CHAPTER TWO
Bahati's Birthday
THIS STORY CAME out of nowhere except my fascination for elephants and hatred of people who do bad things to them.
***
Struggling to her feet, the newborn elephant wobbled for a moment before staggering and falling once again. She shook her head, ears flapping into her eyes, then placed her two front feet squarely on the ground. The hour-old elephant pushed and rocked, readied her rear legs and hoisted herself into a swaying stand. Cautiously raising one foot, she took a step and stayed upright. Encouraged by this feat, she made three more steps to reach her mother. Desperate to suckle, the baby, like a pebble next to a boulder, sniffed its prostrate mother and backed away without realizing she hadn't mastered walking backwards. The calf collapsed, hungry and uncertain why her mother was so unwelcoming. She struggled to her feet again, then twitched her ears toward an approaching rumble.
John skid the truck to a stop sending up a cloud of dirt. "We're just in time," he said as he jumped out.
The newborn elephant stood her ground, but stayed instinctively close to her mother.
The passenger door creaked open. "No, we're too late."
"Not if they haven't returned yet. Poachers would slobber over their rifles to get their hands on this cutie. She'd fetch tens of thousands in the exotic pet trade."
"Still," Ella, the preserve's newest volunteer, stooped down to pat the dead elephant, "the mother's dead."
"I should have known to keep an eye on her this close to her birthing time. Tutu was always like that – wandering off on her own, usually to visit her son Sam. It seems they never strayed too far from each other. With the boom in poaching incidents, we've got the herd under surveillance, but nothing indicated Tutu had roamed off. Her transmitter must have given out."
The baby raised her trunk to sniff Ella's face, blowing breath cooler than the African heat onto Ella's cheeks. The calf briefly drooped her trunk over Ella's shoulder then began to sniff her body.
"We better get her some food before she starts trying to nurse," Ella said.
"And before the poachers come back. They can't be far. Must have shot Tutu then gone trolling for any other easy pickings. Bastards. She does need food though. There's formula and a bottle in the truck. We can figure out where the herd is on the monitor. After she eats we can transport her back to them."
It didn't take much to convince the miniature elephant to follow. Despite feeling drawn to the body, the hungry animal sensed she would get nothing from her fallen, strangely scented mother. With a few pushes on her rump, she let the man guide her back to the truck. The vehicle was an odd smelling creature, but the calf had already scented similar traces of metal, oil and rubber on the woman.
The creak of the truck's back end opening gave the newborn a start and she trotted over to Ella on legs that each seemed to have its own agenda. John grinned, "Looks like you have a new friend."
"I can see how someone would want one at this age, but in a year?" Ella asked as she patted the elephant's head.
John filled the oversized bottle with the condensed milk formula developed by the preserve for orphaned elephants. Too many calves lost their mothers to poachers' guns and traps not to have a back up plan if the preserve workers could get to the babies in time. He snapped on the nipple - a cross between a latex glove and swimming cap. After squirting out a bit of formula that disappeared into the parched earth, John presented the bottle to the newborn. She explored the bottle for a few seconds with her trunk before clamping onto the nipple with her mouth. Trickles of formula dribbled along her stone-colored cheek as she gulped down the rich drink.
Ella was right; it was always tempting to keep the calves. The preserve had plenty of land for the elephants to grow up with space to roam and other elephants to bond with. The problem was too many "collectors," as they liked to call themselves, purchased baby elephants, gave them no exposure to their own kind and, after a year or two of rapid growth, found they hadn't planned for the amount of room or food an elephant required. Lucky elephants ended up being handed over to a preserve; some were sold to circuses. But too many ended up dead from either malnutrition or depression or a gunshot to rid the "collector" of the burden. John hoped they could find the herd to let this newborn live a normal elephant life. But first she needed another bottle.
As Ella prepared the second serving, a branch snapped. She froze. John's hand went to the nearest weapon – a tranquilizer gun at his hip. He tucked behind the open passenger side door and scanned the area. Ella moved with the baby to the other side of the vehicle and crouched down.
"What was that?" she whispered.
John's eyes darted over the surrounding brush, but saw nothing. All was silent except for the usual midday bird calls. He shrugged, "Must have just been a branch falling. Give her that second bottle and let's get out of here."
"I've got a serious case of the creeps," Ella said as the elephant huddled closer.
John felt it too. Something deep in his spine screamed with tension urging him to get moving. He looked to Ella, the calf was halfway through the second bottle. He was about to go over to them when the click of a rifle being cocked stopped him in his tracks.
"That's ours," said a man who'd covered the lower half of his face with a bandana as if in the Old West. "Hand it over and we'll let you go."
Two black men, wearing bandanas and bearing pistols, approached to back up the white man.
John's stomach rumbled and the sensation brought back the spine-deep tension. He'd experienced this feeling once before and now recognized the instinctive warning he'd ignored. The baby elephant, even with no knowledge of the world, also had instinct enough to recognize something was wrong and pressed herself against the truck's wheel well. Trying not to move too quickly, John eased closer to the vehicle.
"Hey," the white man yelled, "hold it there or—"
Before he could finish the threat, a bull elephant stampeded out of the brush. He'd quit sending the stomach rumbling subsonic warnings, and now bellowed his approach. Pistol and rifle shots went off as the male galloped toward the three poachers who scurried into a run. With the white man in second place between the two black men, the poachers ran without looking back.
The trailing black man tripped as he tried to turn to shoot at the elephant. As he charged after the other two poachers, the bull's feet crunched the bones in the fallen man's back. Without bothering to aim, the leading black man fired his pistol behind him three times. Two shots went wild, but one pierced the white man's skull, sending him to the ground in a heap.
Taking a few lunging strides, the bull crashed into the pistol-wielding man. The poacher clawed at the ground to scramble away. The elephant turned, charged again and trampled the man's head under a dinner plate-sized foot.
Snorting and huffing with exertion, the bull lumbered over to the fallen female. For several minutes, he bowed his head low sniffing and petting her body with his trunk.
John and Ella stayed as still as possible. The baby made no sound or movement around the big, strange male. Finally, the bull finished his ritual, gave the vehicle a sideways look while sniffing the air before he traipsed back into the brush.
John jumped when the baby elephant sniffed at his hand looking for another bottle. Ella went to the back looking as white as the few thin clouds in the sky. She said nothing as she prepared a bottle with trembling hands. The baby gulped it down, unbothered by anything but a renewed hunger now that the male had left.
"Was that the father?" Ella asked as she stared at the baby's long-lashed eyes.
"No, that was Sam, Tutu's son. Seeing and smelling his mother's body must have set him off. She almost done with that?"
A sucking gurgle from the bottle answered his question.
"Let's get her measured and tagged and in the truck to find the herd so her aunties can take care of her."
"Will they accept her? They won't reject her, will they?"
"Two are nursing calves
and will take turns caring for this little one. Elephants always seem to want something to nurture," John grinned for the first time since the branch snapped. "They're worse than Irish grannies. I swear, if they could, they'd probably make tea and biscuits for her."
Ella took notes as John measured the elephant's ear size, foot diameter, height and length. Distracted by another bottle, the calf merely swatted her tail when John injected a mini-transmitter under the skin between her shoulders. Ella pointed at the form, to the space next to the transmitter number.
"Name?" she asked.
John thought for a moment.
"Bahati." He spelled it out as she wrote.
"What's it mean?"
"Lucky."
CHAPTER THREE
Addiction
"ADDICTION" CAME ABOUT two ways. One, from a dream I had about sitting down and having a chat over beers with Anthony Bourdain – I seriously didn't want the dream to end, but yet can't remember a damn thing we were talking about. And two, from working for seven years as a chemist in a neuroscience research laboratory where we studied how addiction affects the brain.
***
I envy people with easy cravings that can be fed on almost any street corner.
Not so for me. I'm an addict chasing the dragon I thought could never be caught: dreams.
Just as some people are hooked after one drag on a coffin nail or ride on the Horse, I can't dream without being left with the hand-shaking jonesing for "just one more." Everyone's had them, those dreams where upon waking you will yourself to fall back to sleep hoping for the dream to continue. Well, I need the dream to continue.
The ones that leave me cursing the rising sun like a modern day Nosferatu are surreal, simple, and, yes, sometimes sexual. An espresso and chat with a long dead author or actor (albeit in a mish mash-only-exists-in-dreams ramshackle house where the owner misplaced her pet ducks), a tour through Rome with no one around except the ghost-hosts of dead gladiators and emperors, the kiss of a stranger I can't find again, or the espionage dream where I almost save the world (were it not for the real-world cat pawing at my head to be fed). I'm pulled from these by the daylight and yearn to return.
Like the alcoholic barely sobering up for the workday and counting the minutes until happy hour, my life has become a long series of waking hours.
I started learning how to bring on the best dreams, the blissful escapes from the real world. It didn't take long to notice a glass or two of wine before bed delivered my sleeping mind to a vivid world. It wasn't alcoholism. If it weren't for the dreams the noble rot induced, I could care less about my glass being filled. Still, my spouse became concerned when I began going through my box-o-wine (the cheaper the wine, the better the dreams) in a week.
I then discovered the subconscious wonder world of Nyquil. I remembered the bizarre nightly plays I'd have as a child when my mom would dose me up with the thick unearthly green liquid. Half a dose was enough and I could sneak my sip before hopping into bed where I urged my mind to quiet its waking thoughts and allow me back into my preferred realm. Empty bottles were easily disposed of in my company's recycling bins and a new bottle could be picked up from the drug store on the way home. Problem solved. Lovely dreams and no more nagging about needing to "see someone about my drinking."
With the knowledge of what alcohol could do, it didn't take a great leap of curiosity to wonder what visions stronger drugs could bring. The lab my sister manages studies addiction. She's the only one I've told about my cravings.
"You're an addict." Her eyes lit up with the diagnosis.
"What? You want to study me?"
"My sibling guinea pig," she cooed and it was tough to tell if she was mocking or serious.
"I just want some of your stuff."
Her research centers on coke and meth. Stimulants wouldn't help me, but over years of waiting for grants to come through, she has concocted some of the best LSD this side of the Willamette. And being around college students meant unlimited access to pot.
"What effects do you expect?" I'd become no better than one of her mice.
"I'll let you know," I replied.
I was disappointed.
The pot only made me sleep. No dreams, just a strange feeling in my mouth. Not an experience to feed an addiction. The LSD had so much potential but never delivered the coherent and focused dreams I wanted, only a series of swirls and percussions of reality. I suppose it's better that way. After all, if I couldn't even drink a few glasses of wine without being harassed, what would have happened if I was dropping acid each night before tucking in? I reported to my sister and picked up an economy size bottle of Nyquil on the way home.
I can't give it up - the dreams, not the Nyquil. If I could have the subconscious intensity without the green goo, I'd gladly give up that sickening antifreeze-like stuff. But I yearn to get back to that espresso, to my superhero/spy antics, to one more kiss, to explore another alleyway with the gladiators.
After a while, eight hours proved to not be enough.
I started napping in the lounge at work during lunch. Instructions from a website on power napping worked better than warm milk. A jigger of Nyquil, a few repetitive phrases, and I was out.
Then that hour wasn't enough. I'd wake up angry because the good part of whichever fantasy world I entered had just begun. I took it out on my secretary one day and she reported me. One reprimand was no big deal with my work record, but when my naps started at ten and ran until two my boss took notice. Yet another reprimand, but being a junkie I ignored the negative consequences of my addiction. I had to get back. Someone in the dream needed me there, wanted me there. Who else in the waking world could understand me so well?
There were no further reprimands. I was fired without severance.
My job status was easy to hide at first. I'd leave the house in the morning – Nyquil in tote – and head to the park or public library depending on the weather. Librarians and police woke me on occasion, but for the most part I could dream away for up to six wonderful hours.
My unemployment didn’t go unnoticed for long. There's only so long you can hide a lack of income when you have a joint checking account and the mortgage is due.
For the lie, not for the job loss, I was dumped.
"I had such great dreams for us," was all my dear one said before closing the door. I didn't mind. I could dream about her anytime I wanted.
The following weeks brought me exceptional visions. I slept great having the bed to myself. I no longer woke up cold from the covers being yanked off or balancing on the mattress edge while someone sprawled across the bed. I could take my wine without guilt or nagging and celebrated the end of my Nyquil consumption.
I dreamt. I slept. I was happy.
But it couldn't last.
It's not that I had a problem with my sloth. I was content in my dream world, but the mortgage company expected payment I couldn't deliver.
I lost the house. My bed went with me to my sister's.
One night the television aired a program on coma patients. Researchers stated that, despite conventional wisdom, the patients were showing brain wave patterns similar to people in a dream state. I never knew I could be so interested in comas.
"How do people end up in comas?" I asked.
"Usually major trauma to the brain – injuries, infections, overdose. I think of it as the brain shutting down the body to protect itself."
I couldn’t imagine darting in front of a car to achieve what I was thinking. There was too much risk for ending up dead. But a coma, a way to always dream. How wonderful.
"They can induce comas, right?"
"Sure, generally to reduce pressure in the brain."
"What if someone wanted to be induced?"
"Your life’s not that bad. Besides, no one is going to ‘treat’ you now that you don’t have insurance.”
"You have access to hospital resources. You could do it as part of an experiment."
"You're crazy. Why would you do
this?"
"You’ve spent years researching addiction."
"But most people’s dreams don't bring about a dopamine surge capable of causing addiction." She spoke sternly, but as the words came out, she realized the potential. The glint in her eyes gave away the interest she was trying to hide.
"Exactly, so study me. Take me as a research subject. Knock me out, hook me up and analyze my brain. Hell, you can even shave my head and stick probes in like you do with your mice. Whatever. Just let me dream."
She was hooked. The novelty of the concept was too much to resist. She arranged for me to spend three nights in a sleep lab to obtain a baseline reading and then bribed a physician to induce and monitor me. My darling sister padded the grants to fund my care.
Now, everything has been prepared. Today is my last day in the conscious realm. I told her to keep me under until the project couldn’t be funded any longer. It could be ten days. It could be ten years. I should want to walk in the park, go to the zoo, bungee jump, something. I don’t. I just want to dream.
The lights are dimming. My coma begins any second now. I shut my eyes waiting to be satiated. My addiction finally satisfied.
As the light of my consciousness fades, I've never been happier.
PART TWO
Love (and Revenge) in the Afternoon
CHAPTER FOUR
Illusions
"ILLUSIONS" STARTED OUT simple enough, with a contest that required the first line be "My life is a sham." I wanted to write a quirky love story, but didn't want any cliché ideas. The economy was in the tank and I thought how could a person make money that would be a sham to their normal existence. Somehow, drag queen was one of the first in the brainstorm list.
13th Hour Page 2
