Bear v. Shark (18 page)

An electronic form letter mailed from Las Vegas officials to Internet cult leaders and remnant Folksingers says:

Dear zealots:

If you are thinking of trying some “funny business” on August 18 here in Las Vegas, you might want to think again.

First of all, security is tight at the border, on the streets, and in the Dome. As of this early date, we have already apprehended many would-be terrorists. Those clever fertilizer artists, the ones still alive, are now eating cabbage and rotting away in a prison with a pretty severe TV-to-prisoner ratio. Ain’t no summer camp, I’ll tell you.

Second, let me remind you that here in Las Vegas, we don’t share the same judicial values as your fair-minded Mother Country. We make no claims to due process, jury of one’s peers, speedy trial, etc. We shoot on suspicion. We are prone to hysteria and vengeful thoughts. Extradition from Las Vegas to America tends to be a difficult process. Some of the boys here in law enforcement think that a public execution might be a nice undercard to the big bout in the Dome. A doubleheader. Let’s play two.

Here in L.V. we don’t care what you do out there in your sprawling nightmare of a nation. You don’t bother us, we don’t bother you. We’re neutral. We’re the damn Swiss of the desert. So go ahead and blow up whatever you want on your turf, hell, it certainly can’t hurt anything. But let’s keep Las Vegas beautiful.

Midnight, eighteen hours until Bear v. Shark II.

Mr. Norman, down twenty-one floors, out on the street. It’s all narcotics, hookers, and inert gas out here.

Cops are rounding up homeless entertainers. Some of them (entertainers) are quite talented, just never caught a break.

An entertainer bum says, “We’ve been out here for months.”

A cop hits him on the knee with a sequined club. He (the cop) says, “But we want our country to look nice on American Television, don’t we?”

A large truck backs up slowly to a loading dock at the Roman Coliseum. Many of the colorful fish inside the truck already have pustules and swollen heads. Some are gasping for air. Their gills bleed in the dark, splashing water.

Mr. Norman starts walking, he can’t imagine that one direction is much different from any other direction. Curtis follows at a distance like a gumshoe. A private dick. It’s like that computer game where you have to follow slouching agents of evil and then stab them with a poison umbrella before it’s too late.

An assisted-living community explodes in the distance.

A hooker says, “I love the babbling type.”

Another hooker says, “Inertia makes me hot.”

There are people everywhere and cop cars and lights and vomit.

Smutty handbills line the streets and sidewalks, marking zigzag paths to iniquitous places. These paths fan out in every direction like wavy spokes on a giant wheel. A nation-sized wheel of sin and fun.

Mr. Norman isn’t looking where he’s going, not looking for the action. He figures he will be found. He figures the action will come to him. He figures choosing a direction is like choosing a channel. Now you just sort of sit back and watch what happens.

A hand on his shoulder, a whisper in his ear, the faint scent of fertilizer.

Mr. Norman says, “What?”

A voice says, “It’s no way to live.”

A voice says, “Join us.”

A voice says, “The boy can come, too.”

The throbbing sky says, “Free shower caps.”

Mr. Norman says, “What boy?”

Curtis says, “Hi, Dad.”

Father and son duck furtively out of the street and into a hotel lobby.

Once you stab the guy with the umbrella, you steal his dossier and double-time it to the docks to get your next assignment.

1. False.
   The shark does in fact have a tongue, known as a basihyal, though it does not much resemble the muscular, useful, and mobile slab in the human mouth, or in the mouths of other non-fish vertebrates (such as the bear). The basihyal, a stout and stationary piece of cartilage, lies small and useless on the floor of the sharks mouth.
   
2. True.
   Some polar and Kodiak bears stand over nine feet tall and weigh in at 1,600 pounds or more. These animals are the largest meat-eating creatures on land (and they can still run a lot faster than you!).
   
3. False.
   Sharks have excellent vision and they see well at night. Shark corneas have even been transplanted into humans. Sharks also hear very well and have an excellent sense of smell. Also, did you know that sharks have a sixth sense? They can detect vibrations in the water with a special electroreceptive organ.
   
4. False.
   While it is true that most bears are omnivorous, the koala bear is not a bear at all, but a marsupial.
   
5. True.
   These pups are generally 4050 cm at birth.
   
6. True.
   Thats like eating 42 hamburgers a day!
   
7. True.
   While a 59-foot whale shark has been reported, most tend to be 2530 feet.
   
8. Very
   False.
   Sharks go back over 400 million years; bears about 40 million.
   
9. False.
   Sharks, like almost all other fishes, have no auguring ability.
   
10. True.
    In Korea, a bears gallbladder was once sold for $55,000.
    
11. False.
    On average, one human is killed every year in a shark attack. Most shark attacks are not fatal. Sharks dont much seem to like the taste of humans, who have a much lower fat content than the tasty seal.
    
12. True.
    The digestive system of hibernating bears is specially designed to process waste internally.
    

Mr. Norman (father) and Curtis (son) in a dark and crowded third-floor hotel room in Las Vegas. Middle of the night. Murmuring and plotting. A cult HQ.

An overconfident cult member says, “Ha, I’ve seen better security in elementary schools.”

Mr. Norman says, “How did you follow me here?”

From what Mr. Norman can make out, the members of this cult love and live for Bear v. Shark. And that is why they must destroy it with bombs. This makes sense, does it not? They prefer to be in a continuous and acute state of anticipation and desire. They love the speculation, the wagering, the Talk Radio. They love the chat sites and the swirling rumors and the merchandise. To honor Bear v. Shark and to love it purely is to defer it eternally, to place it forever out of reach. They must want and they must not get what they want. They must not, for what is on the other side?

The Vice Squad Leader in the hotel lobby says, “We hit them quick and we hit them hard.”

Listen, after Bear v. Shark I, there was widespread depression and anomie. Suicide rates went up. Spousal abuse rates and homicide rates went up. School dropout rates went up. It’s like the whole damn country of America fell apart. What was left? Some boring war, game shows, the Super Bowl.

This cult in question, this cult that Mr. Norman and his young son have more or less joined for the moment, this cult sees itself as a positive force, a force for cultural cohesion and unity. The power of a well-made and well-placed bomb. Funny how you need to destroy to preserve, but you do. You need to blow something up to keep something much larger and more important intact. This is the truth, can you argue with it?

Curtis is struggling with this concept, you can see it in his young face. Delayed gratification is for adults and sickos. And eternally delayed gratification is an austere and ascetical code indeed. Struggle is not fun. Nor is it particularly healthy. Boredom always looms.

Does he (Curtis) love Bear v. Shark?

Yes.

Well, then.

But.

My child, do you or do you not love Bear v. Shark?

I
do
.

Then you must not be selfish. Your place is with us.

The Vice Squad Leader is real, not televised. He says, “We knock. If they don’t open up, then we’re going in.”

It’s dark in the room. One lamp on, in the corner, with a towel draped over it. Mr. Norman is not certain that he loves Bear v. Shark, but this feels right to him somehow. He wishes Curtis had not trailed him, but perhaps it will be a good thing, after all. Things usually turn out OK.

The cult members spread out a detailed map of the Darwin Dome on a king-size bed. Certain key places are marked in red.

One cult member in a dark corner says, “Those Lindberghers are
total
wackos.

One cult member in another dark corner says, “So a Panda, an American Black, and an Asiatic Black walk into a bar.”

The Vice Squad Leader knocks on the door.

The Cult Leader says, “Who is it?” Terrible falsetto.

The Vice Squad Leader says, “The maid.” Better, but hardly convincing.

A cult member in a corner says, “Then the Panda says, ‘Give me a rum and Coke.’”

The Cult Leader says, “Come back tomorrow.”

The Vice Squad breaks down the door and rushes into the room,
looking every bit as well trained and proficient as your typical Television Vice Squad.

A gun says, “Bang.”

Another gun says, “Bang.”

Mortally wounded Cultists and Vice Officers converse in a gargling pidgin of pain.

Mr. Norman and his boy roll out onto the patio. Curtis hides behind a plastic chair. Mr. Norman climbs over the railing and then jumps three stories to the Astroturf. He tries to roll upon impact like Television leapers do. The turf burns his arms.

Mr. Norman says, “Jump, Curtis.”

He says, “Jump, quick.”

He says, “I’ll catch you.”

Curtis climbs on top of the thin railing and stands up. Bullets are whispering in the night. They fly over him, beside him, between his plump white legs.

It’s like this kid is invincible.

And he’s smiling, too, he’s having fun, he loves his old man, Father of the Year, they’re having a night on the town. Is he smiling, this boy on the balcony?

Curtis says, “I can’t do it.”

Mr. Norman says, “Jump, Curtis.”

Curtis says, “I’m scared.”

Mr. Norman says, “It’s OK.”

Curtis jumps like a scuba diver jumps into the ocean, a shark hunter perhaps, fins first, and here’s the thing: on his way down he smashes the back of his head against the balcony’s cement ledge and he crumples, midair, and he falls limp into his father’s waiting arms.

An eyewitness, in town for the big show over at the Dome, says, “That was cool.”

I did OK, seven out of ten.

Me, too.

But I feel like the shark’s tongue question is controversial.

How so?

I feel like the question should either be thrown out, giving me seven out of nine, or I should get credit for my answer, which would give me eight of ten.

It’s not that big a deal.

It’s just the principle of the thing.

What principle are you invoking here, specifically?

It’s just a saying.

But still, there’s some specific principle.

Principle of the thing, people say that all the time. It’s the principle of the thing.

Sure, but there’s still some principle they’re talking about.

Well. Fairness, then. Or justice.

Why is the tongue question unjust?

Can of worms here involving demarcation, definition. Bee in the thinking man’s bonnet for all times.

What’s a tongue, you mean.

Yeah, I mean, you start taking legs off a chair, when does it cease and desist being a chair?

At what point.

Likewise, you sit on a flat rock, is the rock now a chair?

Various schools of thought. Natural kinds and whatnot.

Does our language name reality or does it bring reality into being.

But stubby cartilage in mouth floor is a tongue for realists and nominalists alike.

Not necessarily.

I got that one right, No. 1.

They don’t even call it a tongue. They say, what, basihyal.

Your proposal would leave me with either six out of nine or six out of ten. That sucks.

And, also, this basihyal doesn’t move or anything. Just sits there, useless. Take a tongue out of my mouth and I’ll miss it, you can be sure of that.

People live without tongues.

The word
tongue
has to point to something. A tongue has properties. Location and function. Not just any oral lump or knob can be a tongue. The word then loses any referential power whatsoever.

I find that I’m OK with the question as it stands.

Seventeen hours until Bear v. Shark II, we got ourselves an injured child.

These things usually turn out OK.

What they do is build up the suspense and then show you a bunch of commercials and then they come back and everything turns out OK, and there you were, worried for nothing. Or else, worst-case scenario, they give you a cliffhanger and you have to wait, but then when you join them the following week, everything turns out OK, triumph of the human spirit.

A homeless entertainer in the street says, “What that kid has is a fractured skull and swelling on the brain.”

Another homeless entertainer, a fine pianist in his prime, says, “Nah, what that child has is a bump on his noggin, no biggie.”

I looked it up, the Internet says there are 250 species of sharks and it also says there are 345 species of sharks and also 400 species of sharks. Now dammit, which one is it?

Mr. Norman carrying ragdoll Curtis along the streets of Las Vegas. Mr. Norman can’t figure out if he feels, carrying his young boy in his arms, like a good father or a very bad father. Mostly bad.

A drunk motorist says, “Hey, did you win that kid at a gaming table?”

Another drunk motorist says, Hey, is that little boy sleepy or dead?

The inert gas twinkles and shines. It’s either beautiful out here on the street in Las Vegas, or else it’s ugly. Horrid.

Curtis says nothing, but he’s still breathing, let’s be clear about that.

An entertainer bum says, “I saw where a shark’s tooth is replaced every eight days.”

The arresting officer says, “Like clockwork or on average?”

The entertainer bum, his name is William, says, “What this means is that given the average shark life expectancy of twenty to twenty-five years — some of your dogfish sharks live to be a hundred, but let’s bracket them as a statistical outlier — what this means is that sharks, an average shark, goes through thirty thousand teeth in a lifetime.”

The arresting officer punches William in the ribs and says, “You’re drunk and full of shit.”

William doubles over with his hands cuffed behind his back. He says, “I may be drunk,” but it’s hard to hear because he’s gasping.

The Police Commissioner says, “I can virtually guarantee you a bomb-free event.”

Spray-painted graffiti on the sidewalk says, “Pooh v. Jaws.”

Mr. Norman, breathing heavily by now, disappears into the lobby of the Roman Coliseum. Curtis is sleeping like a baby.

William wheezes and says, “Thirty thousand and that is the
truth
.