Intelligent Creatures
Original illustration by Anne Le Guern The classroom was in one of the old buildings, at the bottom of a wide marble staircase so worn I had to catch myself on the banister so I didn’t slip off the last step. The oak floors whined underfoot, and the plaster molding on the ceiling was splitting apart; a long crack ran between what looked like two nippled breasts above the little desk where I sat. Three radiators hulked inertly along the outer wall. It was summer, and the windows were open, sills laden with flakes of white paint. I had once moved to get away from windows like those. I wondered how much lead I was breathing in. I wondered how much would do it.
There were ten of us. It was an extension class. We were all over the place age-wise, but the others were boys and men, boy-men, Idaho-bred.
Our instructor wore an old wool vest over a flannel jacket. He looked out of place in the cramped room and smaller than he had in his picture in the paper, where his monthly column ran. He had the same anarchic facial hair and two vertical creases down the centers of his leathery cheeks. Instead of introducing himself, he began reading from The Snow Leopard, with the grace of an attention-averse pubescent boy, though presumably he was the one who had designed the class.
A guy decked out in camo raised his hand and said he thought this class was about catching wolves. Errol closed the book and asked if anyone else was confused about the snow leopard as a metaphor.
A metaphor for wolves? somebody said.
Errol didn’t answer.
Wear hiking shoes, he said, and scrawled the name of a trailhead in chalk. No scented deodorants. He looked at me. No perfume. His eyes passed over the patchouli kid a few seats over. No soap when you shower. He sneered, like the thought of us smelling had sent a spark into the dry forest of his brain. This course is not about catching, he said.
He could have just canceled the class. He could have changed his mind after the local government said, Fuck Obiden. Run them down with your ATVs. It’s your right. Slay the babes in their dens. Save the elk. Save America. Let’s go, Brandon, and changed the laws. I wondered what cut he took of the money we’d paid, and how badly he needed it.
I rolled down the windows of my old Vibe and drove too fast along the mountain roads.
For the record, I don’t wear perfume. About once a year I stand in a grocery store aisle and think about purchasing makeup, overwhelmed until I decide I’d only look like a clown.
At the casino, I played blackjack for hours, lost everything, and got beautifully wasted.
Waking up — deep in the unnatural dimness of an afternoon, when I should have been alone — was less perfect. At some point, I’d given one of them a key. Karen thwacked blankets and laid them flat. Erin cracked windows. Emilia poked me with a fork; she never let anyone, even me, ruin her fun.
We miss you.
We want you back.
WAKE UP! THE BUILDING’S ON FIRE!
