1
I keep breathing a musky scent, dark and swampy, mixed with the pine floor, the rubber mat, the residue of burned incense. Then the musk overpowers them all, pulling levers in my brain.
I push into Downward Dog, breathing deeply, the world around me—the other yoga students, the teacher's voice, the New Age music—all slowed down and heightened.
From Down Dog I lower to Plank position, then Chaturanga. Rising into Cobra, I see her toward the front: thick thighs, ruddy cheeks, damp black hair. She's ovulating. I know, though I don't understand how. I've had these strange sensations since the retreat last weekend.
I twist into Right Angle and notice a man, wiry with thinning curly hair, wearing peach-colored tights and tank top, gazing upward with mock serenity. Edward Berkel, the weasel, a friend of my wife who was a wart on my knuckle at best before she moved out, but now that she's gone, I've grown to despise him. The bastard even helped her move out of our house.
I was supposed to stay away for the day, so I hung out at my friend Gus's, but my mind was playing out every possible angle to stop this choice of hers. But I had used them all. I'd been begging, pleading, reasoning, wooing, threatening and catastrophizing for six weeks already, but she would have none of it. And there I was, sitting in front of a stupid baseball game on TV with Gus and his family, knowing a half mile down the street my life was being ripped away.
I bolted up and stormed to my car, Gus in pursuit. "Dude, come back." But I was already starting the engine. "Dale, don't go there. You'll just cause yourself more pain," he said, hustling down the steps. I drove away, leaving Gus on the curb, and headed to the house.
I pulled into the driveway and his car was there, Berkel's beige Prius. Why the hell's he here? I thought. I drove off, circled around the block and passed by the house again. I repeated this for twenty minutes till I saw her bringing down a box overflowing with CDs, our CDs. She looked tired, pale, strands of sweaty hair pasted on her forehead. I pulled up the driveway and jumped out. She rolled her eyes and glanced back toward the house. "You promised," she said, barely above a whisper.
I stepped up to her, took the box from her hands, laid it on the ground and embraced her, my chest heaving, animal-like noises vibrating in my throat, my head on her shoulder, tears soaking into her shirt. I felt a single hand on my back. "It's going to be okay, Dale."
I sobbed more violently and clung tighter.
"Okay, Dale, I have to go. We'll talk."
I kept squeezing, trying to keep her with me. "I can't. I can't."
I felt strong hands on my shoulders pulling me away. It was Gus. Jenna's sister and Berkel were standing on the steps watching the spectacle, boxes at their feet. Gus turned me away from them and, holding my shoulders close to his body, walked me to his car. I glanced back and saw Berkel leading Jenna into the house, our house. A flash of adrenaline shot through me and I started to charge him, but Gus restrained me with his bear-like arms and hauled me to his car, telling me we'd come back for my Buick that night.
I sat in the passenger seat, my heart pounding in my ears. I was going to snatch him by the throat and beat the shit out of him. But I don't do that to people, I thought. I grew up with that cowboy shit, dad smacking us whenever we were "out of line," but I never took that road, rarely even raised my voice at people. I looked to Gus, whose somber gaze was on the road. "Gus, I don't know what happened. I was going bash his head in."
"It's a normal reaction. You're devastated and this asshole wants to play the hero or something."
"No, you know that's not me. I'm a damn pacifist."
"But it's in us, you know? Primal rage."
"No, it's not in me."
About a week after this drama I started bumping into Berkel at my drop-in yoga classes. And it's bad enough I have to see him, but on top of that, he's always coming up to me after class like some know-it-all, talking to me about the right way to do yoga. One time I came in late by two minutes because of traffic, and he approached me afterward to tell me entering late ruins the class energy.
As we start on Sun Salutations, I push him out of my mind, refusing to let him ruin my experience. I'm flowing through the asanas when I sense something in front of me, a being, sentient, not whole though. The yoga teacher, the slim blond, she's pregnant. I wonder if she knows. But how do I know?
Moving into headstand I glide up effortlessly, my head and elbows rooted to the floor, my feet rising toward the sky. I feel strong today. Usually I can barely get up. Then I hear a nasal voice: "Excuse me, can we turn the music off? It's disturbing my concentration." Him. Berkel. I wobble, lose my balance and come down to my feet. "Maybe we could vote on it," Berkel suggests.
We lay in Corpse pose, final relaxation. I feel my limbs heavy and relaxed, the energy from the exercise flowing through my body, but there's a strange whistling sound distracting me. What the hell is that? Maybe a squeaky machine in the basement? A car alarm going off up the block? I try to put it out of my mind, but it's torturous. I open my eyes and glance toward the sound and it's him again: legs draped over a bolster, body covered with a blanket, an eye pillow blocking out the world, a nose whistle that would make a dog howl.
I can't take this shit. I grab my gear and head out. Parked behind me, too close, is a little beige Prius--his. The same one he used to help Jenna move out. I look in the window and picture it full of our belongings.
I touch the door handle, not quite knowing why, and sense his hand print. I feel a tingling in my bladder and the shaft of my penis. I pull it out and its plump, healthy, like when I was 19 or 20. A stream of golden piss gushes onto his door handle, splattering back at me and dripping down the door.
I get in my old Buick and put it in reverse, and, without thinking, slam the gas and smash into his Prius. I pull away, splintered plastic crunching under my wheels. I begin to snort and giggle as I picture him putting his hand on the wet door handle and then bringing it up to his nose and sniffing.
But as I get closer to home, the excitement of my deed starts to wear off. What was I thinking? I worry that I was seen. Maybe I should get in touch with Berkel and tell him, say it was an accident and I was in a rush, but offer to pay. But what about the piss? And I can only imagine his saccharine lecture. Plus, he'd tell Jenna.
I pull up my driveway and as soon as I see the faded gray steps, the bushy Elm and the green mail box with Dale and Jenna Glass written on it, I get the image of her leaving, standing with the box of CD's in her arms. I live that moment of her leaving every day when I come home. Sometimes when the images are too cruel and the regrets and should-haves too loud, when it takes Herculean effort just to eat or even move, I stay at Gus's. This may be one of those nights.
I kick off my shoes, peel off my shirt and go to the backyard, a quiet place to sit and think, but there's something out there. A huge buck, wide antlers, thick-chest, not twenty feet off, eating my garden like it was his very own. He lifts his head in alarm, and we lock eyes. He lopes around and leaps over the fence. "You bastard!" I roar, flying out of my back door in my bare feet and shorts. I hoist myself over the fence, clearing it easily, and take off behind him. He weaves through the bushes and into the street behind my house. I plow through the brush, keeping sight of the brown rump, now moving into the woods. I'm on him, leaping logs, ducking branches, my toes gripping and tearing at the earth with each stride. He starts up a slope, but I'm closing in, using my hands to scramble up the hill. He disappears over the plateau and as I reach for the edge, a stone gives way under my foot. I slam to the ground and skid down on my belly, fingers clutching at the loose earth till I slide to a stop. Dirt and leaves stick to my sweaty torso and face, my breathing is fast and labored. I sit on the ground, elbows resting on my knees, and allow my breath to slow down. What the hell am I doing?
I brush myself off and notice my knees and arms are scraped and bloody. I trudge home. A neighbor, the old guy who lives behind me, is out on his back deck, watching me. I nod like everything's cool. Yeah, I always go out in my bare feet covered in blood and muck.
I run hot water into a tub and fill it almost to the rim. I climb in and every raw spot of skin screams out as it makes contact with the soapy water. The pain eases and I lean back, watching a slice of moon rise through the bathroom window. I gaze at it, glowing and ancient, and feel the power of it in my chest. My muscles twitch and my breath slows down and deepens. I feel writhing and twisting in my belly. I'm ravenous.
I slog out of the tub to my fridge, standing wet naked, a puddle forming at my feet. I pull out a plate of rice and beans, sniff it and lay it on the counter. I wade through yogurt, peanut butter, mayonnaise, cheese, lettuce. I want fucking meat!
#
I march toward the back of the market through the cereal aisle, boxes whizzing by in a blur, till I get to the meat section. I grab at the packaged cuts of beef, feeling the weight and tossing them aside till I find a fat red steak. I snatch it and head to the counter, but a few steps off I freeze, panicked it may not be enough to fill me. I go back and grab two more.
Clutching the steaks to my chest, I drop them on the black conveyor belt. The clerk looks startled when she sees me. She quickly bags the meat, keeping her eyes on me the whole time. I screech around every turn to get to my house. Once in the driveway I grab the bag of steaks and run up the stairs. I throw my three pans, the ones Jenna left me, on the stove and pour oil in them. I rip off the plastic from all three steaks and drop them in the pans. They start to crackle and hiss, just a hint, and the smell makes my heart pound. I dip my finger in the beefy grease and suck. It burns, but I do it again. I snatch the steak out of the pan and bite into it, ripping off a shred of meat, only barely cooked on the bottom. Chewing the sinewy fiber, I swallow a large clump. Then, clutching the steak in both hands, I rip off hunks with my teeth, juice flowing down my chin, straining to force the thick lumps down my throat.
Once finished I flip the other two steaks and when they're lightly brown on both sides, I devour them too. Halfway through the second I stop, let out a long uneven burp and shove the half-eaten steak aside. My head feels airy, my eyelids suddenly heavy.
I go into my bedroom and see a strange man. I jump back and shout, but then realize it's my mirror. The two days of scruff on my cheeks is smeared in grease and steak juice. My brows are bushy, my eyes glazed and wild. I look like a drug addict or a survivor lost at sea.
I edge my hip on the bed, lean back, and all is black.
2
I hear a dinging in my dream, over and over, till I realize it's my doorbell. I pull myself out of the darkness of sleep and stagger to the door. I open it and see Gus, hair wild, belly hanging over his bike shorts. "Dude, what's wrong with you?" he says.
"I don't know," I say, stepping inside, followed by Gus.
"You look sick or something."
I notice the pans on the stove, the meat juice on the counter. My memory starts to trickle back, then flood. I sit. "Gus, something's wrong with me."
He puts a hand on my shoulder. "What's going on, buddy?"
"You know Jenna's friend, Edward Berkel, the one who helped her move?"
"Of course, the weasel. Your buddy."
"Yeah, I saw him at my yoga class last night and I pissed on his car."
"You did not!"
"Yeah."
His face turns red and puffy, mouth wide open, eyes crinkled. "That's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."
"But I didn't want to. It just happened. Like, my body did it, but not me."
He pulls up a chair in front of me and slaps a meaty hand on my knee. "Dude, you've been through a lot with the separation and all. You always suspected little weasel dick wanted to move in on your woman. Jenna leaves you, you're bumping into this piece of shit. I can understand. He's lucky you didn't do worse."
Pause. "I backed into his car too. Cracked it pretty good."
"Really?" he says, chuckling, his smile morphing to a grimace. "Dude, that's pretty serious."
I go on to tell him about the deer and the meat. "I think I need to see a psychiatrist or something."
"You could see mine, Dr. Feinman. He gives me all kinds of good shit: Lexapro, Xanax. You can call him tomorrow."
"Okay. Thanks, Gus." And I mean it. My wife couldn't stand him, but he's the kind of person that would walk through a burning house for you.
"So, we going riding or what?" he says, on to the next moment, like I didn't just tell him I'm losing my cookies. I look at his child-like eyes and see he's serious. "I only got till one, dude. Then I got to take the kids to their games."
"I can't possibly."
"Eh, I figured. Well, I got to ride. Work on the gut. I'll call you tonight with Dr. F's number and check on you," he says as he leaves.
I go to deal with the dishes when the front door flies open. "The retreat!" yells Gus, stomping back in.
"What?"
"The Return to Nature retreat. What was your totem?"
"Wolf."
He holds his palms in the air like Get it? I look at him, confused, my head still heavy.
"The whole point of the totem was to take on some of the animal's characteristics, right? Maybe it's working."
"You think?"
"Hell yes! Dude, you're finding your inner wolf. Mind-body connection. That shit is real. I told you."
"What was your totem?"
"Beaver."
"Beaver? All the animals on the planet and you choose beaver?"
"I'm a slob, a procrastinator. I'm trying to work harder. I wanted to choose something that would make my ass busy. A beaver," he says like I'm a dumbass for not figuring it out.
Gus and his wife had dragged me to this Return to Nature retreat at the Epsilon Institute for Holistic Studies earlier in the week. They thought it would help me deal with the despair I'd felt since Jenna left. I'd been up there once before, not exactly my thing, but the gesture meant so much to me, I went along. And I admit, I enjoyed it: being around warm people, the meditation, hikes, the sweat lodge. The final exercise was called "Finding Your Life Totem." You went out to the woods by yourself and did a sort of mediation, a prayer to an animal you wanted as your life guide.
I sat on a moss-covered stump, holding a wolf tooth in my palm given to me by the retreat director, Swami Dionini, and repeated the chant he gave me: "Wolf Mother, Wolf Father, my soul is an empty vessel that I offer to you to fill with your divine wolf nature: strength, courage, intelligence, power, ferocity." I kept whispering the words, breathing in the wind, my eyes narrow slits observing the woods: squirrels chasing one another through mounds of decaying leaves; jagged tree trunks and branches lying scattered about the forest floor; shadowy hemlock trees lurching and creaking in the wind. After a while the light began to fade and it got cold, but I kept chanting the words.
The conch sounded and I headed back toward the center. I couldn't tell if anything had happened, doubted it had. But as I emerged from the woods, I heard detailed conversations in the kitchen all the way across the field. I could smell individual ingredients from the evening meal wafting through the night air: lentils, paprika, fresh tomatoes. I figured all the healthy food and meditation must have gotten rid of the mental clutter separating me from the world and given me a heightened sense of my surroundings.
But once I got home from the retreat, the sensations became more subtle and sporadic. And nothing about the retreat could have caused this craziness in me—if anything, it made me calmer, more passive. Gus is just being dramatic or idealistic thinking what I'm going through has something to do with the retreat. It's loneliness, I think. Fear. Just broken since she's been gone.
I spend the next hour cleaning and sanitizing the kitchen. The bones and leftover meat go in a plastic garbage bag and then to the trash in the garage. Then I take a scalding shower, shave my face and groom my eyebrows. I put clean sheets on my bed and lie with a book, The Third Chimpanzee, and doze off.
I awake and the sunlight outside has faded to gray. I dress and set my alarm clock for work the next day.
With my book sitting on the passenger's seat, I drive toward the Green Planet Cafe in Irvingville to get a salad. I'm waiting at a red light, but when it turns green, the guy in front of me doesn't move, cell phone at his ear, absorbed in a conversation. I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck and my jaw muscles start pulsing. I hit my horn and he edges forward, but is barely moving. "Go, go you fucking idiot!" I pull up to his rear, whip around him and race up the street. Without thinking, I drive past the restaurant and keep going for several blocks till I reach the yoga studio. I realize it's time for my regular class, it just started. The beige Prius, duct tape on one of the headlights, sits in front. I'll go in and take the class. I need it to calm down. I snatch my mat from the trunk and march in, flashing my card to the young receptionist. She seems startled at the sight of me. "Sir, are you okay?"
I turn back to her, gazing at her neckline and cleavage, sensing her organs underneath cloth and skin, smelling her young sex. "I don't know. I feel a little off. I hope the class will give me some relief," I say, leaning over the counter into her space.
"Yeah, good plan," she chuckles nervously.
I step into the studio and close the door quietly. The teacher and a few students look at me with alarm. The class is full, mid-session, and the only spots are in front by the giant river view window.
I join the class in Downward Facing Dog, pushing my hamstrings back and stretching my ass to the sky, despite being hindered by khakis and a button up. I notice a familiar scent in the air, Jenna, my ex. I jerk my head around and scan the studio. No Jenna and the scent gone. But Berkel is back there, intently focused on the pose, Warrior 1.
My breath deepens and I push hard through each asana, my pants restraining my movements, but then ripping open at the crotch, freeing me to straddle and lunge more deeply than I thought possible.
On the third Sun Salutation I breath it in again, her smell, wafting on the air of the sweaty room. I stand and follow the scent to him, now on his belly, pushing up into High Cobra. Her, her skin, her sexual juice mingling with his. He looks up at me with irritation and back to the teacher. I feel a pang in my bladder, pull out my penis and piss on his back and head. He leaps up, backing away. "What the fuck are you doing?" I hear yelps and screams in the background and see women rushing out the door, as I continue pissing on his mat, watching it flood onto the wooden floor.
"Call the police," I hear from the lobby.
He's watching me, all his fake serenity gone. "You're a sick bastard!"
I shake off the drops and zip myself back in. The yoga teacher is in front of me, eyes locked on mine. "Get out of here! Now!"
I sense her fury, smell her sweat, but something is odd. I remember my discovery about her from the other day and look at her slim belly. "You're pregnant," I say. Her inner lion crumbles, and she backs away and leaves. It's just me and him.
"There's piss on me, you fucking bastard! You pissed on me!" I look at his face, pointy and weasel-like, and think to snatch him by the throat, but I've already gone too far. I need to get out of here. I turn and walk toward the studio door. "You stay away from Jenna!"
His words claw at my gut. Blood surges to all my limbs, my muscles tighten, my face contorts. I turn and rush him. He's game, low in a Bruce Lee stance, and nails me with a kick to the abdomen. I hear screams and angry female voices yelling to stop.
The blow staggers me, but I snatch his ankle on the next one and drive him backward. I grab a handful of sweaty hair in my fist and smash his head into the wall, chunks of plaster falling to the floorboards, a cloud of dust encircling us. He crumples to the ground, his eyes glassy.
I snatch him by the collar and haul him across the room, his limp feet squeaking against the wood floor, and heave him head first through the bay window, but his arms are locked around my torso and leg, pulling me out with him. We spin to the cement two stories below on a waterfall of glass shards, our bodies entangled like kinky lovers.
I land, my chest on his, and a violent shock goes through my body. I'm stunned, unable to breath. The trees blowing in the wind and cars driving past are slow, surreal. I go to a knee, then stand. He lays prostrate and twisted like a neglected Barbie doll flung to the floor.
I stagger to my Buick and get in as two cop cars pull to the front of the building. I hear muffled voices from the studio: "We need an ambulance!." "Oh my God! Oh my God!" "I think he's dead."
I start the car and fly.
3
I'm driving. Fast. But where the hell am I going? What did I do? It wasn't me. It was like something in me, but not me. The thought was there, the most miniscule impulse, and it happened.
I think of him lying there twisted and feel sickened. I'm driving toward my house, but realize the cops will be there. I hook a U-turn and speed up Route 9, away from home, away from the studio.
I should just turn myself in. Find a cop station, say I was overwhelmed with grief over my wife, over the affair. The affair? Was it an affair? How long has this been going on? I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. I think to go back and run him over.
I pass Saint Francis Hospital and hook a sudden left, tires screeching, rear end fish-tailing, cars honking at me. I pull into the parking lot. I'll check myself in. I've lost all rationale thought, all inner control. I'm not me.
I have the desire, but don't move, my hands clutching the wheel. I see men and women outside in pastel green scrubs. What can they do for me? Fill me full of dope. Ask about my childhood. Lock me up. They can't help me.
I turn around and go back to Route 9, racing north. I realize I have to get back to the Epsilon Institute. I have to find Dionini, the Return to Nature guy. Dionini, he put this in me, the wolf. He has to remove it.
#
I pull into the gravel parking lot of the Epsilon Institute, the low gas light on my dashboard glowing red, and rush to the office. The young receptionist's serene expression morphs to fear as I approach. "I need Dionini. I need to see him."
"Dionini?"
"The Return to Nature guy. I need him, now!"
"I'm sorry, sir, I can't give out personal information. If you'd like to leave a mess—"
"Do I look like I'm here to leave a fucking message?" She's trembling, straining to stay composed. I take a breath. "Look, I had a bad effect from his retreat. I need his help."
"I'll get my supervisor." She disappears behind the counter and a few happy mellow people enter, but quickly turn around upon seeing me. I get a whiff of the outside as a gust of wind comes in. I run out and lift my head to smell the air. He's got to be in one of the bungalows up the hill.
I skirt around cabins, looking for signs, listening for the pompous voice, seeking his odor, a sour milk smell reeking from his pores mixed with the patchouli oil he wears.
I approach the first bungalow. I hear soft murmurs and smell men, but not Dionini. At the next bungalow I catch the scent of older females. I continue past several rooms, stopping at each. Then the voice arises like crisp tissue paper crinkling, formal, pontificating. I rap on the door several times.
His words cease and I hear footsteps moving toward the door. He stands before me, gazing without recognition, wisps of white hair blowing in the breeze, wrapped in a burgundy robe. "Dionini, I need your help."
"Who are you?"
I step past him into the room. A young woman sits on a little sofa, legs tucked under her hips. She gets a worried look when she sees me. "I was at your Return to Nature retreat last week and I need you to help me."
The suave demeanor returns. "Ah, yes, I remember you, my dear friend." He embraces my hand with both of his. "But I hardly recognized you. You look ill." He turns to the girl. "I'm afraid duty calls. We'll have to continue this discussion at a future date." She rises and moves to the door. "Good night, dear," he says as they hold each others' hands, facing one other.
"Oh, Swami Dionini, you've helped me so much, your wisdom."
"We've helped each other. Healing is always mutual."
She kisses one cheek, then the next. I'm doing everything possible not to shove her out the door. She turns to leave, but then spins back, looking at me. "He's wonderful. I'm sure he'll be able to help you." She smiles and disappears into the night. I feel a twitch in my belly. She's ripe, ovulating.
He shuts the door and faces me. "Now, sit my friend. Your humble servant. What can I do for you?"
I force myself to sit despite twitchy muscles begging to stand, run, leap. He leans back in a throne-like chair, skinny legs crossed, flaps of his robe hanging open, wispy gray hairs spiraling off his sparrow-like chest.
"The totem activity, it's taken over me."
"You don't say. Please, go on."
"I chose a wolf. Remember, you gave me the tooth. And I feel it deeply now, inside me. It's as if the wolf spirit has taken control of my mind, my body.
His eyes glow. "That's exactly as it's been described in the Jahunkee folklore. This is remarkable."
"No! I'm out of control. It's making me aggressive. I attacked someone tonight."
He's on his feet now. "This is quite unique. I've never known it to be this successful."
"It's not successful. It's a disaster. I need you to take it away."
"Take it away?"
"Yes, you have to remove it!" My heart is racing. I want to snatch him by his saggy throat and shake him.
"Listen...what's your name?"
"Dale."
"Dale, I understand you're upset, scared, but let's not be hasty." He steps closer to me. "Do you believe in universal blessings?"
"What?"
"Sometimes gifts come in frightening packages. And because of our conditioning, we often reject them. My shamanistic calling came as a dream, a chilling and confusing dream. I could have run from it."
"I don't give a shit!"
"Well, you should," he says, a hint of harshness in his voice. Then his eyes brighten again and an ugly smile slithers across his thin lips. "I would hate for you to turn your back on this. You've received something special, a gift." I stand. "Make it go away."
"Listen, I have a retreat at Kripalu in two weeks. Why don't you come. You can demonstrate the power of the Return to Nature ritual. You see, more blessings are coming your way already."
I grab the collar of his robe and push him into the wall. A wave of fear crosses his face. "Dale, please, I'm only trying to help you. This isn't helping either of us."
"Take it away. I can't be like this."
Sober. Eyes meeting mine. "Dale, that's beyond my capabilities."
I release him. "What do you mean?"
"I've studied shamanism and the totem exercise is something I've read about. Like most of the healing arts, it's about the mind–body connection. Your mind believes, so your body becomes what you envisioned. I never dreamed it could actually possess a person this way." My knees buckle and I slump to the ground, my lower lip starting to quiver. "Dale, isn't there a part of you that wants this? The aggressiveness, the fury? You did choose the wolf, after all."
I grasp at the thought, but deny it—it sickens me. I see Berkel lying on the sidewalk. "No, that's a lie."
"No? I remember our conversation clearly now. You wanted to be strong, fierce. You were crushed about your wife, tired of being the victim. You wanted to be predator, not prey. Embrace it, Dale!"
His words reach into some deep truth that sickens me. The pissing, the violence, the fear I've created has made me feel powerful. I feel my belly heaving, the muscles battling the approaching sobs, the pain locked in my body from my loss, every loss, and the loss of myself – no, the loss of my image of myself. A low moan vibrates in my throat and forceful sobs are liberated. I wail and cry into the musty carpet.
I feel the heat of his body moving toward me. "Crying is healing, Dale. "
He puts a smooth hand on the back of my neck and my stomach clenches. My legs explode, my hand shooting toward his throat. He's against the wall, purple-faced, eyes bulging. I feel loose skin and tendons clutched in my fist. I squeeze and feel something inside his neck pop. I try to rip the whole throat out, but it won't give.
I grip the side of his neck with both hands and stretch it taut, his body squirming beneath my grasp. I eye the white flesh and bite, clamping down with my canines, feeling them cut and gnash through rubber fibers, blood pouring into my mouth and spraying my face. I pull away and he folds to the ground, eyes still open, blood shooting out of the gash in his throat.
At the Arco station I hand my credit card to a guy, fat and bearded with tattoos, looks like he'll shit his pants at the sight of me, and tell him to fill it. I smell processed food and though it's sickening, full of chemicals, it makes me ravenous. I grab two handfuls of Beef Jerky out of a jar. "These too," I tell him, holding the packages against my body as I go back out to the car. I scarf down the Beef Jerky as I fill up the tank, the gas fumes gagging me.
I get in my car and speed north. I realize I forgot my credit card at the gas station, but don't bother to go back. I just eat the jerky, ripping large hunks off with my teeth and gulping them down.
As the night wears on, sometimes I observe my old self again, lurking in the background, and he feels horror at my actions. I think to kill myself, to swerve into an oncoming tractor-trailer. But then the thoughts get quiet again, buried underground. Mostly I just want to escape. To go away, north, to the country where it's desolate, where I won't be captured. They'll be looking for me and I've got to get far.
I'm startled by a loud buzzing sound. My phone. Gus. And I think how good it would be to speak to him, to not be alone with this. But what could I say? I murdered a man. He'd tell me turn myself in. I'd end up in jail, in a cage. And he'd probably convince me. I'd do it if he told me to.
I open the phone. "Hello? Hello? Dale, are you there? Hello? Are you okay?" His voice is trying to lure me back. But how can I turn back? I've gone too far. "Hello, Dale? I fling the phone out the window into the blackness.
I reach a vast mountain range as the sun is starting to rise. I make out faint outlines of the forest in the darkness, fog rising from the brush and seeping onto the street.
The road gets steeper and more curvy. My ears pop and I put the car in low gear, a hazy ray of sun shooting through the gaps of the tree line. I'm winding around cliffs, beat-up metal rails all that stand between my car and the edge of the mountain.
I come to a patch of gravel on the side of the road and pull in. I need to rest my eyes. The spot is big enough to hold a dozen or so cars and is littered with crushed beer cans and empty cigarette packs.
Ahead of me is endless green: mountains, forests, lakes. I feel the tension ease in my neck and jaw. I step out to the edge, a steep slant to a river below that looks like a skinny line of green paint from here.
Even torn in the crotch, my pants feel constraining, riding up my ass, crunching my balls. My shoes feel bulky and stiff. I pull them off, everything—shoes, pants, shirt—and chuck them down the ravine and watch them float and tumble in the wind, eventually getting stuck on trees, one shoe, I think, making it to the river.
I return to my car, the gravel painful under my feet. I sit inside the Buick, the leather seats gummy against my bare back. I look out over the horizon and know there's no turning back. I start the engine, put the car in drive and rest my naked foot on the gas pedal. The Buick edges forward, the rim of the cliff growing. I take hold of the door latch, push the door open and hop out, my feet skidding across the gravel as I attempt to keep my balance.
The Buick rolls to the edge. The nose slumps down as the front wheels disappear over the cliff. The car pauses, like a see saw dangling on a bar. Then the back end eases up and the black Buick hurtles over the mountainside. I rush to the edge and see it collide into a cluster of trees a hundred feet below, sending a door flying up toward me, but the body smashes through the trees, tumbling down the mountain till it crashes into the river. It's just a black speck now, spewing smoke on the edge of the winding green waterway.
To the side of the gravel lot is a rocky outcrop. I go to it and study the landscape, envisioning a path far to the side where the steepness is tempered. I step down below the plateau, and snake my way along the mountain through thorny shrubs and fallen trees, turning and winding, clinging to roots and stones. I look back, but the road is gone. There's only mountain now.
As I trudge forward, the wind carries an edible scent to my nose. Then I see it, a dark-colored rabbit in the brush, only a few feet from me, frozen. I feel it's heart beating and sense it's warm flesh underneath the skin. I take a few steps toward it and dive, coming close, but snatching nothing but dirt clods. I get up and suck my scraped palm.
I continue down the mountainside, picking my way through shrubs and rocks. I smell something on the wind that makes my shoulders tense. I arrive at a flat gray boulder and the odor becomes harsh like ammonia, twisting my face to a grimace, drool pooling in the bottom of my mouth and dribbling down my chin. It's the smell of a hunter, a canine. I piss on the stone and the surrounding dirt till the scent is overpowered.
Mine. All this, mine.
I keep breathing a musky scent, dark and swampy, mixed with the pine floor, the rubber mat, the residue of burned incense. Then the musk overpowers them all, pulling levers in my brain.
I push into Downward Dog, breathing deeply, the world around me—the other yoga students, the teacher's voice, the New Age music—all slowed down and heightened.
From Down Dog I lower to Plank position, then Chaturanga. Rising into Cobra, I see her toward the front: thick thighs, ruddy cheeks, damp black hair. She's ovulating. I know, though I don't understand how. I've had these strange sensations since the retreat last weekend.
I twist into Right Angle and notice a man, wiry with thinning curly hair, wearing peach-colored tights and tank top, gazing upward with mock serenity. Edward Berkel, the weasel, a friend of my wife who was a wart on my knuckle at best before she moved out, but now that she's gone, I've grown to despise him. The bastard even helped her move out of our house.
I was supposed to stay away for the day, so I hung out at my friend Gus's, but my mind was playing out every possible angle to stop this choice of hers. But I had used them all. I'd been begging, pleading, reasoning, wooing, threatening and catastrophizing for six weeks already, but she would have none of it. And there I was, sitting in front of a stupid baseball game on TV with Gus and his family, knowing a half mile down the street my life was being ripped away.
I bolted up and stormed to my car, Gus in pursuit. "Dude, come back." But I was already starting the engine. "Dale, don't go there. You'll just cause yourself more pain," he said, hustling down the steps. I drove away, leaving Gus on the curb, and headed to the house.
I pulled into the driveway and his car was there, Berkel's beige Prius. Why the hell's he here? I thought. I drove off, circled around the block and passed by the house again. I repeated this for twenty minutes till I saw her bringing down a box overflowing with CDs, our CDs. She looked tired, pale, strands of sweaty hair pasted on her forehead. I pulled up the driveway and jumped out. She rolled her eyes and glanced back toward the house. "You promised," she said, barely above a whisper.
I stepped up to her, took the box from her hands, laid it on the ground and embraced her, my chest heaving, animal-like noises vibrating in my throat, my head on her shoulder, tears soaking into her shirt. I felt a single hand on my back. "It's going to be okay, Dale."
I sobbed more violently and clung tighter.
"Okay, Dale, I have to go. We'll talk."
I kept squeezing, trying to keep her with me. "I can't. I can't."
I felt strong hands on my shoulders pulling me away. It was Gus. Jenna's sister and Berkel were standing on the steps watching the spectacle, boxes at their feet. Gus turned me away from them and, holding my shoulders close to his body, walked me to his car. I glanced back and saw Berkel leading Jenna into the house, our house. A flash of adrenaline shot through me and I started to charge him, but Gus restrained me with his bear-like arms and hauled me to his car, telling me we'd come back for my Buick that night.
I sat in the passenger seat, my heart pounding in my ears. I was going to snatch him by the throat and beat the shit out of him. But I don't do that to people, I thought. I grew up with that cowboy shit, dad smacking us whenever we were "out of line," but I never took that road, rarely even raised my voice at people. I looked to Gus, whose somber gaze was on the road. "Gus, I don't know what happened. I was going bash his head in."
"It's a normal reaction. You're devastated and this asshole wants to play the hero or something."
"No, you know that's not me. I'm a damn pacifist."
"But it's in us, you know? Primal rage."
"No, it's not in me."
About a week after this drama I started bumping into Berkel at my drop-in yoga classes. And it's bad enough I have to see him, but on top of that, he's always coming up to me after class like some know-it-all, talking to me about the right way to do yoga. One time I came in late by two minutes because of traffic, and he approached me afterward to tell me entering late ruins the class energy.
As we start on Sun Salutations, I push him out of my mind, refusing to let him ruin my experience. I'm flowing through the asanas when I sense something in front of me, a being, sentient, not whole though. The yoga teacher, the slim blond, she's pregnant. I wonder if she knows. But how do I know?
Moving into headstand I glide up effortlessly, my head and elbows rooted to the floor, my feet rising toward the sky. I feel strong today. Usually I can barely get up. Then I hear a nasal voice: "Excuse me, can we turn the music off? It's disturbing my concentration." Him. Berkel. I wobble, lose my balance and come down to my feet. "Maybe we could vote on it," Berkel suggests.
We lay in Corpse pose, final relaxation. I feel my limbs heavy and relaxed, the energy from the exercise flowing through my body, but there's a strange whistling sound distracting me. What the hell is that? Maybe a squeaky machine in the basement? A car alarm going off up the block? I try to put it out of my mind, but it's torturous. I open my eyes and glance toward the sound and it's him again: legs draped over a bolster, body covered with a blanket, an eye pillow blocking out the world, a nose whistle that would make a dog howl.
I can't take this shit. I grab my gear and head out. Parked behind me, too close, is a little beige Prius--his. The same one he used to help Jenna move out. I look in the window and picture it full of our belongings.
I touch the door handle, not quite knowing why, and sense his hand print. I feel a tingling in my bladder and the shaft of my penis. I pull it out and its plump, healthy, like when I was 19 or 20. A stream of golden piss gushes onto his door handle, splattering back at me and dripping down the door.
I get in my old Buick and put it in reverse, and, without thinking, slam the gas and smash into his Prius. I pull away, splintered plastic crunching under my wheels. I begin to snort and giggle as I picture him putting his hand on the wet door handle and then bringing it up to his nose and sniffing.
But as I get closer to home, the excitement of my deed starts to wear off. What was I thinking? I worry that I was seen. Maybe I should get in touch with Berkel and tell him, say it was an accident and I was in a rush, but offer to pay. But what about the piss? And I can only imagine his saccharine lecture. Plus, he'd tell Jenna.
I pull up my driveway and as soon as I see the faded gray steps, the bushy Elm and the green mail box with Dale and Jenna Glass written on it, I get the image of her leaving, standing with the box of CD's in her arms. I live that moment of her leaving every day when I come home. Sometimes when the images are too cruel and the regrets and should-haves too loud, when it takes Herculean effort just to eat or even move, I stay at Gus's. This may be one of those nights.
I kick off my shoes, peel off my shirt and go to the backyard, a quiet place to sit and think, but there's something out there. A huge buck, wide antlers, thick-chest, not twenty feet off, eating my garden like it was his very own. He lifts his head in alarm, and we lock eyes. He lopes around and leaps over the fence. "You bastard!" I roar, flying out of my back door in my bare feet and shorts. I hoist myself over the fence, clearing it easily, and take off behind him. He weaves through the bushes and into the street behind my house. I plow through the brush, keeping sight of the brown rump, now moving into the woods. I'm on him, leaping logs, ducking branches, my toes gripping and tearing at the earth with each stride. He starts up a slope, but I'm closing in, using my hands to scramble up the hill. He disappears over the plateau and as I reach for the edge, a stone gives way under my foot. I slam to the ground and skid down on my belly, fingers clutching at the loose earth till I slide to a stop. Dirt and leaves stick to my sweaty torso and face, my breathing is fast and labored. I sit on the ground, elbows resting on my knees, and allow my breath to slow down. What the hell am I doing?
I brush myself off and notice my knees and arms are scraped and bloody. I trudge home. A neighbor, the old guy who lives behind me, is out on his back deck, watching me. I nod like everything's cool. Yeah, I always go out in my bare feet covered in blood and muck.
I run hot water into a tub and fill it almost to the rim. I climb in and every raw spot of skin screams out as it makes contact with the soapy water. The pain eases and I lean back, watching a slice of moon rise through the bathroom window. I gaze at it, glowing and ancient, and feel the power of it in my chest. My muscles twitch and my breath slows down and deepens. I feel writhing and twisting in my belly. I'm ravenous.
I slog out of the tub to my fridge, standing wet naked, a puddle forming at my feet. I pull out a plate of rice and beans, sniff it and lay it on the counter. I wade through yogurt, peanut butter, mayonnaise, cheese, lettuce. I want fucking meat!
#
I march toward the back of the market through the cereal aisle, boxes whizzing by in a blur, till I get to the meat section. I grab at the packaged cuts of beef, feeling the weight and tossing them aside till I find a fat red steak. I snatch it and head to the counter, but a few steps off I freeze, panicked it may not be enough to fill me. I go back and grab two more.
Clutching the steaks to my chest, I drop them on the black conveyor belt. The clerk looks startled when she sees me. She quickly bags the meat, keeping her eyes on me the whole time. I screech around every turn to get to my house. Once in the driveway I grab the bag of steaks and run up the stairs. I throw my three pans, the ones Jenna left me, on the stove and pour oil in them. I rip off the plastic from all three steaks and drop them in the pans. They start to crackle and hiss, just a hint, and the smell makes my heart pound. I dip my finger in the beefy grease and suck. It burns, but I do it again. I snatch the steak out of the pan and bite into it, ripping off a shred of meat, only barely cooked on the bottom. Chewing the sinewy fiber, I swallow a large clump. Then, clutching the steak in both hands, I rip off hunks with my teeth, juice flowing down my chin, straining to force the thick lumps down my throat.
Once finished I flip the other two steaks and when they're lightly brown on both sides, I devour them too. Halfway through the second I stop, let out a long uneven burp and shove the half-eaten steak aside. My head feels airy, my eyelids suddenly heavy.
I go into my bedroom and see a strange man. I jump back and shout, but then realize it's my mirror. The two days of scruff on my cheeks is smeared in grease and steak juice. My brows are bushy, my eyes glazed and wild. I look like a drug addict or a survivor lost at sea.
I edge my hip on the bed, lean back, and all is black.
2
I hear a dinging in my dream, over and over, till I realize it's my doorbell. I pull myself out of the darkness of sleep and stagger to the door. I open it and see Gus, hair wild, belly hanging over his bike shorts. "Dude, what's wrong with you?" he says.
"I don't know," I say, stepping inside, followed by Gus.
"You look sick or something."
I notice the pans on the stove, the meat juice on the counter. My memory starts to trickle back, then flood. I sit. "Gus, something's wrong with me."
He puts a hand on my shoulder. "What's going on, buddy?"
"You know Jenna's friend, Edward Berkel, the one who helped her move?"
"Of course, the weasel. Your buddy."
"Yeah, I saw him at my yoga class last night and I pissed on his car."
"You did not!"
"Yeah."
His face turns red and puffy, mouth wide open, eyes crinkled. "That's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."
"But I didn't want to. It just happened. Like, my body did it, but not me."
He pulls up a chair in front of me and slaps a meaty hand on my knee. "Dude, you've been through a lot with the separation and all. You always suspected little weasel dick wanted to move in on your woman. Jenna leaves you, you're bumping into this piece of shit. I can understand. He's lucky you didn't do worse."
Pause. "I backed into his car too. Cracked it pretty good."
"Really?" he says, chuckling, his smile morphing to a grimace. "Dude, that's pretty serious."
I go on to tell him about the deer and the meat. "I think I need to see a psychiatrist or something."
"You could see mine, Dr. Feinman. He gives me all kinds of good shit: Lexapro, Xanax. You can call him tomorrow."
"Okay. Thanks, Gus." And I mean it. My wife couldn't stand him, but he's the kind of person that would walk through a burning house for you.
"So, we going riding or what?" he says, on to the next moment, like I didn't just tell him I'm losing my cookies. I look at his child-like eyes and see he's serious. "I only got till one, dude. Then I got to take the kids to their games."
"I can't possibly."
"Eh, I figured. Well, I got to ride. Work on the gut. I'll call you tonight with Dr. F's number and check on you," he says as he leaves.
I go to deal with the dishes when the front door flies open. "The retreat!" yells Gus, stomping back in.
"What?"
"The Return to Nature retreat. What was your totem?"
"Wolf."
He holds his palms in the air like Get it? I look at him, confused, my head still heavy.
"The whole point of the totem was to take on some of the animal's characteristics, right? Maybe it's working."
"You think?"
"Hell yes! Dude, you're finding your inner wolf. Mind-body connection. That shit is real. I told you."
"What was your totem?"
"Beaver."
"Beaver? All the animals on the planet and you choose beaver?"
"I'm a slob, a procrastinator. I'm trying to work harder. I wanted to choose something that would make my ass busy. A beaver," he says like I'm a dumbass for not figuring it out.
Gus and his wife had dragged me to this Return to Nature retreat at the Epsilon Institute for Holistic Studies earlier in the week. They thought it would help me deal with the despair I'd felt since Jenna left. I'd been up there once before, not exactly my thing, but the gesture meant so much to me, I went along. And I admit, I enjoyed it: being around warm people, the meditation, hikes, the sweat lodge. The final exercise was called "Finding Your Life Totem." You went out to the woods by yourself and did a sort of mediation, a prayer to an animal you wanted as your life guide.
I sat on a moss-covered stump, holding a wolf tooth in my palm given to me by the retreat director, Swami Dionini, and repeated the chant he gave me: "Wolf Mother, Wolf Father, my soul is an empty vessel that I offer to you to fill with your divine wolf nature: strength, courage, intelligence, power, ferocity." I kept whispering the words, breathing in the wind, my eyes narrow slits observing the woods: squirrels chasing one another through mounds of decaying leaves; jagged tree trunks and branches lying scattered about the forest floor; shadowy hemlock trees lurching and creaking in the wind. After a while the light began to fade and it got cold, but I kept chanting the words.
The conch sounded and I headed back toward the center. I couldn't tell if anything had happened, doubted it had. But as I emerged from the woods, I heard detailed conversations in the kitchen all the way across the field. I could smell individual ingredients from the evening meal wafting through the night air: lentils, paprika, fresh tomatoes. I figured all the healthy food and meditation must have gotten rid of the mental clutter separating me from the world and given me a heightened sense of my surroundings.
But once I got home from the retreat, the sensations became more subtle and sporadic. And nothing about the retreat could have caused this craziness in me—if anything, it made me calmer, more passive. Gus is just being dramatic or idealistic thinking what I'm going through has something to do with the retreat. It's loneliness, I think. Fear. Just broken since she's been gone.
I spend the next hour cleaning and sanitizing the kitchen. The bones and leftover meat go in a plastic garbage bag and then to the trash in the garage. Then I take a scalding shower, shave my face and groom my eyebrows. I put clean sheets on my bed and lie with a book, The Third Chimpanzee, and doze off.
I awake and the sunlight outside has faded to gray. I dress and set my alarm clock for work the next day.
With my book sitting on the passenger's seat, I drive toward the Green Planet Cafe in Irvingville to get a salad. I'm waiting at a red light, but when it turns green, the guy in front of me doesn't move, cell phone at his ear, absorbed in a conversation. I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck and my jaw muscles start pulsing. I hit my horn and he edges forward, but is barely moving. "Go, go you fucking idiot!" I pull up to his rear, whip around him and race up the street. Without thinking, I drive past the restaurant and keep going for several blocks till I reach the yoga studio. I realize it's time for my regular class, it just started. The beige Prius, duct tape on one of the headlights, sits in front. I'll go in and take the class. I need it to calm down. I snatch my mat from the trunk and march in, flashing my card to the young receptionist. She seems startled at the sight of me. "Sir, are you okay?"
I turn back to her, gazing at her neckline and cleavage, sensing her organs underneath cloth and skin, smelling her young sex. "I don't know. I feel a little off. I hope the class will give me some relief," I say, leaning over the counter into her space.
"Yeah, good plan," she chuckles nervously.
I step into the studio and close the door quietly. The teacher and a few students look at me with alarm. The class is full, mid-session, and the only spots are in front by the giant river view window.
I join the class in Downward Facing Dog, pushing my hamstrings back and stretching my ass to the sky, despite being hindered by khakis and a button up. I notice a familiar scent in the air, Jenna, my ex. I jerk my head around and scan the studio. No Jenna and the scent gone. But Berkel is back there, intently focused on the pose, Warrior 1.
My breath deepens and I push hard through each asana, my pants restraining my movements, but then ripping open at the crotch, freeing me to straddle and lunge more deeply than I thought possible.
On the third Sun Salutation I breath it in again, her smell, wafting on the air of the sweaty room. I stand and follow the scent to him, now on his belly, pushing up into High Cobra. Her, her skin, her sexual juice mingling with his. He looks up at me with irritation and back to the teacher. I feel a pang in my bladder, pull out my penis and piss on his back and head. He leaps up, backing away. "What the fuck are you doing?" I hear yelps and screams in the background and see women rushing out the door, as I continue pissing on his mat, watching it flood onto the wooden floor.
"Call the police," I hear from the lobby.
He's watching me, all his fake serenity gone. "You're a sick bastard!"
I shake off the drops and zip myself back in. The yoga teacher is in front of me, eyes locked on mine. "Get out of here! Now!"
I sense her fury, smell her sweat, but something is odd. I remember my discovery about her from the other day and look at her slim belly. "You're pregnant," I say. Her inner lion crumbles, and she backs away and leaves. It's just me and him.
"There's piss on me, you fucking bastard! You pissed on me!" I look at his face, pointy and weasel-like, and think to snatch him by the throat, but I've already gone too far. I need to get out of here. I turn and walk toward the studio door. "You stay away from Jenna!"
His words claw at my gut. Blood surges to all my limbs, my muscles tighten, my face contorts. I turn and rush him. He's game, low in a Bruce Lee stance, and nails me with a kick to the abdomen. I hear screams and angry female voices yelling to stop.
The blow staggers me, but I snatch his ankle on the next one and drive him backward. I grab a handful of sweaty hair in my fist and smash his head into the wall, chunks of plaster falling to the floorboards, a cloud of dust encircling us. He crumples to the ground, his eyes glassy.
I snatch him by the collar and haul him across the room, his limp feet squeaking against the wood floor, and heave him head first through the bay window, but his arms are locked around my torso and leg, pulling me out with him. We spin to the cement two stories below on a waterfall of glass shards, our bodies entangled like kinky lovers.
I land, my chest on his, and a violent shock goes through my body. I'm stunned, unable to breath. The trees blowing in the wind and cars driving past are slow, surreal. I go to a knee, then stand. He lays prostrate and twisted like a neglected Barbie doll flung to the floor.
I stagger to my Buick and get in as two cop cars pull to the front of the building. I hear muffled voices from the studio: "We need an ambulance!." "Oh my God! Oh my God!" "I think he's dead."
I start the car and fly.
3
I'm driving. Fast. But where the hell am I going? What did I do? It wasn't me. It was like something in me, but not me. The thought was there, the most miniscule impulse, and it happened.
I think of him lying there twisted and feel sickened. I'm driving toward my house, but realize the cops will be there. I hook a U-turn and speed up Route 9, away from home, away from the studio.
I should just turn myself in. Find a cop station, say I was overwhelmed with grief over my wife, over the affair. The affair? Was it an affair? How long has this been going on? I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. I think to go back and run him over.
I pass Saint Francis Hospital and hook a sudden left, tires screeching, rear end fish-tailing, cars honking at me. I pull into the parking lot. I'll check myself in. I've lost all rationale thought, all inner control. I'm not me.
I have the desire, but don't move, my hands clutching the wheel. I see men and women outside in pastel green scrubs. What can they do for me? Fill me full of dope. Ask about my childhood. Lock me up. They can't help me.
I turn around and go back to Route 9, racing north. I realize I have to get back to the Epsilon Institute. I have to find Dionini, the Return to Nature guy. Dionini, he put this in me, the wolf. He has to remove it.
#
I pull into the gravel parking lot of the Epsilon Institute, the low gas light on my dashboard glowing red, and rush to the office. The young receptionist's serene expression morphs to fear as I approach. "I need Dionini. I need to see him."
"Dionini?"
"The Return to Nature guy. I need him, now!"
"I'm sorry, sir, I can't give out personal information. If you'd like to leave a mess—"
"Do I look like I'm here to leave a fucking message?" She's trembling, straining to stay composed. I take a breath. "Look, I had a bad effect from his retreat. I need his help."
"I'll get my supervisor." She disappears behind the counter and a few happy mellow people enter, but quickly turn around upon seeing me. I get a whiff of the outside as a gust of wind comes in. I run out and lift my head to smell the air. He's got to be in one of the bungalows up the hill.
I skirt around cabins, looking for signs, listening for the pompous voice, seeking his odor, a sour milk smell reeking from his pores mixed with the patchouli oil he wears.
I approach the first bungalow. I hear soft murmurs and smell men, but not Dionini. At the next bungalow I catch the scent of older females. I continue past several rooms, stopping at each. Then the voice arises like crisp tissue paper crinkling, formal, pontificating. I rap on the door several times.
His words cease and I hear footsteps moving toward the door. He stands before me, gazing without recognition, wisps of white hair blowing in the breeze, wrapped in a burgundy robe. "Dionini, I need your help."
"Who are you?"
I step past him into the room. A young woman sits on a little sofa, legs tucked under her hips. She gets a worried look when she sees me. "I was at your Return to Nature retreat last week and I need you to help me."
The suave demeanor returns. "Ah, yes, I remember you, my dear friend." He embraces my hand with both of his. "But I hardly recognized you. You look ill." He turns to the girl. "I'm afraid duty calls. We'll have to continue this discussion at a future date." She rises and moves to the door. "Good night, dear," he says as they hold each others' hands, facing one other.
"Oh, Swami Dionini, you've helped me so much, your wisdom."
"We've helped each other. Healing is always mutual."
She kisses one cheek, then the next. I'm doing everything possible not to shove her out the door. She turns to leave, but then spins back, looking at me. "He's wonderful. I'm sure he'll be able to help you." She smiles and disappears into the night. I feel a twitch in my belly. She's ripe, ovulating.
He shuts the door and faces me. "Now, sit my friend. Your humble servant. What can I do for you?"
I force myself to sit despite twitchy muscles begging to stand, run, leap. He leans back in a throne-like chair, skinny legs crossed, flaps of his robe hanging open, wispy gray hairs spiraling off his sparrow-like chest.
"The totem activity, it's taken over me."
"You don't say. Please, go on."
"I chose a wolf. Remember, you gave me the tooth. And I feel it deeply now, inside me. It's as if the wolf spirit has taken control of my mind, my body.
His eyes glow. "That's exactly as it's been described in the Jahunkee folklore. This is remarkable."
"No! I'm out of control. It's making me aggressive. I attacked someone tonight."
He's on his feet now. "This is quite unique. I've never known it to be this successful."
"It's not successful. It's a disaster. I need you to take it away."
"Take it away?"
"Yes, you have to remove it!" My heart is racing. I want to snatch him by his saggy throat and shake him.
"Listen...what's your name?"
"Dale."
"Dale, I understand you're upset, scared, but let's not be hasty." He steps closer to me. "Do you believe in universal blessings?"
"What?"
"Sometimes gifts come in frightening packages. And because of our conditioning, we often reject them. My shamanistic calling came as a dream, a chilling and confusing dream. I could have run from it."
"I don't give a shit!"
"Well, you should," he says, a hint of harshness in his voice. Then his eyes brighten again and an ugly smile slithers across his thin lips. "I would hate for you to turn your back on this. You've received something special, a gift." I stand. "Make it go away."
"Listen, I have a retreat at Kripalu in two weeks. Why don't you come. You can demonstrate the power of the Return to Nature ritual. You see, more blessings are coming your way already."
I grab the collar of his robe and push him into the wall. A wave of fear crosses his face. "Dale, please, I'm only trying to help you. This isn't helping either of us."
"Take it away. I can't be like this."
Sober. Eyes meeting mine. "Dale, that's beyond my capabilities."
I release him. "What do you mean?"
"I've studied shamanism and the totem exercise is something I've read about. Like most of the healing arts, it's about the mind–body connection. Your mind believes, so your body becomes what you envisioned. I never dreamed it could actually possess a person this way." My knees buckle and I slump to the ground, my lower lip starting to quiver. "Dale, isn't there a part of you that wants this? The aggressiveness, the fury? You did choose the wolf, after all."
I grasp at the thought, but deny it—it sickens me. I see Berkel lying on the sidewalk. "No, that's a lie."
"No? I remember our conversation clearly now. You wanted to be strong, fierce. You were crushed about your wife, tired of being the victim. You wanted to be predator, not prey. Embrace it, Dale!"
His words reach into some deep truth that sickens me. The pissing, the violence, the fear I've created has made me feel powerful. I feel my belly heaving, the muscles battling the approaching sobs, the pain locked in my body from my loss, every loss, and the loss of myself – no, the loss of my image of myself. A low moan vibrates in my throat and forceful sobs are liberated. I wail and cry into the musty carpet.
I feel the heat of his body moving toward me. "Crying is healing, Dale. "
He puts a smooth hand on the back of my neck and my stomach clenches. My legs explode, my hand shooting toward his throat. He's against the wall, purple-faced, eyes bulging. I feel loose skin and tendons clutched in my fist. I squeeze and feel something inside his neck pop. I try to rip the whole throat out, but it won't give.
I grip the side of his neck with both hands and stretch it taut, his body squirming beneath my grasp. I eye the white flesh and bite, clamping down with my canines, feeling them cut and gnash through rubber fibers, blood pouring into my mouth and spraying my face. I pull away and he folds to the ground, eyes still open, blood shooting out of the gash in his throat.
At the Arco station I hand my credit card to a guy, fat and bearded with tattoos, looks like he'll shit his pants at the sight of me, and tell him to fill it. I smell processed food and though it's sickening, full of chemicals, it makes me ravenous. I grab two handfuls of Beef Jerky out of a jar. "These too," I tell him, holding the packages against my body as I go back out to the car. I scarf down the Beef Jerky as I fill up the tank, the gas fumes gagging me.
I get in my car and speed north. I realize I forgot my credit card at the gas station, but don't bother to go back. I just eat the jerky, ripping large hunks off with my teeth and gulping them down.
As the night wears on, sometimes I observe my old self again, lurking in the background, and he feels horror at my actions. I think to kill myself, to swerve into an oncoming tractor-trailer. But then the thoughts get quiet again, buried underground. Mostly I just want to escape. To go away, north, to the country where it's desolate, where I won't be captured. They'll be looking for me and I've got to get far.
I'm startled by a loud buzzing sound. My phone. Gus. And I think how good it would be to speak to him, to not be alone with this. But what could I say? I murdered a man. He'd tell me turn myself in. I'd end up in jail, in a cage. And he'd probably convince me. I'd do it if he told me to.
I open the phone. "Hello? Hello? Dale, are you there? Hello? Are you okay?" His voice is trying to lure me back. But how can I turn back? I've gone too far. "Hello, Dale? I fling the phone out the window into the blackness.
I reach a vast mountain range as the sun is starting to rise. I make out faint outlines of the forest in the darkness, fog rising from the brush and seeping onto the street.
The road gets steeper and more curvy. My ears pop and I put the car in low gear, a hazy ray of sun shooting through the gaps of the tree line. I'm winding around cliffs, beat-up metal rails all that stand between my car and the edge of the mountain.
I come to a patch of gravel on the side of the road and pull in. I need to rest my eyes. The spot is big enough to hold a dozen or so cars and is littered with crushed beer cans and empty cigarette packs.
Ahead of me is endless green: mountains, forests, lakes. I feel the tension ease in my neck and jaw. I step out to the edge, a steep slant to a river below that looks like a skinny line of green paint from here.
Even torn in the crotch, my pants feel constraining, riding up my ass, crunching my balls. My shoes feel bulky and stiff. I pull them off, everything—shoes, pants, shirt—and chuck them down the ravine and watch them float and tumble in the wind, eventually getting stuck on trees, one shoe, I think, making it to the river.
I return to my car, the gravel painful under my feet. I sit inside the Buick, the leather seats gummy against my bare back. I look out over the horizon and know there's no turning back. I start the engine, put the car in drive and rest my naked foot on the gas pedal. The Buick edges forward, the rim of the cliff growing. I take hold of the door latch, push the door open and hop out, my feet skidding across the gravel as I attempt to keep my balance.
The Buick rolls to the edge. The nose slumps down as the front wheels disappear over the cliff. The car pauses, like a see saw dangling on a bar. Then the back end eases up and the black Buick hurtles over the mountainside. I rush to the edge and see it collide into a cluster of trees a hundred feet below, sending a door flying up toward me, but the body smashes through the trees, tumbling down the mountain till it crashes into the river. It's just a black speck now, spewing smoke on the edge of the winding green waterway.
To the side of the gravel lot is a rocky outcrop. I go to it and study the landscape, envisioning a path far to the side where the steepness is tempered. I step down below the plateau, and snake my way along the mountain through thorny shrubs and fallen trees, turning and winding, clinging to roots and stones. I look back, but the road is gone. There's only mountain now.
As I trudge forward, the wind carries an edible scent to my nose. Then I see it, a dark-colored rabbit in the brush, only a few feet from me, frozen. I feel it's heart beating and sense it's warm flesh underneath the skin. I take a few steps toward it and dive, coming close, but snatching nothing but dirt clods. I get up and suck my scraped palm.
I continue down the mountainside, picking my way through shrubs and rocks. I smell something on the wind that makes my shoulders tense. I arrive at a flat gray boulder and the odor becomes harsh like ammonia, twisting my face to a grimace, drool pooling in the bottom of my mouth and dribbling down my chin. It's the smell of a hunter, a canine. I piss on the stone and the surrounding dirt till the scent is overpowered.
Mine. All this, mine.