Spectacled Bear

Daniel DiStasio

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night….
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief.
― Wendell Berry

Thomas shielded his eyes from the torturous overhead office lights. His head hung over his desk as heavy as a desert rock, his tongue like sandpaper. Where was his goddamned breakfast? He slipped off his jacket; a swamp of sweat stained the back of his shirt. He turned on the computer screen and pretended to work to avoid contact with the other hacks who passed by on their way to their cubicles. Twenty-one minutes. If coffee did not appear soon, he would crawl under his desk and die. He heard the whoosh of wheels rolling across the floor. Moto Man, sporting a green mohawk, pink t-shirt over well-defined pecs, a hoodie that dangled off his shoulders, and cargo shorts in the dead of winter, leaned against the side of the cubicle and unzipped the delivery box.

“What took you so long?’

“Gottcha covered buddy. Two eggs, double bacon on 12 sprout toast. Large coffee with double espresso shot. Four-ounce wheat grass shooter.”

“Gimme the coffee.” He reached out as Moto Man delivered the cup to his shaky hand.

“Whoa! Bro, Slow.”

“I got it. I got it.”

“Let me help you with that lid.”

“Back off.” Thomas set the cup on the desk, pried the lid off, and spilled hot coffee on his hand.

“Motherf-------"

Moto Man lifted his hands in the air. “Easy man. Problem is you’re circling. Your life’s a spiral. You need to trend upwards.”

“I don’t need ten-cent BS philosophy. I need to drink this shit and get to work.” He handed Moto Man two twenties and turned his back on him. Time to dig into the graveyard, as they called it. We live here: We die here. They clutched their cellphones like coins to cross the River Styx to another life. Searching for reliable data, an inside line, a leg up on the other guy.  Winning was everything, but winning was a momentary high, soon to be extinguished with the need for another victory. There was always time for another round.

He went about the business and let life play out, while the question What If? buzzed like an unrelenting mosquito in his ear following him wherever he went. His only protection were the random observations he scribbled in a small notepad. He carried it everywhere he went; his buddies joked it was his acquisition list. Life was a conquest. Own it was their rallying call for every shiny thing that caught their attention. It was all out there for the taking. See a Harley screaming down the road, Own it!  Patek Phillipe time piece. Own it! Lamborghini. Own it!  It was a sophomoric game, which devolved into a lifestyle built on a mountain of MORE, which he had played for the past 20 years, but lately the buzz in his ear had gotten louder. He wrote, sipping Remy XO at the club with Scott, his tail-chasing friend, surveying the few women who remained at the bar.

“Whatcha scribbling there, Sir Thomas?’

“Art.”

“More lists? Koons? Marden?  You like the dead guys.”

He closed the notepad and put it in his pocket. He would never admit he dabbled in poetry, but he couldn’t stop thinking of a haunting collection by Wendell Berry, his mother had sent to him. He was a neighbor of sorts.  Port Royal was just down the road from Worthville where he grew up.  Riding back and forth along the narrow roads that followed meandering creeks that overflowed in the spring, he dreamed of escaping to a bigger and richer life.  But now, he felt little, bereft, caught between two shores, the rocky death-crunch of numbers which produced out-of-control consumerism and the poetic simplicity of still water and the “feel[ing] of day-blind stars.”

“Cheer up, Thomas. Share.”

In the 2AM of male privilege and top shelf pity, he could only think of two words.

Own it!  And he headed out to hail a cab.

It was blistering cold, one of those despicable March nights that obliterated any thoughts of spring arriving soon. His Jersey City condo with a view of lower Manhattan, or what was left after 9/11, loomed like a sanctuary, although he never thought of it as such. It was more like a royal dumping ground, eat, sleep, shit and the occasional one-night stand.  Where is Lyft when you need it? Phone’s dead! Another big fat fuck you!  He turned to head back to the bar when a whiz of wheels splashing through puddles caught his attention. No, it couldn’t be. Motto man.

“Hey!  Hey you!”

He skidded to a stop and stared.

 “Dude, you’re like that depressed guy at the graveyard.”

“Just do me a favor.”

 “What?”

“Call me a Lyft.”

“Dude, do I look like a Lyft guy?

Son of a bitch. The last thing he could deal with was another one of this guy’s New Age philosophy turds. He turned and walked away.

“No one can save us but ourselves.”  The voice echoed down the empty street. Wheels spun. Freezing rain began to pelt him with bullets of ice. Fuck!

He reached his apartment in Jersey City, soaked and ready to forget the disaster of a day. At least he escaped another monumental hangover maker. Shutters drawn, he moved in total darkness except for the red glow of his phone blinking. Voice mail.  A robocall or his mother. No one else used the landline besides the building management.  He pressed the speaker button.

“Thomas? This is Jenna-Lynn, I have some bad news about your mother.”

This House Bleeds Blue!  The sign above the door to his parents’ home had taunted him since high school and welcomed him during the handful of visits he made after he moved to the city, a reminder of his father’s obsession with all things he was not and never would be - Kentucky basketball, fishing, and autumn lamb roasts. The blue stains of guilt haunted him long after the irony of his father’s death which occurred while driving a school bus that skidded off a flooded road after the Wildcats lost a bid to the Final Four. He too had skidded off the road in his father’s eye. James Colson was an obstinate man who could not fathom a son who longed for something other than the simplicity of rural life. There was nothing wrong with working hard and making money, but chasing after riches and the wicked city life that accompanied it was incomprehensible to him. His father signed his name at the end of the cards and letters his mother sent throughout the years with biblical quotes to remind him of his disapproval, “Keep your life free from love of money, and be content with what you have, for he has said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” Hebrews 13:5.

He switched on the overhead light in the living room and found himself surrounded by a world far flung from Kentucky. Despite the fact that she had never left Henry County in her life, it seemed his mother’s thoughts and dreams had circumnavigated the globe. The room was an international bazaar of coffee table books, calendars, and posters, a shrine to world travel.

“Your mom loved the Travel Channel and Animal Planet. As her mobility faded, her imagination shined. She was quite an inspiration. When the cancer became too much, it gave her peace.” Jenna-Lynn wiped away a tear.

How was it possible he didn’t know?  During their weekly calls — okay he occasionally forgot or missed a week or two — she never mentioned being sick.  I’m just tired. Have you been behaving? Did you get that book I sent you? What else did he not know? Over the years, he had sent her instapots, robot vacuum cleaners, Ring cameras, iPhones and tablets. Despite all the gadgets he sent, the only sign of his gifting was the wide screen television that hung on the wall.

“I forgot. She gave me this card to send to you. I’ve been posting letters for her these last months when she was too weak to get to the mailbox. It’s still here.” She handed him the card with his name and address written in his mother’s carefully drawn hand. He stared at the mint green envelope with curiosity and dread.

“You just take your time. No rush. Just let me know what you want to do.”

He traced his name on the envelope. Her cursive script with its exuberant ascenders,

Thomas Colson reminded him of the optimism she exuded in every missive. Her tooth-chipped, carefree smile had melted his moodiness when he was a child. Looking out across the dirt road, he saw nothing but dust, while she would see brown-eyed Susans and hummingbirds. If only optimism were part of his genetic code. At least then, he might have a chance. As always, his mother had tucked in a poem alongside her letter, “Remember” by Joy Harjo. “Remember your birth, how your mother struggled to give you form and breath. You are evidence of her life…. Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them, listen to them.”

Embrace life, Thomas, live. Love, Mom. The note ended.

He sat on the bed beneath a shelf of stuffed animals arranged by geographical location: Australia with its kangaroos, kookaburras, koalas; Thailand’s elephants, tigers, Irrawaddy dolphins, Peru represented by a rainbow flag, llamas and a strange looking bear. He picked it up and stared into its beady orange eyes. They were surrounded by large dark circles which reminded him of late nights and puffy-faced mornings. A strange sensation came over him as he stared at the glimmer of light captured in the glassy eyes. His mother was gone, but her presence lingered. At first the house seemed sad, but now he felt the shame of being embarrassed by his childhood home. What was it that made him walk away and not want to look back? Was it really so bad? What did he gain? He had no real friends, no intimate relationship, just the occasional hook up with some guy or girl. Nothing mattered. New York was a lifetime away. He didn’t get it; he might as well be dead, too.

He hired a guide in Peru, to take him on a remote trail, where they were unlikely to meet other travelers. Franklin, the compact, muscular young man with a disarming smile had an easy manner that made Thomas trust him immediately. A crown of black curls framed a face that was as ancient as the mountains that surrounded them. He didn’t come to the Andes to see Machu Picchu, although Franklin insisted. It was the secrets hidden in the shadows and light that he sought. The O’Keefe-like labial-shaped orchids cascading in the rainforest, lightning-blue tanagers alighting unexpectedly, droplets of dew clinging to the razor thin branches that prayed to a cerulean Andean sky. Silent and subtle pleasures that went mostly unnoticed unless you knew where to look.

“Is there wildlife? Wolves? Marmots?”

“We are in the home of the smallest of the ursus genus, the only wild bear on the continent of South America.”

“Bears? Really? Can we see them?”

“We try but is very difficult.  They are very shy. They say because they wear glasses.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, the spectacle bear is named for the rings it has around its eyes. It makes them look like they are wearing eyeglasses.”

Nearsighted bears. The orange eyes. He had to see them.

As the day grew hotter, the altitude slowed their pace, and Thomas’s need to see the elusive spectacled bear grew. They climbed rocky faces where sparkles of quartz and ribbons of shale ran through the surface. From this higher venue they could see the surrounding peaks, guarding the land. They scrambled underbrush in pine-scented dew, scrutinizing the trees while watching for hollows. At night they rested until the first thread of light penetrated the web of branches of mahogany, bamboo, and vines. By the third day, tired, hungry, and cranky, Franklin suggested a plan.

“I know a place where they keep a bear. It is not so much contained as protected. But we must be very careful. They do not allow visitors. I can take you. But first we must make our way to town and rest.”

Although the thought of seeing the bear in confinement was not what Thomas had in mind, it was better than not seeing it all. He agreed and they hiked back to the main trail and made their way back to Aguas Caliente before dark.

The next day, Thomas was up before dawn anticipating the spectacled bear, but Franklin cautioned him. They could not approach in daylight; they had to wait until dusk when there was less chance they would be spotted. They killed time at a café in the town and shared a bottle of Malbec. Franklin lifted his glass and poured an offering on the ground to Pachamama the mountain goddess who was earth and life and giver. Thomas nodded respectfully, and thinking of his mother, splashed a spot of wine on the ground as well. Was he living now? Had he touched anything like life?

When the time came, they walked between tile-roofed bungalows and resort condos for ecotourists. A stone path led through a Disney-set rainforest with hummingbirds skittering between orchids climbing towards the day’s last sunlight. Thomas was afraid this was nothing more than a glorified zoo, but as they made their way out of the perfectly manicured path across a meadow and over a wooden fence, his excitement rose.

“Shhh!  This is a highly protected area,” Franklin warned.

Branches snapped as they pushed their way through dense vegetation. At last, they came to another fence, this one taller and topped with barbed wire. It was not a pen or kennel, more like the rows of fencing you see that run along the roadside.

“Careful. We walk around. We must not enter. Too dangerous. But we should be able to see.”

 They followed the fence some fifty yards or more until it dipped into a gully and rose again up the hill.  At the crest, the magic of twilight illuminated a bear leaning against a tree, chewing on a stalk of sugar cane, as if he’d just come home after a hard day at work. He was dark and round with a squat face with white around its muzzle and eyes. He looked both comical and professorial, a creature far removed from anything Thomas had ever seen.

He ran to the fence to enter the restricted area. Franklin panicked and tried to pull him back, but he resisted and jumped over, catching his leg on the barbed wire as he descended. He turned to Franklin and raised his hands, signaling him to stop. Franklin pointed to the tear in his trousers and the blood flowing down to his ankle.

“It’s too dangerous.  Stop.”

“I can’t. I have come too far.”

 He approached the bear, slowly without fear. The bear paid no attention to him. Perhaps he does not see him. The thought emboldened him to move closer. The bear dropped the stalk he was chewing, rolled on to four legs and approached. Thomas stood immobile. He could smell the bear’s musk, a mixture of damp fur and moss. The bear was a step away. He could feel the heat of his body, see his massive paws sinking into the damp earth. Its head swung side to side, stealing glances at the intruder. He lifted his nose and sniffed. Thomas crouched down on all fours, face to face with the bear. A tear of fear ran down his cheek, while he felt the spectacled bear’s nose press against his own.  It was cold. And he was alive.