Adrian Pearson - Cow Country

“And you are…?” I asked a masquerading peer who was passing by.

“I’ll give you three guesses!” said Sam Middleton.

“Abraham Lincoln?”

“No!”

“John C. Calhoun!”

“No!”

“Marcus Garvey?”

“You’re getting colder!”

“I give up then….”

“I’m Geoffrey Chaucer!”

“Oh, right. I should have known….”

“And you?” asked the ethics teacher.

“I’m a sheriff,” I answered.

“From New Mexico?”

“Yes.”

“I went there once. It was better than North Dakota but not quite South Dakota…”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have been to neither.”

“It’s okay. You’ve still got many years ahead of you…”

“I do?”

“Yes. You’ve got a good ten more years to leave a legacy of some sort.”

“I hope you’re right. But, in the meantime, what is that ?”

“What is what?”

“That chiming?”

“What chiming?”

“Don’t you hear it? That light chiming that is emanating throughout the cafeteria? That insistent knell that despite all scientific principles is drowning out the much-louder chords of injustice?”

“That is the timely and delicate chiming of a triangle being played.”

“Alan Long River!”

“Yes.”

“He’s giving his keynote address!”

“Yes.”

“It’s beautiful!”

“Yes, it is….”

“Let’s listen, shall we?”

And so the two of us listened.

“But, Charlie?” said the Esperanto teacher when Long River’s keynote was done.

“Yes?”

“You haven’t answered the most meaningful question of all?”

“The food? It’s on its way…I promise!”

“No, not that.”

“What then?”

“Love, Charlie!”

“Love?”

“Yes! What is it?”

“You’re asking me that now? With this bloody Mai Tai in my hand?”

“Yes, Charlie. Since you’ve been here we’ve heard Will Smithcoate tell us what love would be , and Dr. Felch tell us what it was . We’ve heard from Gwen what it shouldn’t be and from Rusty what it ain’t . We’ve even listened attentively while the accreditors informed us what love will need to be if we are to have any chance of reaffirming our regional accreditation. But after all is said and done, we still have not heard anyone tell us what it is !”

I nodded.

“Charlie, could you please tell us what love is ?”

“Of course,” I said.

“You will?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Well…?”

And so I told her.

And when this was done I sat down heavily at the table in the corner of the cafeteria where Will Smithcoate used to sit.

“Are you okay, Charlie?” one of the secretaries asked on her way back from Room 2-C.

“I’m fine,” I said, twirling the celery stalk from my bloody cow cunt and then crunching it between my teeth.

“You don’t look fine. You look tired. Your face is flushed. Your eyes are hollow and transparent. Have you not been sleeping very well?”

“You could say that.”

“And have your pills run out?”

“You could say that too.”

“And have you drunk more than you can handle?”

“That’s another thing you could probably say.”

“Your costume is compelling.”

“Thank you.”

“Your pistol is rather suggestive.”

“Thanks.”

“Is it loaded?”

“Of course.”

“Metaphorically or literally?”

“Literally. I’m afraid this loaded gun is strictly literal at the moment.”

“Because you haven’t slept enough….”

“Right.”

“And you’ve drunk far too much.”

“Correct.”

“Are you still taking those pills?”

“Yes.”

“And have they brought you any closer to being something entirely?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“But when will that happen?”

“Soon, I fear.”

“Before or after the food comes?”

“ After , of course. Surely it will come after the food.”

“You’ve done a great job organizing this party and I’m looking forward to the food if and when it does come.”

“Right,” I said. “Thank you, Rusty. But, Rusty…hey, Rusty, what time is it anyway?”

“It’s ten-thirty, Charlie.”

“That late?! No really, Gwen, is it truly that late right now?”

“Yes. In fact, it’s after eleven.”

“Already?”

“Yes. Just look at the clock. It’s almost midnight.”

“Midnight?!”

“Yes, Charlie, it’s well past midnight and the food still hasn’t arrived. Time seems to be moving inexorably along. Faculty are beginning to stream toward the exit. This party seems to be winding down.”

“But it can’t! Timmy, our party can’t end like this! It’s not over yet!”

“Then you’d better do something….”

“Right!”

Stumbling to the front of the room, I switched on the microphone, which thumped just as loudly.

“Attention!” I said. “Attention, everyone! Please listen to this important announcement. I know that it is late and the food is not here yet. But I have been assured that it is on its way. Please don’t leave yet! Please don’t leave! The food will be here shortly — I promise! Hey, Timmy! Timmy, could you please be so kind as to lock the front door so nobody can leave? It’s a little after one o’clock in the morning and it would be a shame if after waiting so patiently everyone missed out on the food when it finally does come! Believe me it will be a memorable event. Timmy, could you please lock the door and bar it with that baseball bat that we used for the piñata…!”

Timmy looked back at me with a surprised look but did not lock the door nor bar it with the baseball bat that we used for the piñata.

“The food should be here any minute,” I promised. “And so your patience is much appreciated while we wait for it to arrive. In the meantime, please visit the wet bar over there for an apéritif. And the bowls of barbiturates. And of course, Room 2-C is something no self-respecting educator should miss out on…!”

I sat back down at my table. By now the sights and sounds of this night were flying by like the many metaphors I had experienced along the way. The bubbling springs. The flowing rivers. The sun and moon and stars and clouds. The esplanade leading from the rumblings of prolonged ecstasy to the cold bench at the edge of the universe. The asphalt beneath the center line under the wheels of our Starfire. The pendulum swinging between wintergreen and evergreen. The light sarong. The pills I’d taken. The symphony with its violins and flutes and melting glaciers that will sooner or later become rain. An unbroken chain of fountains with their nesting pelicans and gigantic carp. In the warmth of my own reverie it was now swirling around me faster and faster.

“So Charlie,” Dr. Felch said when he’d approached me at my table. He had pulled out a chair and was sitting directly across from me. By now he’d ditched the heavy Santa suit and was reduced to a white tank undershirt half-tucked into his red Santa pants. The fake beard was long gone. There was alcohol in his words. “So Charlie,” he repeated. “It’s Christmas.”

“Yes, Dr. Felch, it is.”

“Merry Christmas, Charlie.”

“Merry Christmas, Dr. Felch. And congratulations on your retirement. I’m very happy for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sure some people will be disappointed that Santa Claus is retiring. But to hell with them. Retirement is a very personal decision. And it couldn’t have happened to a nicer man….”

“That’s swell of you to say, Charlie. But, Charlie?”