Bear v. Shark: The Novel

by Chris Bachelder

  Damn.

  Eighty-four, I think.

  nobody likes soggy French fries

  Shit, eighty-three, then.

  If you just joined us, we’ve got some rather strange news to report. The Normans were just a few miles from the Las Vegas border when Mr. Norman turned the Sport Utility Vehicle completely around.

  Total U-turn, Wes.

  Walt.

  Walt.

  I think you’ll be able to see the SUV from our aerial cameras. Chris, could you circle it there with the telestrator?

  Like so?

  No, that’s not it. That’s a cactus.

  Sorry, I don’t quite have the hang of this thing.

  Yes, that’s the one. Right there. Once again, Mr. Norman has turned the four-wheel-drive vehicle around and is heading away from Las Vegas. This is potentially very troubling news, but we don’t want to jump to any conclusions. Perhaps they just left some keys or a pair of glasses at a Food Mart somewhere back there.

  I don’t think so, Walt.

  What?

  I think it’s more serious than that.

  But look at how slowly he’s driving. Surely if he was trying to make a getaway he would be driving fast, with abandon.

  Not necessarily.

  Explain. Now’s your chance to show your stuff.

  Mr. Norman. He’s driving. It’s . . . He’s driving through the slow, falling dark of the desert, away from Las Vegas.

  This much is clear from our aerial pictures.

  Las Vegas, Walt. Feathered showgirls, relentless Entertainment, gambling in windowless, timeless, placeless mazes where the polychrome flicker and the free drinks and the clatter of impartial machines assaults you, first, then begins to seep into you like novocaine. It’s like the outside world. Except louder, more.

  Hey now, you got a speech for every city?

  There are pictures of winners on the walls, with blank spaces reserved for you: your bloodshot eyes, your wan smile. Funny, winning doesn’t feel much different than losing. It’s all a rush.

  A marvel of human engineering. The art and architecture of it.

  Space designed to make you say, over and over, OK, one more time.

  It’s brilliant, Cyrus.

  Away from this place. He is driving away and . . . And night is happening outside his windows, but deliberately. It is not something to be rushed. And maybe a coyote is howling somewhere, maybe a rattler is easing through the sand, maybe a scorpion scuttles into a cowboy’s recumbent boot.

  The boot, you say, is prostrate.

  Help me out, Walt. Are there still scorpions?

  Yes, some.

  And cowboys?

  No. But their boots remain.

  And in the dying light the stern silhouettes of cacti line the highway like . . .

  Like dark people?

  No, Walt, like guards, members of some moonlit militia whose duty it is to keep you between the lines.

  Foreboding.

  And Mr. Norman is driving not recklessly, not feverishly, but slowly, contemplatively, well below the interstate limit. Imagine, Walt, the cool bank robber who bags his money and then walks out the side exit, his walk purposeful, not panicked.

  An analogy, yes.

  And Mr. Norman feels that high speed, even on this flat and straight and open road, might obliterate thought. Might just blow it away. Mr. Norman imagines a critical velocity — not fixed; generational, perhaps — at which the world rushes by too rapidly for reflection and conjecture.

  Today’s hectic world not conducive to careful consideration and judgment. OK.

  And so the white lines that have all day darted by like bullets or video game missiles or Television news segments are now floating past like logs on a river.

  Metaphor.

  They’re floating past, these white lines, at an almost unlawfully slow rate, Walt.

  Fifty-three miles per hour. A thinkin’ man’s velocity.

  And ahead of him Mr. Norman sees the signs and billboards growing larger in discrete units, as if in a slide show or ancient classroom film strip.

  I remember those film strips. Demographic studies indicate that most of our viewing audience will understand that trope.

  As if magnified to the next power at steady intervals.

  Yes.

  And behind him, through his rearview mirror, Mr. Norman watches dim and distant vehicles become — through a continuous time-lapse sequence of growth and cell division — bright-eyed monsters of luxury that speed past in a silent roar.

  Blastula. Zygote. Next slide.

  In a manner of seconds, Walt, embryonic headlights grow to full-sized sedans and then they are gone. This is the world behind him.

  Just to catch everyone up to speed, Mr. Norman, just a few miles from the Las Vegas border, turned the Sport Utility Vehicle around and is now heading away from the Entertainment Capital of the World. He’s driving slowly, as you can see. Great work, as always, by our American Vacation camera crew in the army choppers. I’m Walt West and with me here in his bow tie and providing color commentary is Chris Backacher, a member of the studios catering team. He has a masters degree in English. Some history of depression and vagrancy and mismanaged affections, but no criminal record, no drugs in his system. A flair, it seems, for the dramatic, perhaps not unlike our Mr. Norman.

  I often have a hard time falling asleep.

  We know.

  As one car passes the Normans’ SUV, a small child with a domelight halo waves and smiles at Mr. Norman.

  But Chris, I don’t see any cars currently passing the SUV.

  By the time Mr. Norman raises his hand in return, the child and the car have vanished into the distant constellation of taillights.

  Technically speaking, when does this become a hostage situation?

  Mr. Norman loves his children, Walt. You know that, don’t you? You do know that? At one time this vacation sounded like a good idea. It’s just . . .

  Are we obligated to call in the National Guard at some point on behalf of the family? I’m thinking rubber bullets here.

  He can see those kids in his rearview mirror.

  I don’t know, Chris, it’s pretty dark.

  Oh, maybe their dreams make more sense than the world they’ve been born into.

  Those kids have it great, pal. When I was a kid, man oh man.

  The radio in the Sport Utility Vehicle is on with the volume turned low. A woman is talking about a product. Mr. Norman cannot hear the words, but he recognizes the intonation of the sell. And maybe this is what it comes down to, not content but form — an Olympian’s sleek body, a well-known actress’s voice, a jingle, a striking use of color, a fade, a jump-cut, a swish pan, sound effects, a nice ass, innovative text-image placement. Not, Walt, buy this. But: Just buy. Buy, buy, and well all win.

  The invisible hand.

  The billboards look silly at this speed. They look like a joke. Fake billboards, parodies of themselves. The colorful lies are rhetorically engineered for highway velocity, the quick hit. When you drive too slowly, when you consider the implicit syllogisms — having a fun lifestyle is fun, Hernia Soda leads to a fun lifestyle, and so on — then you are left to believe that advertising is an insult and an absurd waste of money. And also you are left with some vague desire, what is it, an emptiness, a thirst, yes you are thirsty, wouldn’t a Hernia Soda hit the spot?

  Wow, friend, I find that I’m feeling a little dry myself.

  The Vibra-Dream Plus, you must understand, is not female in any literal sense, though its ad campaign has targeted men by using breasts and legs and belly buttons to confuse sexual desire with the desire for comfort after a stressful workday. This kind of confusion happens all the time, Walt. It’s good for business. Almost any kind of business.

  I hadn’t noticed.

  The Vibra-Dream Plus, which Mr. Norman wears like a collar, vibrates just audibly, but she does not ever actually say anything.

  I understand. Mine never says a word, and that’s
how I like her.

  And Walt, there’s his wife in the passenger seat, dozing fitfully.

  Can we get a picture of her? There. There’s a pretty recent shot of the Mrs.

  And Mr. Norman looks over at this person beside him and he feels that certain tenderness you feel for the sleeping and for those whom you no longer love but with whom you share a history. After the rancor or the silence, Walt, can come this hopeless tenderness.

  That feels right to me.

  And I’m not sure if Las Vegas is technically an independent nation or not, but I’m certain that the Normans have not slept together in months, perhaps a year, perhaps longer. The days just dart past like little tiny fish.

  Calendar pages fluttering in the wind like in those old black-and-white movies.

  Walt, you can leave the imagery and the Sterno to me.

  Because of this breaking news situation, folks, we’re not going to cut away to commercial. Please know that the next sixty seconds of broadcast are brought to you by the good people at HardCorp. HardCorp: Making life more real for over thirty years.

  And even though the desert night is cool, the air conditioner is on and the windows are rolled up in the Sport Utility Vehicle.

  We can confirm that, I think.

  And in his slightly convex driver’s side window, Mr. Norman can see himself, his reflection, by the eerie lights of the high-tech dashboard. It is true that the dashboard is remarkable for the amount of information it conveys. His image tilted and floating like an astronaut or a ghost in the blackening sky above the driver’s seat.

  HardCorp: Bears, Sharks, and so much more.

  There I am, Mr. Norman thinks. There I am, haunting my own journey. The ghost of the American Vacation.

  Mr. Norman has increased his speed a bit, but he’s well under the limit. I still don’t think we’ve hit a panic situation here. I’m holding out for the possibility of a simpler, less drastic interpretation, not that you haven’t been persuasive, if a bit gloomy. Everything I just said and most of what Clem said about ghosts was brought to you by Cereal on a Stick. Cereal on a Stick: Because who has time for hot cereal or cold cereal or a cereal bar?

  Cereal on a Stick: Because oatmeal is for giant losers.

  That’s the spirit, Chris.

  So Ockham’s Razor is what you’re saying, Walt.

  I’m just saying maybe you read too much.

  You’ll see. This isn’t about misplaced keys or electronic games. This is about crisis. This is about the human struggle for meaning. This is about a turning point, an awakening. This is about enough is enough.

  Off in the distance — can we get a better shot of that? — off in the distance I think — yes, great work, guys, there in the distance you can make out the blue-gray glimmer of TeleTown.

  Yes indeed.

  Now, Chris. You don’t think.

  That is precisely what I think.

  But why TeleTown? That’s hardly an escape.

  Maybe, just maybe, TeleTown is not what it seems.

  Chris Badchildren is being brought to you today by Chief Executive Orange Juice: The orange juice for the top one percent. CEOJ is not responsible for the opinions expressed in this broadcast.

  Not at all what it seems. Maybe the million Televisions are a front. Maybe the million Televisions are not watched.

  Chris, you obviously have never tried to not watch a Television that’s on.

  Maybe Mr. Norman is cutting the old Guardian knot.

  It’s Gordian.

  Maybe the people have come together there in TeleTown for a reason. Maybe they’ve come together to live a different kind of life. In TeleTown they share the work. In TeleTown there is no money. In TeleTown they farm and the work keeps them strong and healthy. In TeleTown they read books and get together to talk about them.

  A utopian community.

  Call it what you want.

  A bunch of robot zombies. Death of the individual.

  In TeleTown, nobody cares about fashion, nobody cares about accumulating stuff. Nobody lives better than anyone else. They cook and bake, play instruments, write, paint, put on plays. It’s a thriving artistic community.

  No motivation to succeed. Malaise, then bloodshed. The old Dutch decline. If you just joined us, the Normans are fleeing Fun.

  In TeleTown the Normans can perhaps remake their lives and reestablish their familial relationships. They can cultivate real friendships. You know, there was one Christmas a long time ago when Mr. and Mrs. Norman made each other gifts. It was a little rule they had. And the gifts were pretty good, too, and they meant a lot. Why did they stop doing that?

  Any republication, rebroadcast, or retransmission of the events, images, or descriptions of this telecast without express written consent of American Vacation is strictly prohibited.

  I’m not saying it’s perfect in TeleTown. These are humans we’re talking about. There are arguments about how things are, how things should be. But there is a basic, shared commitment to justice and fairness.

  I think that guy over there needs your bottle opener.

  TeleTown, Walt. TeleTown.

  Chris, what do you think the rest of the Norman family is doing in that vehicle? Surely someone would have woken up and noticed the change in direction.

  There is confusion and anger. You have to expect this. The boys, especially Curtis, are upset. Mrs. Norman doesn’t want to take sides, but she wishes Mr. Norman hadn’t turned around. She says, Honey? She says, Maybe we should talk about this. Curtis says, I hate your guts, Dad. He says, You’re ruining my life. And Matthew, maybe Matthew says, Shit, it’s not like the cookies are even that good.

  There are certain words. From a family-style perspective.

  Curtis says, Let me out of this car, I hate you, you’re a bastard fucker.

  It’s those kinds of words.

  This stings, of course, but Mr. Norman keeps driving. You’ll see, he says. I promise it will be better where we’re going. I promise. Mrs. Norman maybe cries quietly. She is torn. She wants to believe him, but it’s true he’s been acting strangely.

  Interesting, but all speculative, of course.

  No, it’s true, Walt.

  Whoa, what’s that up ahead, in the median? Can we get a closer shot of that?

  It will be difficult for the Normans. It’s never an easy transition.

  Is that a . . . ? It looks like it may be a person.

  It’s happened before. A family comes to TeleTown and they can’t all adjust. It’s hard work.

  Up ahead in the median, there, it’s a person. A very small person. Looks like a child.

  Imagine trying to wean people of Television in a community full of Televisions. It doesn’t always work. People come and then leave. Sometimes families even split up.

  It is a child, a boy, walking down the median in the direction of the Normans vehicle. The Sport Utility Vehicle is about a half mile from the child and it is slowing down. Now what do you make of this, Chris?

  In TeleTown Mr. Norman will be reborn. He will start to feel again. He’s been numb for years. He will cry and laugh. He will discover that he has talents he never knew about.

  Is that Curtis Norman?

  He will have very few possessions. He will feel light.

  My word, that is Curtis Norman in the median. How about that? The Sport Utility Vehicle is slowing, slowing on the interstate, and now it is pulling over into the median. It has come to a stop. How did they manage to leave that kid behind?

  I just don’t know if Mr. Norman’s wife and his two children will be ready for the change. You have to be ready. Maybe they will leave immediately to make it back to Vegas for Bear v. Shark. Maybe they will stay a week, a month, a year. Maybe they will adjust, but it is more likely that they will not. They will miss their Internet and their violent movies. Mr. Norman will have to make a choice — will he remain in TeleTown or will he leave with his family?

  Curtis has now climbed into the Sport Utility Vehicle. Well, I guess you we
re right, Clyde, it wasn’t about misplaced keys or video games.

  And Mr. Norman wandering the clean dirt paths of TeleTown. He has an awful choice to make. It’s after midnight. The blue-gray fog is thick and it is a reminder of his former life. Entertainment exhaust. Beautiful but of no substance.

  Mr. Norman is turning the vehicle around in the median. It looks like . . . yes, he’s turning the Sport Utility Vehicle around once more. The Normans are back on the interstate, heading toward Las Vegas. They’re picking up speed, they’re really moving. Wow, what a strange turn of events, so to speak.

  A lone man down in a canyon, wandering the dusty makeshift roads as interstate travelers rush past overhead. Through the blue-gray haze he sees the flashing white lights of nighttime photographers. Everyone wants a shot of the TV ghetto, the scenic bivouac. He never drives a car anymore and he has grown to hate the speed and swoosh up above. If he gets back on that interstate, Walt, he feels that he will be destroyed.

  Chris —

  He doesn’t want to go where it leads. It’s no place for living, up there. His immune system could no longer handle such sweetness, such loudness, such brightness. The quick images would crush him and break his heart a hundred times a day, the endless chatter would be a mosquito in his ear all day and all night. And yet, who can just send away a family? He loves those boys. He —

  Chris. Chris, hate to cut you off there, pal, some of that stuff was pretty good, but the situation is over. The family disaster has been averted.

  What?

  Normans heading back to Vegas. Cruise control, 76 miles per hour. Folks, the little Norman boy in the median was brought to you by Green Paint.

  But the life ahead.

  Bear v. Shark. An exciting weekend of broadcasting.

  It can’t be.

  Take a look for yourself. Monitor three, over there.

  Ah Jesus.

  And when you get a chance, the boys in production would love some more of those little chicken fingers.

  and now this . . .

  Part Three

  Las Vegas

  71

  The Brutal Engine of History