The Hunt - A Turk Tompkins Travelogue

A light sci-fi romp about hunting the most elusive game of all: Yourself

I put Von in the ground and tooled up the western coast for the next week debauching left and right, as tactful as mangled genitals scrawled on a bathroom stall by piss-drunk artistes. It's what he would have wanted. In fact, I made sure to partake in some of our most beloved degeneracies, which I refuse to chronicle here. Those I'm saving just for me. But here's a nice story for you instead:

After a few days spent behind bars I was told I had made bail and released. Teary goodbyes were had with all the new friends I made in the holding cell, and we penciled into our schedules potential trouble for me to get into later. It was tough to leave them all, but I knew I'd miss Yuli the most. The way she described the designer nanotrips that got her busted? True artistic genius. Especially compared to the avatar of mediocrity waiting for me outside.

I could spy through the glass door of the police station entrance that officious little shit from the publisher, Morgan. He tap-tap-tapped his foot like a caffeinated rabbit as I approached. Looked unnatural. Performative. A big, ol' show to clue me into how mad he was at me.

I hate passive aggression. I'd respect him a hell of a lot more if he'd just plant a knife in my gut and be done with it. But, no, he wants to get petty. I'm as petty as it gets.

Kiddos, take this to heart: There is endless fun to have upsetting stick-in-the-mud types like him. And the kicker is that they want you to mess with them. They do! The only rush they can get is from feeling holier than thou. So, really, it would be selfish of thou not to act a little less than holy from time to time. There's an art to it, though. Consider the following case study.

"I'd get that restless leg checked before it shakes loose, Margaret," quipped I, our hero.

"Morgan."

"That's what I said. I said Megan."

"Mor. Gan."

"I. Don't. Hear. A. Difference. Marvin."

(Note the technique here. Now, sure, you could splice together any number of vulgar words into nicknames to hurl at a foe, and that's all good fun. But it's short-term fun, rookie. Ride the line a bit. Get close without going over the top. Drives 'em bonkers. The pot will boil over eventually, and then you'll get a real show.)

"You know my goddamn name, Tompkins! I've had it up to here with your bullshit!"

An officer burst out from the station, hand on his sidearm. “Everything okay out here?”

“Yeah, all good, Terry. No worries,” I said as I amicably waved him away. Terry smiled and waved back, despite my criminality. See, we had made a real emotional breakthrough the night before, Terry and I, but that's not important right now.

“Mister Talbot, comport yourself,” chastised a bald woman in a gray boiler suit exiting from a nearby autocab.

“Yes, Mr. Talbot, have some dignity.” echoed I, still somehow our hero, “I apologize for him, miss. And myself. Publishing work can leave one so very tightly wound, you see. I must also apologize for meeting you in these circumstances. I didn’t realize Morgan would be bringing a guest. I’m normally not in such a sordid state.”

(Now this is a move that works best with a third party unfamiliar with the prior relationship between you and your target. Once you’ve created a distinct loss of cool, you want to pump the brakes hard. Strike a conciliatory pose. Modestly take responsibility for your part in the tension. Do anything that makes your opponent seem like the unreasonable one.)

“I’m sure.” She gave me a once-over that did not seem to meet her approval. You could read it on her face; she thought she had my number. I watched the wheels of her mind turn as she tried to figure out the tiniest thing into which she could fit her opinion of me.

(Occasionally, a worthy challenger steps up to the plate. A stick so far in the mud that it defies you to even disturb it, let alone pull it out. The impulse then is to turn up the heat–to go aggressive. This is a mistake. They’ve seen the likes of you before and found them wanting. Patience, babies, patience. A crack will show, and that is when you strike.)

Morgan pulled the pieces of himself back together with those little frustrated huffs that would be adorable coming from a small animal but are such a turn-off coming from a grown man. He fumbled with opening his attaché to grab a manila envelope which he shoved into my grubby hands.

“The company is done footing the bill for your pity party, Tompkins. It’s time to go back to work.”

“Oh, must I, daddy? Can't I play some more?”

Morgan smirked. “Welcome back to the real world. Some of us don’t have the luxury of vacationing our grief away.”

“And some of us made better choices with our lives.”

That sure knocked the smug look off his face. His whole body pinched up in a lemon juice seizure, clenched from top to bottom.

(Sometimes, you gotta go for the jugular.)

While he worked out all kinds of new kinks in his muscles, I peeked in the envelope to see what my next grand assignment would be. A trip to some podunk district of Metro Five to write about the Great Truebio Forest of the Northwest that runs along its edge. If the company was looking for a place to literally rain on my parade, Metro Five was the city to pick. I’d never seen a truebio forest before, though. There’s not too many left. Never had much interest in them, to be honest. Synbio forests are all over the place, and the only people who can tell the difference between the two are those science-types far smarter than you or me, but far less fun at a party.

“Metro Five is always so lovely this time of year,” I said with waning spirit.

“Yes, I hope you have a great time," Morgan spat, nearly grinding his teeth down to the gums on that one.

“Are you going to introduce me to this nice lady, Morgan? Or are you going to practice your nose-breathing?”

She stepped toward me, and only then did I take stock of how gargantuan this woman was. I mean, I am a small, rotund man–but still. We’re talking about a difference of several degrees in temperature standing in her shadow. We’re talking about a height at which you could ask about the weather up there and it would be a legitimate question with a legitimate answer. We’re talking about the furrows in her forehead potentially being craters carved out by meteor strikes. That's a big gal.

“I will be your guide during your stay in District Forty-Three. I am called Lillian,” boomed the giantess.

I checked my briefing for the info on her and District Forty-Three, and something interesting caught my attention.

“W-A-C-H-S. Your last name is wax?”

“It is pronounced vox.”

“Oh. Well, that’s too bad.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean…wax would have been perfect for you.”

“I don’t follow.”

(And like that, the crack appears.)

“It just suits your look, Chrome Dome.”

I reached up to give her a pat on that bald head, and in an instant my world went heavy dryer cycle. Once my vision stopped spinning, I watched my new friend walk across a gravel sky to get into the autocab and tried not to cry. I don’t know what was worse, the stabbing pain in my ass or the snickering one nearby.

(As this case study draws to a close, I do hope you’ll take away two very important lessons from it: This game is high-risk, high-reward. And large, bald women with a black belt in Judo are best left unbothered.)

Needless to say, the ride to the airport was strained and silent. Well, not entirely silent. Morgan would not stop dribbling out every bit of small talk he could come up with from the weather to the material of the autocab seats. He was like a malfunctioning robot programmed by an author of self-help books for the socially anxious.

You might think I’d be annoyed by it, but truly I felt bad. He was clearly out of his element in this kind of awkwardness. At this point, he was a wild animal trying to claw out of this pit of a situation I had created with my behavior. I wanted to throw that animal a bone and make him feel that at least one person was listening to his cries for help.

“Morgan, dear,” I cooed, “If you don’t mind, I don’t think we’re quite feeling up for small talk now. But I’m sure our driver would be very interested in what you have to say.”

“Oh, sure. Sure. Excuse me– “

He turned to the front of the autocab to see its featureless dashboard and distinct lack of a driver’s seat as I howled with laughter.

“Oh, that’s rich! Morgan, old boy, you’ve done it. You’ve broken the tension.”

I gave him a fraternal pat on the back. His face contorted in a confusing mishmash of pride, embarrassment, and anger. From the corner of my eye, I swear I spied the faintest specter of a smile from Wax.

“Y’know what, Wax–”

“Do not call me by that name.”

“Fair enough. Y’know what, though? I’ve never understood small talk. Why would anyone want to talk small? If you don’t have anything big to say, or even medium, why waste the energy?”

Her eyes lowered as she considered this. The silence returned and the air went stale, until she finally sighed and said, “Loathe as I am to admit it, I must agree with you. Small talk is...inefficient.”

“I don’t know about all of that, but it is boring as hell.”

“Boredom is inefficient as well.”

“I like that. Not catchy enough for a T-shirt, but I like it. We might be friends yet, Wax.”

Her eyes rolled toward the window to look anywhere but my direction, “I’ll try to contain my excitement–and my lunch–at the prospect.”

“Ha! Morgy,” I said, placing an arm around him, “I suggest you have your spine ask hers for a few pointers.”

He didn’t hear me. He wasn’t hearing anything. His thousand-yard stare told me he was struggling to escape a spiteful murder trance, quickly running through every current option available to violently and finally avenge the damage to his ego that I am so often wont to inflict.

I wish I could have jumped into his head to watch the show. The man is devoid of any other artistry or talent, but I’m willing to bet that if he ever turned serial killer, the word prolific would find its way into his description in history books.

He seemed in better spirits when we left him at the airport. He usually is when he gets to see the back of me.

The flight into Metro Five was terrifying. My publisher spared no expense putting me on the planet's only rickety, donkey-pulled airship. It was the kind of flight where you wear the oxygen mask the whole time because, statistically speaking, it'll be a real timesaver. Everyone on board applauded when we successfully taxied to the runway for take-off. There was a priest muttering prayers in every language under the sun, and I honestly couldn't tell you if he was a passenger or an employee.

But the alcohol was bottomless, so I give it five stars out of five.

An airport staffer wheeled me through the terminal in a wheelchair they had ready for me before I even got off the ship. I guess they remembered the last time Hurricane Tompkins came rolling through Metro Five. The ride was leisurely until I remarked that it was uncanny for so many sets of twins to be at the airport that day. The lovely man pushing me made the innocent mistake of correcting me with the proposition that I was drunk and probably seeing double. I would tell you what I said back to him, for posterity’s sake, but my editor assures me it is unprintable.

Instead, I’ll write this: To you, sir, I apologize. I forgive you for dumping me out of that wheelchair like so much garbage.

“I do hope you will be capable of more professional behavior once we reach the district.” Wax gathered our bags from the conveyor belt.

“Hope is a nice thing to have,” I said from the floor, fighting the urge to nap.

“Have you ever seen a professional before? Do you even know what one looks like?”

“I’ve slipped some singles into the G-strings of a few.”

She turned in a huff and shuffled off. “Come along, or we’ll miss the train.”

I scooted on my back across the floor after her, propelling myself with quickly kicking feet. Tompkins’ Law (named for yours truly by yours truly) dictates that a body, once horizontal, should remain as such if possible. I just got out of the slammer for breaking a law. I wasn’t about to break another, was I? Unsurprisingly, my method of travel drew the attention of everyone in the baggage claim area. Based on a cursory measurement of behavior and body language, this is my best estimate of the reactions:

35% assumed a mental handicap without appreciating the offensiveness of conflating eccentricity with a medical condition.

27% wondered if they were on a hot new vidshow and frantically looked for hidden cameras.

11% virtually crapped their pants in terror awaiting an attack from who-knows-what.

8% were children now on the floor scooting around and having a blast.

Another 8% were parents trying desperately to lift their flopping children.

And 1%, I would later find out, had a psychological and spiritual epiphany which led them to live their whole life horizontally and then write a bestselling book about it.

The author contacted me about it one day after recognizing me on the jacket of one of my own books. Said they were a big fan. Said I really inspired them that day and told me about the book they were working on. I told them about Tompkins’ Law and suggested that as the title for their book. I may have also floated the word residuals out there, as well. They waffled on it and bid me good day, then later called their book Allman’s Law.

Litigation is still pending.

0% of bald, boiler-suited women paid me any mind at all. Folks, you’ll never have the perfect audience in this or any life. Some will love you; some will loathe you, but you’ll never have those daydream people that react exactly as you’d like. It’s best to take what you can get, pack up, and move the show down the road.

With a little backwards somersault, I was back on my feet and walking with a limp because being young on the inside is not the same as being young on the outside.

I thought about hamming it up with the limp before getting onto the train, but Wax wasn’t the type to go for it. Plus, I wasn’t sure she wouldn’t snap my leg with those monstrous hands of hers to give me something to really cry about. No, I sat down in the seat next to her like a good, little boy. To my credit, I did try to strike up a genuine conversation, but I am so rarely rewarded for my genuineness:

“So, you were totally scared shitless up in the air before, huh?”

Her latest sigh caught in her throat and ballooned until it exploded into a coughing fit. “What cough cough did you wheeze just say donkey bray?”

“I noticed all the white knuckling you were doing up there. I thought you were going to rip your armrests clean off. Actually bet with the priest about it. Lost that money too, thank-you-so-much.”

“I was not scared in the slightest. I’ll thank you to keep such inaccuracies to yourself in the future.”

“Whatever you say.”

I stared out the window for some time pondering how best to crack her shell before a question occurred to me.

“Why did you meet me all the way down in Metro 3?”

She tried to ignore me, but I detected a pinch of panic.

“Seems to me that you needn’t have flown at all. You could have met me at the airport. Or better still, you could have waited for me to find my own way to District Forty-Three.”

“Get to the point.”

“Sounds pretty inefficient to me.”

She shot me that don’t you lecture me on what’s inefficient, you lecherous garbage pile sort of look we are all duly familiar with. I stuck my tongue out at her. Not too proud of it, admittedly. I’d like to think that, on average, I’m capable of showing a little more class and intelligence. Which is why I am extremely ashamed of this next part.

Judging that the conversation was stalling out there, I elected to take a nap and sleep off as much of the booze as possible.

“I guess I’ll rest my eyes till we’re there,” I said, eyeing her forehead. “But first I’ll need a sleep aid.”

I gave her head a good, sharp slap. The punch across my temple was as merciless and automatic as a mousetrap. Felt like my mother rocking me to sleep at Mach 5. Everything went wobbly, and then everything went black.

If I’m being honest with you, babies, I don’t get me either sometimes.

As our autocab crested the final hill that led into District Forty-Three, the view below left much to be desired. Picture a tableau of uniformly sized boxes painted gray and laid out among fake grass and roads like chips on a circuit board. I’ll admit the intricacy of it made a spectacular first impression, but crushing ennui made the second. The level of austerity we’re talking about would make a monk blush, you get me?

“No love for ornament around here, I suppose,” I tossed Wax’s way.

“Our culture does not believe in it. Designing for aesthetic appeal is inefficient.”

“I’m going to make you put money in a jar every time you say that word.”

She wasn’t kidding, though. Everything reeked of practicality. Aside from the gray box buildings, every sign had no pictures and the same black font on a gray background. Every pedestrian I saw on the street sported a shaved head and a gray boiler suit, same as Wax. I’m not even sure you could call them pedestrians, since the sidewalks were gray conveyor belts that did all the work. Lining the streets were long lines of the exact same make and model of tiny, square-ish vehicle. Can you guess their color?

This was the deal as Wax explained it to me, and feel free to skip the next three paragraphs if you hate exposition. I know I do. It so rarely involves me:

At some point in the last century, a contingent of folks (read cult) took one look around at all the impracticality and inefficiency in the world and found themselves deeply offended by it. They packed up and headed off to form a utilitarian commune in the great wilderness of the Northwest where they could live as practically as you please. And as far as I could tell, they made a real artform of it.

Forty-Three prospered and became an extraordinarily wealthy district. In the decades preceding their absorption into Metro Five, their stalwart commitment to their beliefs informed shrewd investments that paid big dividends to the commune. Then, they convinced the federal government to let them buy up all the land that the Great Truebio Forest sits on for the explicit purpose of preserving it, ensuring it stayed free from the clutches of corporations and their flagrant disregard for the environment. (Forty-Threesian culture considers killing the planet you live on to be pretty inefficient, believe it or not.) The government was plenty happy to let someone else pay for the maintenance of the land, and the Forty-Threes were happy to give a gift to themselves. The forest became a trophy to them. A living testament to their lifestyle.

But when the growing metropolitan centers of the country started gobbling up towns and villages, the commune was folded in as District Forty-Three of the newly christened Metro Five. By then, truebio forests had become something of a novelty. Synbio forests proved to be a more efficient means of generating oxygen and maintaining ecosystems. Given that efficiency is almost an aphrodisiac for these people, the Great Truebio Forest stopped being the holy artifact it used to be. It became little more than an old museum that no one ever visited nor had the heart to tear down.

As I always say: Nothing is sacred.

That history lesson and a few half-hearted points to landmarks were all the tour I got from Wax.

“Normally, I’d feel disgusted doing only the bare minimum, but I think I’ll spoil myself just this once,” she said, as she left me in the middle of what I assumed was the town square. It’s not like you could tell one part of this place from another, anyway.

Lucky for her, she scampered away faster than I could tell her that she was doing me a favor. I’d trust a sherpa with my life, but I don’t do tour guides. It’s not my style. Turk Tompkins Travel Tip for Topnotch Tourism: Get lost. Get pinata hunting after twenty spins lost. Leave your plans and expectations where you started. Go somewhere strange. Why let someone curate an experience for you when you could discover one yourself?

Just remember to pack some bear mace in case of violent folks. And/or bears. The universe has a way of putting bears where you’re least prepared, whether it’s your favorite polar ice cap or your favorite bar.

Not but thirty minutes of wandering later, I found the only thing worth celebrating around this town. Now dig this, darlings: combination spa laundromats. Apparently, laundry day is a day of leisure in these parts. Drop the kids off at school, drop a load into the washing machine, and drop trow for a schvitz and massage while you wait. Not too shabby at all, District Forty-Three. In no time at all, I was depantsed and berobed to join the fun. Had to scrub off the patina of my week-long bender anyway, might as well get squished into putty by the strong hands of a small, feisty woman while I was at it.

Von would have loved this, and so it seemed as good a place as any to hold a proper funeral for my late husband. Well, I eulogized to strangers held captive by their chores at least. They mostly ignored me, but a few did glance up from their massage tables to scowl at the man interrupting their relaxation. I think Von would have felt honored by the proceedings.

After about an hour there, I spied a familiar bald head and boiler suit out the front window. Of course, familiar might have been a drastic overestimate in that bastion of uniformity. So I popped outside to check. I watched the figure scurry down the street into a big, grey box with a big, gray sign on top.

I know what you must be thinking. Oh, the big, gray box with the big, gray sign on top where that big, gray thing happened that big, gray time? Yes, exactly there. But at the time, my ignorance begged for a closer look. What it found was the bane of adventurers everywhere: fast casual dining. And fast casual dining in a place that refuses even the pomp and circumstance of corporate branding? What is the point, I ask you?

Bursting through the front door–as I enter all unfamiliar places like I’ve been there before (for important meetings, mind you)–I faced a sea of nonplussed faces challenged by my choice of wardrobe. “Laundry’s in,” I offered, and they all accepted that and returned to enjoying what seemed to be bowls of pink frosting. I joined a line of folks all waiting to get their own frosting bowls from the bowels of the machine at the front.

Now this machine is far from your standard stove unit, I learned. It analyzes biometric and brainwave data to determine exactly what your body craves, and then it prints that meal in vitamin-enriched "ink" on edible origami paper folded in approximate food shapes. Or that’s what it should do, on default settings. Forty-Threes set their machine to produce a pulpy paste that perfectly replicates your favorite taste, every time.

The pulpy paste that perfectly replicates your favorite taste, every time was the slogan for the restaurant, by the way. Based on my research, I’m given to understand that slogans are something of an inside joke in Forty-Threesian culture.

With my bowl of FlavorGel™ in hand, I searched the place for anyone trying to duck beneath their table. Sure enough, there she was sliding down ever so awkwardly in a corner window booth.

“Are you going to finish your FoodSlime™ or can I have it?” I asked and slid into the booth next to her.

Wax sheepishly clambered back into the seat without even a whiff of grace.

“What do you want?” she grumbled.

“I really like the way the sunlight dances off your forehead. It lends a lovely ambience to the space.”

“Go away.”

I spooned at my NutrientGunk™, lifting it into the air and pouring it back into the bowl like vidshow prison gruel. In my periphery, Wax tried to eat her own VitaminCream™ but flinched with each splash of my slop.

“What does this stuff even taste like?” I wondered aloud.

Wax dabbed at little specks of pink on the table with a cloth napkin.

“Like your favorite thing,” she said.

Well, that certainly piqued my interest. I landed that spoon plane in my mouth airport right quick. But much like the airship ride earlier, nothing good came of it. Was it tasty? Of course not. Was it gross? I wish. It tasted like nothing is all. Like water-flavored yogurt. A nothing so pure that it left me as empty as a deflated balloon animal after a disappointing first birthday.

I spooned some of the stuff from Wax’s bowl.

“Excuse me!” she chided.

“I am performing science! Do you mind?!”

I scooped the SustenanceCustard™ onto my tongue, hoping my food was simply malfunctioning.

Yet again, I was haunted by the ghost of substance.

“I hate to cast aspersions–no, that's not true–but I think your fancy machine is broken.”

“What do you mean?”

“This stuff doesn’t taste like raindrops on roses or kitten whiskers. It doesn’t taste of anything.” She shot me a real deer-in-headlights look. “It honestly feels like I didn’t even– “

“Didn’t even eat it at all,” she said with a wobbly timbre.

“Yeah, how did you– “

Wax shoved me–and I won’t exaggerate here–all the way across the room. Our bowls clattered and splattered on the floor as she nearly knocked the table over dashing from the booth and the building.

I scrambled to my feet and sloughed pink goo off of me. Again, I drowned in eyeballs, and I tell you, it was starting to get creepy. I don’t know if they teach unison displays of judgement in their schools or what, but the choreography of it was precise.

I rubbed my tummy with one hand while wafting at my nose with the other and explained, “Diarrhea.”

I don’t know if that was enough to sate their curiosity, or at least put them off their lunches, because I was out like a flash to chase after Wax. Too late, though. She was nowhere to be found.

“Well, that was weird,” I opined to a little bird hopping about nearby.

Putting that affair out of my mind for a while, I grabbed my laundry and went about exploring more of the district. After getting to know the place for many hours, I can say with absolute confidence that District Forty-Three sure is a place. Of all the places I’ve been, it’s definitely one of them.

How’s that for a glowing review?

Sorry, dearies, I don’t know what else to tell you. The place almost defies adjectives. Besides, the forest is where the party’s at. I’d decided I’d finally go visit it as the setting sun washed the surrounding gray into a somehow less dismal taupe.

Now, I know hiking in a strange forest in the middle of the night seems like a bad idea, and it is, but I had an ulterior motive outside of simple reporting. Think about it. The greatest natural forest still left in the country, and it’s in the Pacific Northwest? That’s as prime a Bigfoot habitat as you can get. Like I’m going to pass up a chance to meet Bigfoot, and he sure as hell ain’t coming out in the daytime.

Even though the night had swallowed all creation, I could see from my autocab the unbelievably vast shape of the forest stretching off into the distance. I knew that it extended from outside Metro Five all the way down to Metro Four, but that kind of sterile measurement doesn’t mean anything until you see it for yourself. Synbio forests just don’t come that big. A synbio tree can do the work of 20 truebios, making those forests more condensed. The Great Truebio Forest makes them look like quaint rose gardens.

The canopy loomed overhead as the autocab took me down a small road that cut through part of the forest. At once, I was in awe of the monstrous maw of nature closing around me, the tree trunks like great, brown teeth gnashing at me from the earth. A wave of beautiful disassociation crashed through me, and I could see myself from far away as a speck of dust within the trees and the trees as specks of dust within a celestial forest of stars.

This alone was worth the trip. Worth Morgan Talbot and his oppressive banality, worth Wax and her humorless pragmatism, worth anything. But life is not meant to be lived through windows, kids. I needed to be out in the wilderness. I needed to become a part of it.

The autocab trundled along waiting for my instructions to stop, but I didn’t know where to start. How could I when millions of special journeys were waiting among the trees? I suddenly found myself missing Von terribly. He could always make the decisions when I let myself be crippled by opportunity. I lifted the broken camera from my neck to capture a memory of moonlight sinews peeking through the forest’s silhouette and wished we could share it like we used to. Through the cracked viewfinder of the camera I spotted a faint, pulsing light off in the deeper darkness of the trees. It was just curious enough that I finally commanded the autocab to let me out.

The smell grabbed me immediately. Synbio forests don’t have an odor, but out there, the complex bouquet of wood and moss and maple hit me like a shot of good bourbon. The essence of verdant birth entered one nostril and died on its way out of the other, a fragrant distillation of the natural life cycle. Walking through the woods and listening to the crunch of twigs and the howling of wind through leaves sent shivers through my body. I ran my hands along the bark of a tree, caressing every nanometer of its texture, and I thought I could imagine the molecular lattice that constructed it based on touch alone. Majestic seems too vanilla a word to describe it all, but proper marvels do tend to leave you without a better vocabulary.

Then I tripped over a log and skinned my knee. Forget all that stuff I said before, the forest is a nightmare.

A hint of smoke drifted from the direction of the pulsing light. Getting closer, night sounds began to fade into the driving rhythms of popular music. Getting closer still, I could see the pulsing light and smoke coming from a fire, obviously. A gaggle of folks were dancing around it, chugging copious amounts of alcohol. Did you think I was kidding when I said the forest is where the party’s at? And ol' Turk Tompkins has never met a party he didn't crash, so you best believe I was dancing around that fire in my underpants long before anyone could ask, "Hey, who the hell is that?"

Not that anyone did. Lemme tell you, these cats could carouse with the best of them. Each one was a raucous twenty-something wearing a colorful swimsuit and a wig, neck deep in spirits, flailing wildly, lost in the rhythm, too caught in the revelry to notice an extra attendee. Except for one. A tall woman in a long blue wig and floral one-piece stumbled away from the circle of dancers like her life depended on it. I'd have known that mad dash to get away from me anywhere, since I'd already seen it a handful of times that day.

"Wax?"

She disappeared into the dark, and I gave chase because I know I'm tough to be around, but I do endeavor to not be so repulsive that folks get lost in the woods and die to avoid me. But she didn't make it far before the liquor forced her to the ground to clutch moss and stop the world spinning. I found her tucked into her knees at the base of a tree.

"What are you doing here?" she groaned.

"Oh, you know. Seeing the sights."

She pfft at me, hard and spitty.

"That's a good look for you, the blue hair."

She snatched the wig from her scalp and tossed it to the birds to build neon nests to rave in. I took a seat next to her, old bones creaking, but that sent her scooching around to the other side of the trunk.

"Am I right in guessing all those kids over there are your friends? Other Forty-Threes?"

A meek yeah barely cut through the noise of windblown leaves.

"Gotta hand it to you, Wax. Y'all throw a decent shindig."

whatever

"Do you come out here often?"

nunya business

"No, guess it isn't. But I think…"

I started putting two and two together. Why she met me in Metro Three, why she bolted from the restaurant, and why she's cutting loose in the middle of an abandoned forest in the middle of the night. I sensed a kindred spirit in her after all.

"I think maybe life in the district ain't all it's cracked up to be, huh?"

Silence. I considered going on, but it felt right to let the moment hang there, contrary to my nature. Soon came soft sobs and sniffles.

no

"Thought so." Let another moment hang. "May I approach the bench, your honor?"

s'free country

Cheek by cheek, I shimmied to Wax's side. Leaned my head back against the bark, too hard and it hurt, because I don't do things by half measures.

"Don't always feel that way though, does it?"

She didn't respond, but I could feel the shake of her head disturb the air.

"I've been thinking about that pink stuff at the restaurant. It tastes like your favorite thing. But what if you get tired of your favorite thing? Then what do you get?"

nothing

“Whole lotta nothing.”

The tears started up again, harder this time, which meant I needed to land on something inspirational quick. Lucky for Wax, I’ve got that in spades.

“Seems to me your ancestors were full of horseshit.”

Alright, maybe not in spades, but my heart’s in the right place.

what would you know about it

“Gray. Everything gray. That’s not efficient. It’s indecisive, is what it is.”

what do you mean

There you go, Turk, get the gears turning, keep her thinking.

“White is white, and black is black, but gray is a thousand shades in between. I’d bet good money those old farts way back when had countless fights about which shade was best. I want slate! No, I want ash–“

no i want charcoal

I smiled, hoping it radiated warmth that might sink down to her bones, “Yeah, I bet that was it.”

A solitary chuckle popped out of her, so quick you might miss it, might mistake for a heave of despair, but it was there. I tell you, it lit my skin on fire. Could it be, dear reader? A heart does still beat in this chest? Do you see it, Von? That I didn’t bury it underground with you?

“And all those boxes you live in, why are they painted gray anyway?”

huh

“Could have left them as is and save the paint.”

“Hey, that’s true,” she admitted with a full chest. That’s it, little flower. Time to bloom.

“Boxes. That’s all it’s about. None of that efficiency crapola. Just keeping people cramped in safe, sterile boxes.”

“I fucking hate those boxes.” My shock at the language must have been palpable, even in the dark. “What? I’m not a child.”

“I guess not.”

I’ll be honest, that killed the moment something fierce. But I finally cracked the shell, so we’ll call it a win. Didn’t make the atmosphere less awkward, though.

“So, uh…party?”

“I think I’m tired of parties,” she sighed.

“Pink stuff?”

“Pink stuff.”

Seemed as good a note as any to end on. But let it never be said that I don’t go the extra mile when it behooves me.

“Say, I’m feeling the tickle of an idea in my nethers.”

“Ugh.”

A familiar flavor coated my tongue. The distinct taste of shoe leather and toe jam. Tompkins, it's okay to stop being yourself for at least a few minutes, sometimes.

“No–god no. Get that vomit out of your throat, I’m a happily married man.”

A tremendous raise of her eyebrow shook the canopy, loosed pinecones that plonked about the forest floor.

“Yes, yes. For who could ever learn to love a beast? Well said. Did you come up with that? I need your help with something.”

“With what?” she grunted, the curmudgeon I had known and loved for roughly twelve hours roaring back to life.

“Meet me back here tomorrow afternoon. I'll have need of my tour guide.”

She didn’t agree to it, but she didn’t categorically refuse. That would have to do. I took my leave of her to rejoin the frolic around the fire, but all those slick-headed lightweights had retired to their tents. A party had ended, and for the first time in my life, I wasn't there to shut it down. The prices we pay for showing a little compassion, eh?

Cut to the next day. Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want a rambling, contemplative essay about my ride back to town, replete with reflection on the human condition and flowery metaphors? Use your imagination. Must I do everything for you?

So, there I was, waiting in the forest carrying two long, sturdy rods of wood that I had sharpened to points. Yuli had slipped me a free sample that the cops hadn't found back at the jail, and it was starting to kick in. Meticulously programmed nanobots were at work massaging my brain chemistry till I heard the thrum of an orchestra playing centuries old music, bright and spritely, and all the trees came to life with happy faces giggling and chortling as they told tree-specific jokes that sailed right over my head. But I laughed along, because what the hell, Yuli?

A flesh-colored monster in coveralls trampled through the underbrush heading straight for me. I readied those spears, poised to whirl and thrust and unleash hell as soon as the general ordered it. My thoughts drifted to Sparta, to flashes of my wife and child applauding my triumphant, war-weary return as I festoon the boy with a souvenir necklace of Persian ears. He's of age now. Soon the spear would be in his hands as he marched in lockstep with the shield wall. But all the Greek world would be safer for it, and–wait, what was I doing?

"What are you doing?" hissed the creature. Its choice of wording shoved a lump into my throat that threatened to choke me to death. Could this thing read my thoughts? What are you, fiend? What are you–

"Oh, Wax. It's just you. Phew. I thought–nevermind," I wiped thick, fearful sweat from my forehead.

"Are you going to tell me why we're out here," eyes widened as she stepped outside of her annoyance to fully take me in, "and what those are for?"

"Hold on…"

I crept closer, dropping a spear to reach pinching fingers at her brow. She leaned back about as far as her anatomy would allow, but surprisingly did not bat my hand away. I snatched a bit of air from the furrows, lifted it to my eyes to examine its non-contents, then fitfully tossed it away.

"What are–"

"You had a little snake in there. Wild."

"Are you on drugs?"

"You should get that checked."

She snapped fingers in my face with all the authority of a long-tenured schoolteacher, "Tompkins. Focus."

I tried to shake away the trip with moderate success, "Right. We're going on a hunt."

Her expression bid me elaborate, which I was reluctant to do, for reasons that will become glaringly obvious.

"For…" she said, realizing her face wasn't getting the job done.

"…"

"For…"

"Bigfoot."

"Don't know what I expected," she tossed up hands and stomped away to escape my flight of fancy.

Alien toadstools burst from the loam with each skipping step as I sprang to block her progress. No dice, though. If Wax wasn't a well-paid running back in a past life, I'll eat my hat. Juke, spin, duck, dive, and sprint; I couldn't catch her even in my best years.

"Wait!" I shouted, desperate not to lose a new convert to Tompkinism, "Lillian, wait!"

That stopped her in her tracks.

"You called me by my name," she said, back turned to me, straddling the boundary line between a return to death and my offer of rebirth.

Huffing and puffing, I bounded to her side, collapsing there and steadying my ample, exhausted frame with a hand on her knee.

"I haah did. I had to hurp stop you–gimme a sec. Fwoo. You're fast. You're so, so fast. Blugh. I had to stop you somehow. Please do this with me. Please."

I hoped she would appreciate how rarely the word please sincerely slips out of these lips, let alone twice at once. Wax lifted her chin to the sky. Closed her eyes and let the world breathe around her. Considered the cost of letting me have my way, flinching at it but giving it a fair shake. I’d say that it felt she froze that way forever, but I was more focused on keeping breakfast in my stomach, so who knows how long it was.

"So, you want to hunt Bigfoot?"

"Sure, why not?" I answered, trying to pull myself to my feet, hamstrings ablaze.

"You believe in Bigfoot?"

"I believe in believing in Bigfoot."

She deflated and cranked what I consider her trademark sigh up a notch by stretching it out, building it to a crescendo, lowering the pitch till it was almost a growl.

"I am almost certain I am going to regret this."

"I'm counting on it," I clapped her on the back, "Let's have some fun."

We collected the spears and set off for adventure, slinking through the trees, two cavemen on the prowl. Our Cro-Magnon toes dug deep beneath leaves into ancient dirt, disturbing the sleep of earthworms, twenty millennia hibernations ended. Tight haunches locked us in low poses, our lithe, silent tip-toeing illustrating how humanity could become a species of apex predators. Practiced eyes honed by years of necessary strain searched for hints of our quarry.

That's how it all seemed to me, anyway. From Wax's perspective, I imagine it looked more like watching a friendless kid playing pretend in the park.

After a time, I finally found the evidence we needed. I held up a hand, rough-hewn from the toil of building hard lives, to bring the hunting party to a halt.

"What do you see there, child?" I pointed a gnarled finger at the ground.

"Animal tracks? Elk, maybe?"

I laughed, hearty and facetious, and shook my head, "The folly of youth. That's what he wants you to think. Bigfoots, you simple thing–"

"Watch it."

"Bigfoots are powerful, intelligent beings. They know that an untrained mind will expect to find large, man-like footprints. Instead, they walk on their hands, poised on two fingers to give the appearance of the noble ungulate."

"That…can't be true," she tapped the haft of her spear on her forehead, "What are you saying, Lillian? Of course it isn't."

"You have much to learn, young one. Now follow me."

“If I must.”

I led us along the tracks until we reached a clearing ringed by shrubs and deadwood. Scanning the area, I knew this was the perfect place to wait for our prey. Mostly for the fine, flat stone in its center begging to perch my backside for a while, which I was happy to take it up on. My dogs were barking at that point.

“Well, are we done?” Wax asked.

“Our next clue is here,” I assured her as I massaged a foot that slid out of my shoe almost faster than I had sat down.

“Okay. And…”

“And I want you to find it.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

She let loose a primal bellow and raged about the space.

“This is so stupid! We’re looking for a fairy tale! What am I supposed to find?! Is it all that forest over there?!” she started pointing crazily, “Or is it all that forest over there?! Or, hey, maybe it’s all that forest over there!” The spear went sailing as she tossed it out of her hand and dropped to her knees, “Why did I agree to come out here with you?!”

I aimed my camera her way, clicking the little button on top to capture a memory.

“K-ch. K-ch.”

“Now what are you doing?!”

“Taking a picture, dummy. K-ch.”

“What are you even talking about?! That camera is clearly broken!”

“It’s for my husband, the camera belonged to him.”

The fury subsided instantly.

“Belonged? I thought you said you were married?”

“I am,” I snapped a few nature shots I thought Von might like, “To a very wonderful, very dead man.”

Wax trudged to my side and dropped into a small bed of leaves. She picked one up and furtively tore it to pieces.

“I suppose Morgan didn’t tell you that’s why I was on sabbatical.”

“When did he pass?” she asked.

“About a week ago.”

“Wow,” she went silent for a bit, soaking in secondhand grief, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

The mood was damper than a towel at the bottom of the ocean. I’d tried so hard to outrun this feeling. Hoped that I could skip the wallowing and that the rest of my life could be a celebration of his. But I should have known better. Existence is nothing but peaks and valleys. The higher the peak, the lower the valley, and you couldn’t get much higher than Von. I’m sure all your spouses are great, but this story isn’t about you.

Maybe the valleys are important. Maybe it’s the valleys that define the peaks. Without either, you’re just living on the plains. You ever been to the Great Plains? No offense, but there’s nothing great about them. I guess it was only natural that the vastness of his presence would come with the cosmic emptiness of his absence. What do I do with it, Von? All this space you left behind? He’d tell me to find some way to fill it back up. But how?

“What was his name?”

“Von–well, he went by Von. His full name was Bonne Chance Enfant Von Bonn,” Wax cocked her head so hard it might tumble off, “I dunno either. His parents were drug-addled hippies. He used to get bullied by kids for having a dumb name and bullied by teachers for a hard to pronounce one. He hated it. Thought it was funnier to go by a preposition, anyway, so that’s what stuck.

We met working for a small news outlet fresh out of college. He was a photographer, and I wrote local interest stories. We figured out quick that we made a good team. He always complemented that I had a way with words, but kid, his pictures said more than I could ever dream. Put ‘em both together, and I guess folks thought that made magic.

We were inseparable all the way to the top. Once we got there, once we could breathe again, we finally pulled the trigger on all the feelings we had been trying to hide. He had me over to his place for drinks one night. Drinks I think we both knew were just preamble to wedding bells, somewhere down the line. But the funniest thing happened, Wax. I’m looking at a mantelpiece where he’s got all these old photos set up, and there’s one from his college years of him and some friends at a protest. He’s holding a sign he made that’s got a quote on it from this obscure old movie that he thought sent the right message. And there in the background of the picture, so small and almost too blurry to see, is me. At that same protest. Holding a sign I made with the same quote on it. I asked him to marry me right then and there. And the rest is…the rest.”

She looked at me with big, wide eyes. I thought for a second it was pity, but I realized it was something else. She was looking like she’d just seen a magic trick, a wand getting turned into a bouquet of flowers. I think she noticed she’d been gawping too long and tried to follow up with the clumsiest question you can ask the grieving:

“How did he die?”

“Cancer,” I said, and she squeaked, “I know, right? As bombastically as we lived, shouldn’t our deaths be just as spectacular? I tell you, I rampaged about it for weeks after the diagnosis. But Von made me quiet my soul and said there ain’t nothing to do for dying but to keep on living. So that’s what I’ll do.”

And there it was, the way to fill the empty space. Von coming to the rescue from beyond the grave like the saint he was.

“That’s why I’m out here in the woods with you and two sticks and some elk tracks. Living.”

I watched a resolve slip over her face that I hadn’t seen before. Wax leapt to her feet and shook a scolding finger in my face.

“Now, now. You can’t fool me. I know Bigfoot fingerprints when I see them,” she said, and you wouldn’t believe the smile on that face, so bright it could blind. Couldn’t help but smile back, feeling like I had a partner in crime again.

“Pick up your spear, soldier. We’ve got a Bigfoot to track down,” she ordered, and I bolted to my feet with a firm salute. “Hold on, what are the spears for, anyway? Do you want to kill Bigfoot?”

“Self-defense, kid. It’s a Bigfoot, not a Pussyfoot.”

We scrambled around the clearing trying to find the spear she had chucked earlier, and when she found it, she gasped.

“Mr. Tompkins, look!”

There at the tip of the spear sat a pile of half-eaten berries.

“It’s just a bunch of berries,” I said, playing dumb for her.

She laughed, hearty and facetious, and shook her head, "You old fool. Everyone knows Bigfoots leave berries as traps to attract small game.”

“But doesn’t that mean he’s trapped us too?”

“Dammit, you’re right! Keep your head on a swivel, that wily beast could be anywhere!”

“Aye, cap’n!”

A bush just behind us rustled and spooked us both screaming right out of our skin. That mousetrap arm of Wax’s launched her spear on instinct, shooting it faster than anything towards the sound. It slammed into the shrubbery, and a bloodcurdling squeal blasted out. We skulked over, worrying we had in fact killed a Bigfoot, or at the very least, a Smallfoot. But on examination, Wax had made a one-in-a-million throw and bulls-eyed a squirrel.

“Oh dear,” I lamented, pulling out the spear and picking up the poor thing’s lifeless body.

Wax was full green in the face, struggling not to throw up. My face was a mess too, as it had been my turn to see a magic trick. She must have done track-and-field in school or something. I’d never been so happy not to be a squirrel.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” she sputtered.

“Have you ever killed anything before?”

“No! I would never! Have you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I hung the thing in front of our faces, neither of us able to move for some time.

“W-what do we do with it? Do we just leave it here, or bury it, or what?”

I had an idea. Maybe a morbid one, maybe not the right one, but an idea.

“You want to really get the lack of taste of that pink stuff out of your mouth?”

Readers, I can’t even begin to describe the horror on her face at that. But she didn’t say no.

We made the trek back to the campsite where she and her friends had partied the night before. The remnants of their fire pit were still there, though the tents were gone. The empty bottles were gone too, and I felt tremendous respect for the clean-up job.

Now, I’ve been around a time or two, so I had everything I needed to get another fire going on my person. I’d spent some time with the mountain folk in Old Appalachia too, so I had no trouble gutting and cleaning the squirrel, and I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know I didn’t make Wax watch that. Then I set to work roasting it on spear-tip over the fire. When I was sure it was safe to eat, I passed a leg over to Wax and dug into another myself.

“Do I have to eat this?” she whimpered.

“I didn’t bring you out here to do things you have to do. You can go back to town for that.”

She groaned and tucked in to the leg, and quick enough she was tearing at it like she’d never eaten before. Snotty tears started running down her cheeks, and she started laughing like a madman through a mouthful of greasy, gamey meat.

“Are you okay? Is it good?”

“No. It’s terrible!” she yelled and laughed and smiled and beamed and cried. And I cried too.

I’m an awful cook.

Soon, my time in District Forty-Three had come to an end. There wasn’t anything else to see. I had already spent plenty of time with the best and only thing of note there. I had the piece I was going to write all laid out in my mind, which is, of course, the masterwork you have just read. All that was left was the train back to Metro Five and the flight back home.

At the station, a familiar face trundled up with a suitcase and joined me on my bench.

“Well, look who it is!”

Wax was sporting casual attire, a simple t-shirt and jeans but still a far cry from the ugly gray boiler suit. There was fresh warmth in the color of her skin, not from makeup or anything like that, but the warmth of contentment.

“Where ya headed to, friend?”

Not but forty-eight hours ago she would have bristled at the word, but then, we were friends now, weren’t we?

“I’m going to take a trip to Metro Five for a few days. Get my head right,” she said.

“What? After all that, you’re just going to spend some rainy days in Metro Five? There’s a whole new life ahead of you, Wax!”

“In due time. I want to take it slow. It’s less efficient that way.”

I grinned, “I suppose it is. Say, in due time, there’s going to be a festival halfway across the world in a godforsaken desert that will be calling my name. As it happens, I’m in the market for a new photographer.”

“I might have to take you up on that.”

“I’ll keep a ticket with your name on it.”

“My actual name, I hope.”

“If I must.”

Then we sat quietly waiting for the train, reminiscing–fondly or otherwise–about the people we had just buried.