Bear v. Shark (11 page)

Ever see inside a shark’s belly, like on Television?

Who hasn’t?

Like when they split the shark open?

Stock footage.

All kinds of detritus and flotsam.

Damn junkyard.

Tires, oil drums —

Other sharks’ bellies, human babies —

Trees, pirate ships —

Robots, anchors —

Plankton, scrod —

Scuba gear, driftwood —

Tacos, wildflowers —

Hash browns —

Gold ingots —

Wiener dogs.

Buoyed lagan, in general.

Not a fussy eater.

No.

Literally needs to eat or it will die.

Two stomachs like a cow.

Three’s
what I heard.

Hey you still awake?

Yeah.

Ever sat in the back of a pickup at a county dump in almost-Canada Minnesota and watched the running of the northern lights?

The oriole bolus.

And then when you’re kind of drunk on PBR and about asleep and think you done missed what you came to see you wake up and see the thick silhouettes of bears amongst the rubbish and offal?

All in the dumpsters. Upside down and whatnot.

Ain’t been built a refuse containment system can keep out a bear.

Among its attributes is a steely caginess and paws that work like hands.

And a love of syrup.

Not the lite kind, either.

Shit.

Mr. Norman can’t sleep, what’s new.

The Televisions cast entertaining shadows on the walls.

In the next bed over, Mr. Norman’s sons talk steadily in their sleep, an ongoing conversation that comes together and then moves apart, loosely braided, like two plastic vines climbing an imitation oak.

Beside him, Mrs. Norman is asleep, snoring quietly, her headphones whispering encouragement to her vertebrae.

Mr. Norman gets dressed and wanders the halls of the Plugged Inn. He can hear his fellow travelers in their boxes. In one room, a couple is having a loud and passionate fight, but it turns out to be just the Television. In another room, a couple is fucking up a storm, but it turns out to be just the Television. In other rooms, a father teaches his little girl how to fish, a family mourns the death of a grandmother, a man talks to his favorite beer, a woman successfully juggles a career and all domestic responsibilities.

The non-Television people are quiet. It’s like they’re not even in there.

Mr. Norman walks the mazes of the Plugged Inn, looking for something, he knows not what. Something: A smooth, dry, cold-filtered, ice-brewed Brew with no Bitter Aftertaste? A twin-cam engine? A Hearty Snack that will tide him over? Perhaps an expensive and stylishly shoddy haircut that says to the world, Why should I care about my hair when there is so much else to worry about like ozone and poverty?

He (Mr. Norman), hair stylelessly shoddy, ends up at the small Television lounge on the third floor. The door is closed. He hears voices inside.

One voice (the Television?) says, “All the lard with none of the guilt.”

Another voice (Plotter No. 1) says, “Look, I hate Asians as much as anyone, but we can’t blow up the whole fucking country of Las Vegas.”

Another voice (Plotter No. 2) says, “Well we damn sure got to blow up
something
.

The closed door is unlocked and Mr. Norman opens it. He would like some company.

In the center of the room is a group of about seven or eight burly men with wild, round eyes, gathered loosely around a large map and a case of Hernia Soda. The men all stare at Mr. Norman. Some of them point guns at him.

One of the burly, wild-eyed men says, “What’s the password?”

Mr. Norman, on a family trip to see Bear v. Shark II, having a little difficulty sleeping, out wandering the halls, just looking for something to want, says, “What?”

The men put down their guns. One of them says, “Get in here already. Grab yourself a Herney.”

Another one says, “I thought we might see you here tonight.”

Mr. Norman pulls up a chair and joins the loose circle of men. It feels good to be a part of something.

One of the burly fellows says, “Listen, we all agree, do we not, that Bear v. Shark is a disease, a cancer, a subtle weapon of mass destruction unleashed on this nation by crafty, hardworking dog-eaters who seek world dominance.”

Another stocky plotter says, “Well put.”

The articulate burly guy continues. He says, “And further, we all agree that the best way to strike a blow against our skinny yellow foes is to detonate something.”

The men say, “Here here.”

Mr. Norman feels that something is not quite right, and yet the logic of it all has him in a stranglehold.

The Television says, “Are you sick and tired of your ugly shins?”

Mr. Norman is getting sleepy. He says, “The look and feel of real pork.”

The well-spoken schemer says, “And since we can’t really blow up all of Vegas, that leaves us with either a casino, an elementary school, or an assisted-living community. I say we vote. Let’s see a show of hands for the casino.”

A Plugged Inn security guard comes through the door and tips his cap to the hate group.

Mr. Norman yawns and offers the guard a Hernia Soda.

OK, we’re back. Before we continue our conversation with Dr. Underwood.

I’m not really a doctor.

I want to remind listeners to check out our Web site at double-u double-u double-u dot bloodbathmania all one word dot com forward slash democratic spirit forward slash public pulse forward slash freedom. Once you’re there, you can vote, you can purchase merchandise, you can see who your favorite celebrities are pulling for, you can read Facts for Fence-Sitters, and you can take a quiz to see how closely you match the general profile of a bear or a shark fan. Also, you can e-mail us with your answer to our Question of the Week. As you know, last Saturday a Cincinnati man won a radio station’s ticket giveaway promotion by eating his own hand up to the wrist.

Whoa.

And so this week we want to know: “What would
you
do for a ticket to Bear v. Shark II?

Be creative, folks.

Now then, Dr. Underwood.

I’m ABD, actually.

It is your contention that Shakespeare had bear sympathies.

Yes.

On what basis would you make this claim?

Well, textual evidence. An on-line Shakespeare concordance shows well over four hundred references to
bear
or
bears
in the plays.

And fewer references to sharks?

Just two. In
Hamlet,
weve got young Fortinbras
sharking
up lawless resolutes in Norways skirts, and then.

Then of course the witches in Macbeth.

Yes, of course.

They throw the maw and gulf of the ravined salt-sea shark into that brew. Right, Doc?

Yes.

Toil and
trouble
. Thats pretty fearsome stuff. Did they put any ravined bear parts in there?

The shark is minor in Shakespeare. You’ll find far more goats, crabs, whales, newts, worms, wolves, dolphins, sheep, and of course bears.

So how would you respond, Dr. Underwood, to Newman’s elegant “negative evidence thesis” — that is, the alarming paucity of sharks in Shakespeare is indicative of the Bard’s terror of, and respect for, these marine killers?

I think that’s silly. There’s also an alarming paucity of station wagons in Shakespeare, but you don’t see me trying to build a career on it.

The maw and gulf of the ravined salt-sea shark.
Wow
. Sorry, that is just terrifying stuff, Doc.

Listen, in
Romeo and Juliet
weve got roaring bears, in
The Tempest
weve got angry bears, in
Troilus and Cressida
weve got churlish bears, and in
Lear
weve got head-lugged bears. In
The Winter’s Tale,
weve got a guy exiting, pursued by a bear.

Head-lugged?

Dragged by a chain around the head, and thus surly.

What does
ravined
mean?

And in
Macbeth,
V.vii, weve got Big Mac saying, I cannot fly, But bear-like I must fight the course.

Scene
seven
?

Yes.

Doesn’t Macbeth
die
while fighting bear-like?

That’s not the point.

How would you respond to the claim that Shakespeare was writing some four hundred years before Bear v. Shark was formulated?

I’d call that the worst kind of historical provincialism. Bear v. Shark is just the most recent cultural articulation of an archetypal binary.

And how would you respond to the claim that the overwhelming majority of bear references in Shakespeare are verbs and not animals?

You know sometimes it’s like Freud never happened.

I’m thinking
As You Like It,
II.iv, Celia says, I pray you bear with me; I cannot go further, and Touchstone says, For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you; yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you; for I think you have no money in your purse. Sure, a lot of bears here, Doc, but theyre not talking about grizzlies.

It’s like, post-Freud, I can’t believe two people could be having this conversation. Verb
bears,
far more so than noun
bears,
are proof of the Bards deep obsession.

You’re saying expression of the unconscious.

Yes.

And how much credence do you give to the fact that an anagram of Shakespeare is
A shark’s epee
?

I give it precisely as much credence as it deserves. It’s not scholarship.

Dr. Underwood, how have your ideas been accepted in the academic community?

They have been accepted as all dangerous truths hath e’er been accepted.

Well good for you. We wish you continued success.

Mr. Norman wakes up in the small Television lounge of the Plugged Inn. The hate group is gone. Was there really a hate group in the lounge or was there just a realistic Television program about a hate group? Mr. Norman wonders what happened to the group. Cops probably got those guys, unless it’s a two-parter. Tune in next week.

A small scrap of paper underneath Mr. Norman’s stuffed chair says, “We’ll see you in Vegas.”

Mr. Norman looks at his watch for the time, but it’s all temperature, altitude, important phone numbers. What the hell time is it?

He (Mr. Norman) says, “It’s a cold bowl of chili when love lets you down.”

The Television says, “Do you want to roll or pass, Darrell?”

Toby Wiley, eleven, of Statesville, N.C., says, “I’d drink real piss for a ticket.”

Shit, what time is it? Mr. Norman’s watch is all color, logo, design. It’s gorgeous, this thing.

Mr. Norman walks back to his room, where his family is watching Television and packing their bags.

Mrs. Norman says, “I was just looking for you. Did you get my e-mail?”

Mr. Norman says, “I’m tired of my ugly shins.”

The Normans walk to the lobby for checkout and complimentary Continental Breakfast.

Mr. Norman says, “Calvin, what do you know about the Round-Eyed Sons of the Knightly Order?”

Curtis says, “It’s Curtis.”

Mr. Norman says, “Don’t get fresh, Cal.”

Curtis says, “They’re a hate group, Dad. Nutbags. They’ve been blowing stuff up, hanging bears and sharks in refugee. The sharks never stay strung up on account of no necks.”

Mr. Norman says, “It’s
apogee,
son.

Matthew says, “Technically, the shark does have a neck.”

Mrs. Norman says, “Why would anyone be opposed to bears and sharks? They’re beautiful creatures, each one in their own way.”

An unsupervised drowning kid in the pool says, “Help.”

Mr. Norman says, “Come to think of it, they did seem a little suspicious.”

Curtis says, “Steer clear of RESKO, Dad.”

In line for juice substitute, a burly traveling software salesman with a philosophy degree and an extensive criminal record says, “I would have preferred the
analytic
breakfast.

The guy looks familiar to Mr. Norman.

Curtis says to the traveling software salesman, “Do you have a Web site?”

Tiny diamonds of white morning sun shimmer on the wet, flailing arms of the unsupervised drowning kid.

Curtis and the felon swap business cards and promise to keep in touch.