Octavius the 1st

Chapter 13

124 Octavius the 1st Chapter 13 Only strangers eat tamarinds—but they only eat them once. —Mark Twain Over the canopy of trees, the barking screeches of the siamangs called to each and to all. Octavius admired the male’s inflated throat sac, its glossy black coat, the ease with which it crouched on a high limb indifferent to gawking audience. Across the island , its smaller mate hung comfortably from two preposterously, beautifully long and lithe arms, a rubber ducky, to the amusement of the growing crowd, securely grasped by the dexterous toes of one foot. The male inflated its sac again, to nearly the size of its head, and belched a staccatoed, coughing roar across the world. Octavius shouldered through the watchers, the incipient torture of carriages, glassy-eyed mothers, running toddlers, and in-love hand-holders. It was the price that a man had to pay for what otherwise nearly always afforded him some qualified measure of contentment. He just felt better, more relaxed and understood, around animals. Wild ones, that is, not their 125 Gaylord Brewer stunted, tamed, domestic, distant, constipated cousins. Even the very words here spoke of greater, wider possibilities that sometimes nearly made his eyes water. The Bengal tiger in its native swamps and savannahs, indigenous to India, Nepal, Bangladesh, distant Myanmar. Felis concolor—the cougar—a.k.a. mountain lion, puma, cantamount, painter, panther. The erect, inquisitive sentries of the meerkat gangs. Hyacinth macaw. White-headed gibbon. Saddle-billed stork. His sigh was implicit and prolonged as he once more entered the Bamboo Trail. Its milky Asian music, all exotic pipes and ethereal percussion, greeted him with an elusive, soothing magic borne of air. The leaning green shafts of the notched bamboo tented above his head. If Octavius were far from at peace, at least, for the first time in several hours, he wasn’t wretchedly miserable or an inconsolable contender for the cross. He greeted again the ring-tailed lemur—still hunched into an indistinguishable fur ball (he knew the feeling)—found only on the island of Madagascar. And, apparently, here in Shitsville. Again the trail turned and opened. The rhino hornbills were livelier, although, as they hopped between perches in a (grantedly) commodious cage, Octavius believed he could sense their resigned defeat—and allowed himself the conceit that he might partially, albeit keenly, share it—toward a misty dream of Malaysia, Borneo, Sumatra, 126 Octavius the 1st Java. The rainbowed, ostrich-like double-wattled cassowary (New Guinea, Australia) gave him a long, suspicious, possibly hungry look as Octavius remembered the fried bologna. With a backhand wave to Schmidt’s guenon (e. central Africa), he macheted his way to the nearest bench. Inside the Zip-Lock™ baggy, the sandwich was doubletucked in Saran Wrap™, this, he knew and appreciated, to keep bread (white) and napkins (two, folded) separately preserved. While the crusts had not been trimmed, as he preferred—an affectation the QM could simply not bring herself to accommodate, they being just “simple ‘regerler’ folks”—nevertheless she had considerately included packets of both ketchup (catsup?—more tomayto tomahto) and mustard, plus paper squares of salt and pepper, thus to both allow his choice and rescue the bread (nice and preservative-soft) from excessive sogginess. The two slabs of bologna, each notched four times at the edge to prevent excessive curling in the skillet, were generous and properly charred. Octavius opted for both condiments and both salt and pepper, wistfully (but only for a moment) day-dreamed of mayonnaise, then of sweet relish, then for less than an instant of Tabasco™, then dug in. As he reached for the napkins to attack an impudent jettison of yellow mustard on the zipper of his 3-in-1™, he discovered 127 Gaylord Brewer between them a scrap of lined paper. He felt, as they say, something small inside himself, some organ or other “turn over” as he unfolded the note: Otto, I love you, and I’m so proud of you. Have a good day at work. Be careful with your knee. When you get home I’ll fix a nice dinner. Love, Mom. P.S. Your girlfriend looks like a sweet girl. Don’t worry, we’ll fatten her up! (When do we get to meet her?!?) More P.S.: You’re a man now, but you’ll always be my “Baby Boy!” So. He completed the mechanics of chewing what...