Just a Lil' Javelina, On Her Midnight Promenade
Short Fiction
09-13-02023
On the third telecom interview I had today, I was asked . . .
“So, Lina, where do you see yourself in five years?”
. . . and I want to say . . .
‘storming your CEO’s gated community with a 3D printed AR15,’
. . . or . . .
‘tending to a small herd of goats 30 miles from the nearest 𝓢𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽𝓰𝓻𝓮𝓮𝓷™,’
. . . or . . .
‘loving strangers unconditionally on a new formulation of MDMA with no ill side-effects,’
. . . or . . .
‘Content.’
But I say . . .
“Hopefully thriving with a small team of like-minded dreamers, in an organization poised for growth.”
. . . and this isn’t a lie. A goat herd is my ideal team of like minded dreamers.
A few minutes later we’re all thanking and being thanked for each other's time — scattering insincere pleasantries across three time zones, via the excellent ＷＩＦＩ of my Sedona short-term rental. I’d come to Sedona to hunt for a job in the presence of profound natural beauty. I’d heard this valley cleanses souls of cynicism, leaving behind hourglass figures of 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽.
I could hear a garbage truck clanking in the distance.
I pulled my laptop shut, hard enough to express a fraction of my frustration, but not hard enough to crack the screen. Expressing my full frustration had, in the past, been expensive.
The garbage truck is coming closer.
Adrenaline jolts me as the image of the huge plastic can sitting in the side yard comes to my mind. I’d forgotten to roll it to the curb twice already, and a farmers market’s worth of vegetables had begun rotting flagrantly. I’d intended to eat those vegetables, but mental forecasts of 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, & 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 filled me with projections of fatigue. I made a twice-daily ritual of ordering $35 delivery from a plethora of 𝓯𝓪𝓻𝓶-𝓽𝓸-𝓽𝓪𝓫𝓵𝓮 cafes, while broccoli heads browned ruefully and the potatoes grew judgmental eyes.
I shuffled into my sandals then, and out the backdoor not bothering to shut it. I leaned my petit frame past 45 degrees to pivot the can on it plastic wheels, dragging it bulk behind me like a malnourished rickshaw driver.
The garbage truck was one house away by the time I reached the gate. My pace doubled as the can’s weight shoved me down the steep driveway. I hop off the curb just as the wheels wedge against a branch, yanking me backward like I’d been pulled by my ponytail. With perfect timing & execution, the can fell forward, the lid flew open, and I dove head first into its depths.
I lay there stoically, letting ♥ ᗩᗰOᖇ ♥ ᖴᗩTI ♥ carry me far away. It was quiet, warm, and safe . . . like a womb. Even the smell of rot became enticing. I heard myself give a happy little snort.
Ｈｏｏｏ♢♢♢ＮＫ！
The horn of the garbage truck rousted me. I backed out of the can on all fours, feeling the early evening coolness on my wide, wet nose.
Ｈｏｏｏ♢♢♢ＮＫ！
What’s with the honking? Quite a rude crew on the truck today. I’d have thought garbage men would hold more empathy for the victims of trash related accidents.
ＨｏＮＫ！Ｈｏｏｏ♢♢♢ＮＫ！
I hopped back onto the sidewalk and turned to grasp the handles of the fallen can. But this proved difficult. My hands were no longer hands. My hands were a pair of furry hooves. I looked back and saw another set of hooves, shooting down from a hairy hind quarters.
Ｈｏｏｏ♢♢♢ＮＫ！
This new form was awkward. I felt as I had in my 13th year — clunky and inexperienced. Finding myself in a body foreign to the child I had been months ago, but also realizing the new shapely vessel came with exciting powers and pleasures.
ＨｏＮＫ！Ｈｏｏｏ♢♢♢ＮＫ！
The noise grew shrill and threatening. I ran from it with a speed new to me, ducking into the bushes a few blocks off and popping out near a sign with symbols I had trouble comprehending . . .
【Ｓｅｄｏｎａ Ｈｉｌｌ Ｐａｒｋ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ Ａｍｉｔａｂｈａ Ｂｕｄｄｈａ】
I remember leaving the back door open, the heat would be let in . . . why had that ever concerned me? I tried to remember more things, but could only grasp vibes. The past felt complex and filled with noise, like the HÖñK_ÄñÐ_ÇLÄñK trash monster I’d just fled from.
Something rustles up the hill, and I forget all of that. I weaved through gaps in the mesquite and creosote bush, following a welcoming scent, and emerged into a clearing near the skyward thrust of the Great Golden Stupa of the Amitabha Buddha.
There, I met seven javelinas.
I entered their ranks with a good-faith confidence I’d never held before. We are friends — a pack. We sniff, snorted, and nuzzled with an intimate spirit. Scents exchanged, we made our way down the hill towards the amateur meditators and vagabond seekers seated on the paved expanse around the stupa. Then, we charged.
Our pack loops the stupa thrice. Weaving between the seated wannabe Buddhas, I feel the experience from their perspective, seeing my animal body through the eyes of our new age audience. Our running transforms into a sign from their gods. Lovers would be left, careers would be abandoned, and estranged children would be contacted after decades as a result of our timely and auspicious ring-rounding. I was a javelina now, a wild beast. To humans, any wild beast can become the mouth piece of a god.
So, I spoke with a god’s authority now? What a silly crown to place upon this fuzzy wuzzy head.
We made our way out of the park, slowing to a trot as we reached Sedona’s main drag. The sun was setting. The sky was dyed in deep fuchsia. the enchanted the red mountains, turning them into towers of rose gold. Everything gleamed with an uncanny vibrance. I wondered, had the world always gleamed, or was this the view from wild eyes?
We pit-patted the sidewalks like a merry band of snorting minstrels. Excited tourists in hot pink Jeeps filmed us with phones, as guides shouted facts about our species. I learned we’d trotted merrily all the way from the rainforests of South America, over the course of a thousand years. A hundred-generation journey to reach the overflowing dumpster behind a place I once called 𝘽𝙪𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜™.
I felt a memory flow on the cool evening breeze. This 𝘽𝙪𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜™ was infamous — the only 𝘽𝙆™ whose signpost buns blazed turquoise instead of gold. A tongue-in-cheek demand decreed by the Sedona City Council. A sassy tax for letting 𝘽𝙆™ do biz in the presence of such profound natural beauty.
I ripped open a black bag — sweet steam rose from the tear. We took turns thrusting our heads in, grabbing mouthfuls of the morning’s unsold hash browns and french toast sticks. When I came out from my final dive a turquoise paper crown came out with me, catching cattywampus over my ears.
I almost shook it free — any other javelina would have — but I’d just enough human vanity left to flaunt an accessory.
The back door opened and a human shouted at us in words I now no longer understood. We dispersed in a non-urgent scamper, full to bursting with fried carbs. The time had come to sleep, make love, and drink water from a cool stream.
I had one last human memory. One of an open door, letting in the warmth.
The girl learned against the net wall of the ball pit.
“Mommy, Mommy look! What are those Mommy?” She shouts.
“Those are javelinas, hunny-bun. OH look at the littlest one! It has a 𝘽𝙪𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜™ crown stuck on its head. Jeff, get my phone out of the bag!”
Her husband grumbled, put down his 𝙄𝙢𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚™ 𝙏𝙚𝙭𝙖𝙨 𝘿𝙤𝙪𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙒𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙧™, and began rummaging through a canvas tote.
“Hurry Jeff, hurry! I have to post this!”
The girl laughed and laughed.
“She’s just a lil’ javelina on her midnight promenade.”