Short Story / Badger Reveals All
BADGER REVEALS ALL
We’re having a welcome February thaw, and I’m sitting in the car outside the discount store watching women trudge through the chemical laden slush on their way to the entrance. The democratic nature of discount shopping provides an ever interesting panorama of age, body, clothing and hair styles, but the real fascination lies in the visage of grim determination worn on each face, which might be understood as a clue that today’s excursion is not entirely about shopping. That assumption seems safe enough on a sloppy, salty, Saturday morning of this most dangerous month. It is long after the post-holiday sales, after all, and Spring Madness, while lurking within what passes for a merchandiser’s dreams, has yet to spring, fully formed, from their forty percent off heads into the weekly circulars. Nevertheless, the girls are out there on a morning tailor-made for sleeping in, queuing up in front of the entrance doors fifteen minutes before opening
A simple explanation exists for all this seemingly misplaced industry and I’ve shamelessly concealed it from you to build up your interest in a story which begins, without any redeeming qualities, on a winter’s day in a parking lot. Please forgive me, I’m mostly trustworthy, but I do suffer the occasional, vicious lapse. It won’t happen again, unless of course, it does. I could have cleared it all up in a moment by revealing that the women aren’t alone on the journey from car to store front, and I wish you were here to witness the tableau unfolding before me, because a few steps behind our ardent females follow an assortment of odd creatures, who do not walk so much as shamble, hulking from side to side in a cur-like advance through the lot. You might look on, agog, at a rite repeated every year around this time: the annual Returning of the Badgers.
Yes, badgers. You’ve seen them your entire life without registering their existence as an un-official sub-species, a hairy, none too clean, completely inelegant sub-species of hominid which, if an anthropologist had ever considered them worth bothering with, might have been classified as Homo-Badgerosa-Vulgaris. They inhabit the gray edges of perception, skulking in doorways, scuttling furtively in and out of bars and bodegas at twilight. Badgers do a lot of furtive scuttling. It is in fact a defining attribute, like a baboon’s bright red backside, which the experienced eye will pick up almost instantly and identify, usually with a dismissive snort of recognition, followed by “oh yeah, he’s definitely a badger.” In addition to the previously mentioned habitats, they can also be observed at tractor pulls, dimly lit clubs, any type of repair shop, and grain elevators. Auto repair garages in particular offer a high percentage of probability for successful badger spotting as the combination of grease, dirt and technology seems to provide a perfect primordial soup for the engenderment of Badgerdom. This is not to say that a badger witnessed within a business establishment is necessarily employed by said establishment, in fact, the words “badger” followed by “necessarily employed” pretty much fulfill all the requirements of a non-sequitur. “Consider the lilies of the field”, Matthew tells us, “they toil not, neither do they spin” (or even seek to do so, apparently) and I don’t think it is risking too much to conclude that Matthew was very much aware of the existence of badgers.
Yet that is the puzzling question: how, in fact do badgers exist? It is all very well to quote biblical verse, but lilies can be plopped into any old pile of dirt and do very well indeed with almost no care, but badgers… well, let’s just say that large amounts of provender constitute a bare minimum. The fatted calf, if I may be excused for continuing the biblical vein, simply will not do. A fatted buffalo is more like it, and keep them coming, with ketchup. The provisioning of Homo Badgerosa is not for the faint hearted, nor is viewing a healthy specimen taking sustenance recommended for anyone who has not previously observed the domestic life of hyenas. So how do they manage it? Must we be content with the unsatisfying logic that badgers exist; ergo they somehow gain the wherewithal to maintain such a condition? I think there is a better answer to be found, but I’m afraid that it lies back there in the discount store parking lot, on a messy winter morning.
I have stated that on this day the annual returning of the badgers occurs and you might have thought they’re engaging in a migration similar to the swallows returning to Capistrano, or the buzzards to Hinckley, but actually these badgers are not returning, but are being returned. Yes, that’s right, returned as in purchased, bought and paid for, and then brought back to the store for a refund. For this is the primary entrance into society of these furry creatures: they are offered for sale by select retailers, and by select I mean retailers who inhabit the lowest rung of the deep discount ladder. A badger, I think you’ll agree, is not an upscale item to be found among the glittering display cases of a Bloomingdales, a Trump Tower, or even a Mall of the Americas. A well lit room is not advantageous for the display of a hirsute creature of vacant expression, but put him under the soft glow of old flickery fluorescent tubes reflected off scarred vinyl flooring and you have created the perfect atmosphere for him to strut his stuff. And do not for even a moment entertain the thought that badgers have no stuff to strut. Properly prepared for sale, they can be captivating, even hypnotizing to the targeted demographic.
That would be women. Specifically, that would be women who have suffered a blow recently, a divorce, the end of a long relationship, or any of a hundred calamities which inspire reflection upon the brevity of life that is our lot and the seeming indifference of whatever deity you care to name as to whether we’re enjoying the little time we have. There is nothing like a good, juicy divorce, well larded with recrimination, to remind us that times winged chariot is rolling ever on and any future opportunity for hand in hand bliss will need to be stalked, and seized. The newly unencumbered lass strolling the aisles, chewing the pith of a bitter yesterday, is begging to be struck senseless by a pair of soulful eyes (alas, with but one brow), and dazzled by the prospect of a sweet, juicy, fruit hanging so close to her (ring-less) hand. The badger basking in her admiring gaze has been taught a limited, though highly effective vocabulary which he delivers charmingly, with the awkward sincerity exhibited by actors rendering dialogue in a language they don’t actually speak: “There’s too much sports on TV.” “I’m not much of a drinker.” “Right after Christmas, I’m looking for a job.”
The last statement is the kicker, for if emotional misfortune creates the market demand, the month before Christmas sees that demand satisfied. Nearly one hundred percent of all badgers are purchased at Christmas and taken home to be paraded discretely, but triumphantly in front of family and friends. Bathed, with his fur fluffed, and clothed in something festive, even a gimlet eyed granny may be tempted into the slight lip compression which is known the world over as the Grandmother’s Conditional Approval Smile. Of course, this was before granny heard him speak—and then the warm and fuzzy moment was lost forever. Still, a moment is a moment, and not to be sneered at. A success has been registered, the New Year looks bright. For a while.
In January, the snow swirls about exactly like it did before Christmas, but it is no longer festive, just more of the same, sloppy, exhaust stained, dangerous stuff piling up every day. An icy gale of holiday bills blows in to rattle the bank account and send a chill of regret up and down the spine. The post-Christmas job hunt has not materialized, and there he is, sprawled across the couch slack-jawed, every single day. Thai kick-boxers bounce across the TV screen, easily exceeding in a minute the entire weekly energy output of the moldering hulk staring dully in their direction. As evening falls, the dazed expression sharpens momentarily, the head rises and a query regarding the arrival time and composition of dinner is posed, after which the head returns to its former position, the eyes dim, and kick boxing gives way to something more conducive to the contemplation of digestion. A thousand years of devolution have produced this creature, and he’s living in exactly the same manner in which his only slightly shaggier ancestors lived in the wild, snuggled down into their nests of dried leaves.
It is around this time that our heroine’s friends begin to notice an air of reflection about her, a certain crab-like reticence to part with domestic details when asked perfectly friendly questions such as what’s on tap for the week-end, what’d you do last night, etc. Co-workers stop asking if he’s found a job, no doubt sensing the uncomfortable frisson produced when the topic is broached. Weekend visits home to mom and dad’s drop off precipitously after dad discovers that not only has all the beer that he stocked in the ‘fridge for public consumption disappeared, but his private stash of expensive designer suds is gone from the previously uncompromised cache in the basement, behind the work bench. That incident follows hard upon the heels of another badgerish indiscretion having to do with his opening what her teenage sister erroneously thought was a locked bathroom door to discover sis in the midst of a rather personal self-examination. In his defense, however, he did attempt to make up for it by grinning toothily at her whenever their paths crossed until, unable to maintain even a stony indifference any longer, she was forced to seek the comfort of her bedroom for the duration of the weekend. Enough has finally become enough, and the financial records are consulted as to the whereabouts of a certain receipt.
So here we are again in the parking lot and I see that the doors have finally opened and the line is beginning to move. Badgers are still lumbering past me behind their more motivated owners, an air of vague puzzlement displayed upon their bristled jowls. Perhaps they sense that something is wrong, perhaps they know what’s coming, or just perhaps they wonder why they are entering a store that doesn’t sell groceries. I won’t be following them into the store, for I already know what’s going to happen and I can’t bear to watch the heart rending proceedings. You see, these poor ladies are going to present their badgers and their receipts, and forthrightly demand a refund on the grounds that “He doesn’t do anything but eat, sleep, watch TV, and spend an incredible amount of time in the bathroom, and none of it for bathing.” The return clerks will not be daunted, however, they’ve heard it all before and know
the drill very well: “I’m sorry, all badger sales are final and we can’t accept his return. You bought a badger. That’s what badgers do, that’s all they do.” The clerk points to the receipt. “Did you read the disclaimer on the back? We can’t be held responsible for any loss of comestibles, or dignity, resulting from the purchase of a badger. There are no warranties, either expressed or implied. This badger is offered “as is” and the management has performed no inspections, or tests.”
Well. There doesn’t seem to be anything a disgruntled badger owner can do, short of rioting, in the face of such mercantile indifference except to declare that this store will never profit from her custom again before stomping out the door into the future. Bitter disappointment is the order of the day as reflected on the faces of the ladies returning to their vehicles with their unreturnable items in tow. The unreturnables, by the way, are now completely befuddled, signaling their distress by flailing their paws helplessly in a manner which is undoubtedly related to the ancestral instinct to escape ambiguous situations by way of digging a hole and crouching in it, with only a badgery snout protruding. Apprehensive glances are directed toward She- Who- Provides as though in dis-belief that she really isn’t carrying any bags of scrumptious snacks. There are no potato chips, no corn curls, no candy bars, cookies, or chicken wings. No beer, no soda. No beer! There is absolutely nothing edible in sight and even a badger
must finally recognize that things are not as they were. A hard rain’s gonna fall, and the thickest of pelts may be in the way of a good drenching.
It is, of course, a cliché of colossal proportion to intimate that all relationships have their ups and downs, but would we really want to spend the remainder of our lives gazing with doe-like eyes at our partners, in an eternally gooey, sweet- sixteen kind of trance? Let the kids enjoy their frenetic entanglements; we know the crazy permutations of twenty-first century love, and it is this knowledge which soothes the many irritations of a planet of long suffering badger owners. The experienced eye will notice certain changes in the typical post-Christmas badger household which speak eloquently of adaptations undertaken in the interest of sanity. What looks like a large, empty pile of leaves blown under the deck adjoining a house, or at the end of the alley behind an apartment, will actually turn out to contain a badger. Don’t feel sorry for him though, he is much happier burrowing in his natural element, within a few feet of a window through which he can gaze adoringly at She-Who-Provides (or the TV screen), and ponder excitedly what yummy little snacks she’ll leave him outside the back door. Our courageous owner has won through the classic progression of anger, denial, acceptance, and can point to him with pride and state (with yet some irony, it must be admitted): “Yes he’s a badger, but he’s my badger.”
I absolutely promise you, this is the last time you’ll have to hear about this stinking parking lot, but we’re back again simply to note that this year’s bumper crop of badgers has been trundled home by its reluctant masters, and the store is once again entirely dedicated to the exposition of cheap treasure. I know, I know – was it really worth bringing you back here just to impart the astonishing revelation that shopping has resumed after the bit of drama enacted earlier this morning? Well no, but even a wretched literary device must be resolved in some fashion or it will pop like an overheated blister, and I’m trying to spare you that. Anyway, I have to get out of here and make it home before She wakes up. I’m supposed to be sleeping in my nest under the deck, and I’m not allowed to drive the car. Adieu, until next year.
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Very cute story. A badger? Fun. Suggestions:
Names of calibrations are capitalized and often place within parentheses.
Look up comma rules.
“Please forgive me, I’m mostly trustworthy,” cute!!!
Avoid using the same word(s) in the same sentence. (perhasp, or perhasps not)
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The beginning description was impressive.
I fele the top thrd where you reveal it’s badgers and takes us back to the parking lot could be cut in half and seemed long worded :). If its a cut tale, okay. If a comedy I think needs little more polishing. Personnaly i didnt care for the narration
This whole time I was thinking this was written by a woman… and then you throw me the changeup when I`m sitting on a fastball! I had an entire “Story of the Cougar” planned out in response to our being deemed badgers, but now I can’t, because a man has deemed us badgers, and well, I don’t have any real disagreement with it.
An entirely enjoyable and well written piece. You have an excellent command of the language and the originalityin your storytelling is excellent.
Unfortunately, or not, I don’t hvae any real critique of the piece – it was excellent, as I said. This has been the best piece I have read here in the two days that I have been a member, so congratulations.
Continuing doing what you do – it works and I look forward to seeing more of your creations up for review in the near future.
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