud noises frighten me and I shy from my own shadow.
I come to when light from the open door falls across my face. I wonder how many days have passed. I see myself through a stranger's eyes: flimsy, fragile, faltering.
Now I inch upwards, like a plant unfurling its cotyledons. I reach for the sun. I inhale the air. I feel the sap of my blood rising. True, second leaves appear. Corpuscles flow through marrow. Calcium hardens into bone. Yes: guts and gristle. Blood. Sinew. Muscles twitch awake. Yes! Alive!
A man and woman bend over me. Their rubber-gloved hands grab my elbows. They hoist me to my feet and drag me down a hall to a shower. The lacings are untied. They strip off my soiled hospital gown and turn on the warm shower. The male holds me under my arms while the female bathes me. The water runs down my back; a thousand needles prick my flesh. When they dry me off, every fiber of the towel grates against my skin. They comb my wet hair, pulling it back from my face. They lead me to a bed; pull the covers up to my chin and I sleep. I dream.
I am running through the pines. I hear footsteps behind me. I don't dare turn to look over my shoulder. I might trip on gnarled roots. If I fall, the thing would be on top of me for sure. My heart is pounding and my breath comes in gasps. Suddenly the thing behind me is in front of me and I smack straight into it. I fall into its arms, sobbing. For the first time in my life, I feel safe, and settle against its muscular chest, fur tickling my face. I breathe in the musky scent of bear.
Working notes
Originally, the heart of this story was a chapter in a novel; other parts pilfered from a second novel; still other parts from a short story that was not properly jelling. Somehow all the parts wiggled their way out and coalesced into this story. The lesson? Keep writing and leave the door open--you never know when words will find their way home.
About the author
In the 'topside' world, I currently live in Honolulu, Hawaii and teach in the English Department at Hawaii Pacific University. In the current that flows under the surface, I am a writer who also works in the mediums of photographs, collage, and masks.