by Edward M. Sledge |
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I began my life in a muddy den beneath the roots of an ancient cottonwood, the river singing past, boisterous in the spring, quiet in the fall, but always singing. I grew up in the hard years, when food was scarce and every scrap was well earned. Many of us died of hunger and the danger that hunting brought. Looking back, I truly do not know how any of us survived. Now, it is a time of plenty and we thrive, inhabiting every damp drainage pipe and swampy hollow. I live in luxury in a length of galvanized culvert half-buried in an empty lot next to a new Wal-mart. Hunting is beyond simple. At dawn, I emerge and take my place at the edge of the grass, beneath a leafy maple wrapped in wire mesh to keep the beavers from felling it. I do not like beavers. Very chewy. The first come just after sunrise, the ones who wonder what their neighbors will think, the ones who have to hurry to work, the ones looking forward to a relaxing day on the golf course. I smell them before I see or hear them, the sweetness of milk breath, the clean of antiseptic wipes, the gentle perfume of no tears shampoo. I hear them next. The shrill cries ring out through the early morning stillness, birds roosting on the lightpoles exploding in flurries of clapping wings. I watch them circle as I wait. The rattling bark of high heels echoes from the face of the store, or perhaps the shuffling flump of faded slippers put on much too early, each is its own melody as they mingle with the inexhaustible crying. Finally, I see them hurrying along the sidewalks toward me, the women, tall, short, thin, round, black, white, young, old, but all of them tired, their steps desperate, the dark bags under their eyes seeming to pull their whole faces down. The bundles in their arms seemed to defy physics; nothing that small could be that heavy, but the weary women packing them around looked like they would rather be carrying Volkswagens. They always approach hesitantly, and I’m never sure if they’re afraid of me, or of what they’re about to do. I, of course, am something to fear. I’m one hundred and six years old, but the years have dulled none of my senses, nor slowed my reflexes, though they have silvered the formerly green scales that cover my body. My claws are long and sharp, almost too long from lack of use. I need to grind them down on the sidewalk again before they get caught in a sewer grate. I’ve heard that actually happens. My tail is long, my teeth jagged, my mouth wide enough to swallow a steel belted radial. Not that I would. I prefer something a little more tender. I suppose you could describe me as some sort of lizard, or perhaps a dinosaur, but I don’t think I’m really either. My kind originated in Germany, or so I’m told, where they called us Kinderesser. I always liked the sound of that. That’s not what these Americans call me of course, but that doesn’t stop me from accepting their gifts. One by one they approach, unwrapping the kicking, screaming child in their arms, sometimes removing clothes and diapers, sometimes not, but it makes no difference to me. I sit patiently and watch, knowing that my pale green eyes give most of these people the creeps, so I make my stare as obvious and intimidating as possible. I have to fun somehow, right? Then, with pale faces and trembling hands, they hold the squalling morsel and I slowly open my jaws, feeling the squirmy weight of the child settle inside my mouth. I wait a moment, letting them get their hands out of the way. I jumped the gun one morning and accidentally bit a woman’s arm off at the elbow. I spit it out when I realized, but I’d already chewed a few times. Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. It was a long time before people got desperate enough to come back. Since then, I’ve been much more careful. I savor the taste, the feel of the soft skin on my tongue, but I can never restrain myself for very long. My teeth shear off tiny limbs the way my claws used to carve through the roofs of minivans. Sometimes I miss those days. Not enough to back, though. Rolling one grapefruit sized head after another around inside my mouth is too delightful to throw this away for a bit of nostalgia. The blood is hot and rich, and I try not to let it dribble down my chin, but it’s hard. The bones are so small and make such a satisfying crunch. Have you ever squeezed a head between your teeth until the brains spilled out on your tongue? Probably not. I chew thoroughly and swallow, perturbing the person holding the empty baby blanket with my pale, glassy stare, then I turn away and wipe my face on my forearm. I hear a sigh and look up to watch them walk away, back always straighter, step always lighter. Then the next one comes. After the dawn rush of mothers, they continue to straggle in throughout the day, a few dads appearing now and then. The fathers grow thickest toward evening, eager to persuade the mother to work on making another little noisemaker even when they can’t get the first to shut up and go to sleep. Hey, keep ‘em coming, is all I have to say. By dark I’ve usually gorged myself so much I can hardly crawl back to my den, the taste of strained peas, turkey and gravy, and ice cream lingering on the scraps of flesh stuck between my teeth. I lay in the dark and damp, trying to count each delicious bite as I work the leftovers out of my teeth. I usually fall asleep around thirty. Every day is much the same, and yes, sometimes I do long for the hunt, the chase, the outwitting and avoiding the protective and watchful parents, but I realize that those days are over. Too many mothers and father are more than willing to hand their screaming bundles of joy over to me, so why go looking for trouble? I sit in the shade and watch the shoppers pass. Those people with no children and those that bravely shoulder the burdens of parenthood can’t see me, but their kids sure do. They start to scream, which always makes me hopeful. I once saw a T-shirt that read, ‘This morning I had one nerve left and now you’re getting on it,’ and I like to picture the shirt on those parents and imagine what their kids would taste like. |