Section 130 Read online

The workshop attendees organized them- selves into a loose circle on the laminate wood floor of the church basement meeting room. They sat on folded Mexican blankets. Tall bookshelves around the perimeter of the room hadn’t bothered Tam before, but now they loomed, making her feel surrounded. The warm smell of the sage Coco burned to purify the room still lingered. Tam knew the fragrance should relax her, but at the moment she found it annoying.

  “Let’s go around the group and share what we saw,” Coco said. “Brittney, we’ll start with you.” Brittney was Tam’s crazy, dreadlocked, colorful, barista friend. She had talked Tam into signing up for the session.

  “It was so amazing, Coco. I saw a monarch butterfly.”

  “Did that make sense to you?”

  “It did. It did.” Brittney nodded. “I’m a traveler and butterflies have wings, they migrate. I’m hoping to see the whole world some day. It’s just so perfect for me.” She was still nodding.

  “They’re beautiful too, just like you, Brittney. How totally spot-on,” Coco added. “Tam, how about you?”

  “Pass.”

  “Pass? No, Tam you can’t pass. You did see an animal, didn’t you?”

  Tam wished she could lie like other people, but her stepfather could never abide lying, so he had raised it right out of Tam and her sister.

  “Yes.” Tam squirmed.

  “This is a circle of safety, Tam. You’re among friends. If you tell us what you saw, we can help you understand it. It can sometimes be hard for people. Men sometimes see what they interpret as a feminine animal like a cat or women see a masculine animal like a bear. Sometimes people see an animal that has been vilified by our culture, like a snake. It can be confusing, but if you share with us, we can help you figure it out.”

  Being a Vietnamese woman in America, Tam was used to being patronized. God knows it happened all day at the nail salon where she worked, so she quickly jumped to this conclusion.

  “Do people often get confused by seeing a chicken?” She snapped.

  Coco paused a beat before responding. “Is it a proud Bantam or crowing rooster?”

  “No. It’s a plain white chicken. Like a fryer.” After another tick of silence Coco said, “Tam,

  you are special. You must be quite unique. I’ve never had a chicken before in any of my groups.”

  Tam supposed Coco kept this response in her back pocket, reserved for the real duds, when there was nothing else to say.

  They continued through the rest of the group and heard about an otter, a gazelle, a hawk, and a cougar – all respectable totems.

  Tam berated herself the whole way as she walked home. How had she let Brittney talk her into this? Over a week’s coffee orders they dis- cussed the workshop. By the second or third day Tam was convinced that it would provide answers to some of the questions haunting her: Who was she? What was she doing with her life? What did she have to offer the world? Brittney insisted the workshop would provide insights into their true, beautiful, inner selves – well, that makes total sense when your animal spirit is a fricking butterfly.

  Tam wasted twenty-five dollars. As a single mother of two, she didn’t have that kind of money to spare. They would have to go without something this month because of her foolishness. She’d have to get the generic granola bars the kids complained so bitterly about and go without Red Box movies for a couple of weeks…no, that wasn’t fair, this was her fault, not the kids’. She’d walk to work for the next couple of weeks, eat boiled eggs for lunch every day, and give up coffee drinks for a while. This was all on her.

  The more she dwelled on it, the more pissed she got, and to make matters worse, ever since she saw the stupid chicken in her vision, it had been following her – literally following her. She turned around and there it stood a few feet behind her, clucking.

  How was this her spirit animal?

  Tam started walking forward again and so did the chicken. She hoped it truly was a spirit ani- mal and that no one besides her could see it.

  When Tam stopped, the chicken stopped. She turned to see it pecking at pebbles embedded in the cement sidewalk. The pebbles weren’t even food and they were never, ever going to come out. Tam waved her hands at the chicken. “Shoo. Go away. Shoo.”

  The chicken stood her ground, and the look in the chicken’s eyes made Tam feel guilty. Coco didn’t say anything specific about it, but Tam guessed you probably weren’t supposed to shoo your spirit animal.

  “Sorry, chicken. It looks like we’re stuck with each other for a while, so we might as well get to the house and see if we can figure this out.”

  Back home, Tam sat alone at the dining room table and racked her brains to think of any chicken stories or symbolism she could remember. The chicken walked around the table, stopping occasionally to turn its head to the side in the weird sideways stare chickens sometimes do.

  Tam’s and her sister grew up hearing stories about the zodiac animals. Everyone in her family knew the basic details of their sign. Tam was a cat. Roosters were another one of the signs, but she was pretty sure it was specifically roosters, not chickens in general, and besides roosters and cats were not considered compatible.

  Tam turned and leaned toward the chicken. “Are spirit animals connected to zodiac signs?”

  The chicken’s head bobbed up and waved side to side, just once, but it was enough for Tam to be sure it wasn’t a zodiac thing.

  Tam thought of The Little Red Hen, a story she had read to both of her kids when they were little. Technically, her chicken wasn’t red, it was pasty white, but she was desperate and couldn’t be splitting hairs. As she recalled the Little Red Hen made bread, by herself, from scratch.

  Tam looked at the chicken who had strutted back over toward her. “I’m a hard worker and so is the Little Red Hen. Is that it? Is that why you’re my spirit animal? Because we’re both hard workers?”

  By way of response, the chicken turned away from Tam and walked the other way, suddenly quite interested in some stray strands of dust.

  “Okay, so that’s not it.”

  She knew it wasn’t, because the moral of The Little Red Hen was that all the animals in the hen’s life were basically lazy, so the hen had to do everything herself. Although Tam worked hard, experience taught her that raising kids really did take a village, and she had plenty of support. Her parents, sister, neighbors, and friends all helped out. Even the kid’s soccer coach was a godsend to their family.

  Being chicken sometimes meant being afraid, but Tam knew she could cross that one right off. Single mothers didn’t have the luxury of being scared. When you’re the only parent around, you spend a lot of time looking under beds for boogey men. Tam didn’t even bother to ask the chicken about that possibility.

  Tam took out her phone and looked up chickens on Wikipedia. It turns out chickens are the most widespread domesticated animal.

  Tam looked at the chicken.

  “Common? Domesticated? Is that what we’re about?”

  The chicken clucked and shook its head. “Good. I was hoping that wasn’t it.”

  Tam got up and walked to the living room. She sat in the faded green recliner her parents had passed down to her. The chicken, of course, followed and seemed happy to have a new place to explore and picked at individual strands in the shaggy area rug.

  Tam thought about the legendary chicken who crossed the road to get to the other side.

  “Practical? Or anti-humor?” Tam made air quotes with her fingers as she said ‘anti-humor.’

  The chicken didn’t dignify that with a response. Chickens hate that joke.

  Tam heard the back-door bang shut, and, a few minutes later her tween-aged daughter Le breezed into the living room.

  “Hi mom. How was your thing?”

  “Hi Sweetheart. Turns out it was a mistake.

  I shouldn’t have gone.”

  Le draped herself on the arm of the big recliner. “How so?”

  “You’ll never believe what my spirit animal

  is
.”

  “What?”

  “A chicken.”

  Le shrugged. “Makes sense to me.”

  “It makes sense to you that I’m a chicken?” “Sure. Is it a white one? Like the kind that

  lay eggs and that you eat?” “Yes.”

  Le nodded. “Makes perfect sense.”

  “Okay, dear daughter of mine, please explain to me how I’m a chicken.”

  “Mom, chickens do for others. They lay eggs, like forever, so people can have a cheap healthy food source. They sit on nests. They use their own body heat to hatch their babies. They barf up their own food so those babies can eat, and they guard their chicks close. Then after all that, they’re killed, cooked, and eaten. Chickens are all about sacrifice. They’re the ultimate moms. Just like you.”

  Le gave her mom a quick kiss on the head and then propelled herself off the arm of the chair and toward the stairs that she bounded up two at a time.

  Tam smiled and clutched her hands to her heart. Tears streaked her cheeks. She looked down at the chicken who had moved closer. The chicken looked Tam square in the eye and then jumped up, circled twice, and then settled down and roosted on Tam’s lap and Tam was fine, absolutely fine, with that.

  Flap

  Keep, Goodwill, trash.

  Bruce plotted League of Legends moves on this Friday night like all Friday nights, but instead of doing it in his comfy lounger with cold Coors and double cheese, double crust, fully loaded pizza, tonight, his game strategy ran through his head as he sorted dad’s stuff. Dad died so unexpectedly it took time to get over the shock and get around to the many unpleasant details. As the only child and with mom out of the picture ages ago, all the drudgery fell to Bruce.

  Who knew the man wore garter socks, bought management books from infomercial hacks, and bothered to transfer Richard Simons “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” videos to DVD? The responsibility of wrapping things up annoyed and exhausted Bruce. He gazed around the room, almost done. What a relief.

  One last thing. Bruce exhaled, squished down onto his belly, and checked under the bed. Something iridescent by the bedpost caught his eye. Bruce twisted, reached and pulled out—what? A super fancy gravy boat with a fitted lid? Weird.

  Bruce considered the fate of the item. Keep, Goodwill or trash? He turned it over in his palm and ran his fingers across the glossy surface. Mid stroke a hissing sound and billowy blue smoke filled the room.

  As the smoke dissipated it revealed a large blue man who definitely wasn’t a man. He wore a turban complete with jewel and feather, a mask, a dark trimmed beard and mustache, a silky vest, flowing cape, what Bruce could only think of as “hammer pants,” and pointy slipper shoes. His big smiling eyes somehow made him seem nonthreatening.

  Bruce stared. After a few seconds the non- man spoke.

  “I’m a Jinn, as in Genie.”

  Bruce involuntarily nodded. The guy sure fit the bill.

  “Are you Scott’s boy? You look like you could

  be.”

  Bruce nodded again.

  “Okay, so, sorry for your loss. Your dad andI were in the middle of some business, and now it’s your business. So good news! You get a wish. What’s your name?”

  “Bruce.” This time Bruce didn’t nod. “A wish?”

  “Yep. Your dad had three and used two, so you inherit the last one.”

  “My dad used two wishes? What? Wait, is that how he died? Did wishing kill my dad?”

  The question hung heavy for a few seconds before the Jinn broke eye contact and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “So look kid, everything has gotten so litigious these days and believe it or not, even my line of business is no exception. I can’t really share any details with you, you know, legally, but I can say, wish carefully. I wish more people did. I really do.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, and here’s the other thing. I specialize. See the cape and mask? I do superpower wishes. That’s my thing. Pick a superpower and I’ll grant it.”

  As a hard-core gamer, Bruce immediately thought of his League of Legends Champion Ready Rocket. The possibility of having amazing abilities like Rocket was the ultimate jackpot. No consideration necessary. Bruce knew his pick thanks to hours of contemplation, long late night debates, and countless daydreams.

  “I’d like to fly.”

  The Jinn smiled. “Good choice. Done.” “Done?”

  “Yep. You can fly.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Bruce took two long steps to the window and bent down to open it.

  “What are you doing? You are about to fly for the first time and you want to start on the second floor?”

  Bruce turned, trying to process the question. “Again, no legal advise, but maybe start

  small.”

  Bruce turned to face the hallway. He balled his right hand into a fist and thrust it in the air. He leaned forward aiming his body toward the door- way.

  “Humans.” The Jinn obviously meant it as an insult. “That’s not how you fly.”

  “It’s how Superman and Supergirl fly. Or do I maybe turn my hands down like Iron Man?”

  Big sigh. “Superman, Supergirl, and Iron Man all have super-human strength. You don’t. You got one wish and you chose the ability to fly. You don’t just get super strength thrown in as part of the deal.”

  Now Bruce really strained to process. “Look, I’ve been stuck in your dad’s place for

  a while now and I want to get out of here and get on with things, so can I just tell you how the whole flying thing works?”

  Bruce, still trying to sort out the super strength thing, thought this might be a trick…didn’t Jinn’s have a reputation for being tricky? But all he could think to say was, “Okay.”

  “You flap.” “I flap?”

  “Yeah, you know, your arms. Kind of like a bird. Hands work too, bending at the wrists.”

  “I flap like a bird?” The question came out angry.

  Another big sigh. “Just try. Like this.”

  The Jinn extended his arms and pumped them up and down a few times.

  Feeling ridiculous, Bruce flapped and rose a few inches off the floor. In shock he stopped and plopped down. He didn’t exactly crash, but his knees bent on impact and his whole body wobbled, especially his stomach and chins. He flapped again harder and faster. This time he rose about three feet. “How do I go forward?”

  “Lean the direction you want to go, for- ward, back, or sideways. It’s a lot like controlling a Segway. About the same learning curve too. Flap- ping is the power. Leaning is the steering.”

  The motion was pretty much the same as jumping jacks. After about 30 seconds, it hurt. Bruce stopped, dropped and wobbled.

  “It’s hard,” he said, breathing heavily.

  “Yeah, it’s an aerobic activity, about the same as running.”

  “Running? It’s like running? This is stupid.

  What’s the point? I mean, how far can I go?”

  “Well, I’m no doctor, so don’t take this as medical advice or anything, legalities you know, but you’re not exactly what I’d call fit. I’d guess you could do a half a mile or so. Maybe two or three with conditioning.”

  “So, you’re saying I could go a half mile to say 7-11 or Gamestop, flapping the whole way, and I’d be tired when I get there? I suppose I’d be all sweaty too?”

  “For sure.”

  “This is bullshit. What’s the point?”

  “You’d reduce your carbon footprint. Probably by a lot.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Kind of. But here’s is the thing with you humans, you always want everything to be easy. I mean really, something as awesome as flying takes a little effort and suddenly it’s shit and there’s no point?”

  A lecture? Really? He should have thrown the weird gravy boat lamp into the trash pile. Bruce wished more than ever for a regular League of Legends, recliner, pizza, beer, Ready Rocket Fri- day. It would have been b
etter if this whole flying thing had never happened.

  But the Jinn prattled on, gaining steam until his lecture exploded into a full-blown rant impossible to ignore.

  “I’ve been around for a very long time and I’ll let you in on a little secret. Did you know there was a time when people couldn’t swim? Oh, people longed to explore the oceans, to connect with their aquatic brethren, to feel the waves around them, and something far more powerful than me gave them this. Gave humans the ability to swim, but oh, it was hard, it took effort. So the vast majority of you quickly abandoned it, and those of you who still swim do so in profane man made ponds filled with chemicals. Humans!”

  After a short pause, in a slightly calmer voice, the Jinn said, “I can see that you’re frustrated by all this Bruce, but believe me the wish game is no bowl of cherries either.”

  Bruce looked incredulous and said nothing. “Sorry Bruce. I took it too far. I’ve been stuck

  in the lamp for a while and it gets to me.”

  Feeling the whole thing sucked, Bruce sulked and offered no such good sport, conciliatory words to the Jinn.

  “Okay, you can fly, so fly or don’t it’s up to you. Work at it or don’t, all up to you. You didn’t get three wishes, most people do, but your situation is different. I’m guessing if you had, you’d added super strength, but believe it or not you probably dodged a bullet there. It’s a dangerous combination, but you humans always wish for dangerous stuff. Don’t get me started on invisibility – so dangerous, or mind reading. Mind reading is the worst. You really don’t want to know what people are thinking. You don’t. But I can see you’re feeling cheated. I can’t give you another wish. It goes against all the rules, but here’s a consolation prize. I can share some age-old wisdom with you, a real profound truth if you will. Interested?”

  Bruce shrugged. He never imagined that an actual real-life magical creature could be so boring. He tried hand flapping, bending at the wrist. He found it even harder than arm flapping and only good for a few inches of lift.

  “OK, here it is kid: humans almost always wish for things they can already do with just a little effort.”

  Hissing, blue smoke, and the Jinn was gone.