Old Hickey nods at us as we pull up to the clubhouse. A pool of blood wobbles on the seat of the golf cart, creeping into the cracks and seams of the weathered leather. The oozing creature slumps against the seat and slithers down with each jolt on the gravel path. Everyone asks us how we sacrifice so much to do our job, but we never know how to respond. For the public good, maybe? If running the Store means enduring stained khakis and reeking hands, so be it.
“Ground Control to Major Tom! Any new additions to the Store?” asks Old Hickey, caressing the prairie dog we made.
“Nay, just a goose. Can’t hurt though.”
There are too many geese in the Store. You know the question of all questions: Are there more doors or wheels in the world? Might as well change it up and add geese to the conversation.
But hey, what can we say? The demand for geese is high, like a thermometer in a bubbling volcano. People are too pretentious and “up there” to pick up rats, yet their shoestring budgets make the peacocks and red foxes on display unattainable. Ever heard of the Chinese four-character idiom “looking at plums to quench thirst”? We get that every day in the Store.
(It’s six words in English but four characters in Chinese. We can count.)
“So, how’s everything up at the Store? Cruising?” It’s only been a month or so, but the forehead of Old Hickey’s prairie dog is already bristly and bleached, vaguely exposing the filling within—our secret wood wool. You’re wondering if the damage is caused by Old Hickey’s obsession with petting the creature or our lousy assembling work. We promise you it’s the former.
“As usual, you know. Major Tom would not be free if he got along.”
“You tell them.”
Pitched above the clubhouse like a tent, the sky is showing off its best blue jeans—crisp, clear, and not a wrinkle in sight. There, a cramped cluster of skyscrapers looms far off on the horizon. But even if they thrust into the blue sky and disturb its calmness, who can see them? Here, sporadic wooden houses sprinkle the unvarnished prairie. But even if they are visible, who will care about them?
Tragic, no?
__
It’s a dusty night, and we hear their horses before we see them. Although robust, the Store’s door creaks and moans as they come in; however, the squeak is weak and tentative. We know the sound of the Store all too well.
“We thought this was a pet store. Apparently not,” they comment, sounding like they just survived an apocalyptic banquet with appetizers, main courses, and desserts made of the dust outside. “Nice peacocks.”
Folks, we’ve got some paper tigers in hand.
“New in town?”
“Guess so. Quite a collection you got here, huh?”
“Not a collection. We call it a community—a pretty tight neighborhood.” You know how British gents burn like boiling metal pots when Americans refer to football as soccer? We detest people who call the Store a collection. Even worse, a pet store. If we follow their logic, then Manhattan would be a zoo with slobbering, fetid beasts running wild.
Let us tell you what the Store is. Think of it as a religious scripture that has no followers but us. But that doesn’t matter, for just like how many non-Christians aimlessly flip through the Bible and exclaim in awe, people come into the Store and worship its grandeur. We have no duty or incentive to invite people to the Store: We leave that to the animals. Our integral role is to ensure that the animals are numerous while each member remains matchless—there must exist uniformity without sacrificing individuality and flair. Most importantly, we create and foster the life and spirit of the animals. We make them alive, and in turn, they make the Store alive.
Of course, our unheralded guests don’t get this. There’s another Chinese four-character idiom called “playing the piano to a cow.” Want to understand how we feel? Try that.
“A community huh? Sweet. Any other stores in town?” They take another comprehensive, yet rather contemptuous, scan around the Store. We bet that they stargaze the Big Dipper with Ray-Ban sunglasses on.
Classy.
“This is the only Store. If you want some fun, go to the clubhouse and ask for Old Hickey.”
“Who’s that?”
“A Major Tom who owns a prairie dog.”
__
We are not surprised to hear that Old Hickey died. Nothing goes on in town without Old Hickey knowing. He is aware of every birth and death, and not even internal family affairs and teenage dramas can elude his knowledge. Since he never mentioned the paper tigers in his clubhouse gossip and hearsay, we sent them to him.
The paper tigers are quivering and fidgeting in front of us, except they shed their eggshells and became baby chicks. Told ya. If we flash our recently finished owl at them, they will bolt out of the Store and vomit the dust they devoured last night.
“Trust us, we didn’t mean to kill him. We shot at his prairie dog.”
“See, that’s the problem. You shoot at the dog, and he’ll stand right in front of the dog.”
“But he shot at our horses first.”
“He was reviving your horses. You think Major Tom would want to kill animals?”
“That doesn’t make sense. And that’s exactly what Old Hickey said.”
Yeah, maybe because we taught him that? “Old Hickey tried to help you, and you killed him.”
“Then explain to us why our horses are missing.”
“Because they are dead. If you really want to find them, go to the monastery. They love dead animals.”
__
The monks arrived a few years ago with a bag of seeds, a dozen cargos of stone, and a herd of dead sheep. They piled the stones into a frail and lopsided temple, which we think resembles a squashed sandcastle; they grew the seeds into willow trees that look like a witch’s rotten hair; they kept the sheep, well, dead.
Hear us out. Buddhism preaches love and compassion for all beings, and monks therefore abstain from killing animals. But how do you kill something already dead? Take a look at the stuffed-to-the-gills sheep pen at the monastery. Nibbling at the burnt grass and reeking of death, the sheep are parasites. Think of a carpet. Replace the fibers with the slimiest worms you could think of. Zoom in. There you have it: a herd of sheep. If that’s universal compassion and “no killing,” no thanks.
The monastery sends us a package on the first Tuesday of every month. The delivery is anonymous, but no one other than the monks would put a dead sheep in a cage. We don’t know why they do it. Out of courtesy?
The dead sheep come in the same cage every time. A dozen thorny branches erect the rough outline of the cage, and bundles of tree vines brace the wobbly frame. The creature inside is unfailingly dead and miserable. So, we always return the package—with a revived sheep in the same crude cage. We don’t know why we do it. Out of courtesy?
__
Today is the first Tuesday of the month, and we got a horse—one of the ex-paper tigers’ dead horses. You know how some kids’ vocabularies are limited to “yes” and “no”? Imagine the sheer joy that the teacher experiences when those kids form a complete sentence—even better, an active question. That’s us right now.
Honestly, it’s impressive how the monks managed to cram a creature twice the size of a sheep into the same cage. Craning through the gap on the top of the cage, the dead horse squirms as if anchored by a guillotine. “Watching on the sideline without moving one’s hands and shirt cuffs” is the Chinese four-character idiom to describe bystanders. That’s not us, so we go to work.
__
If you were stranded in space, you would most likely try to locate the malfunction in your spacecraft and reestablish communication with the ground control team. Perhaps say a prayer? Scream at the expansive void shrouding your flimsy little pod? Consider cursing the diabolical math teacher from middle school who refused to bump your grade from a B+ to an A-. If you really get desperate, make a last meal. Crack open a 1920 Bual and savor an authentic, tender French filet mignon. The point is—you would do something. You wouldn’t sit on your fun-sized, toilet-shaped seat and float away.
Major Tom, the protagonist in the song “Space Oddity” by David Bowie, did exactly that. After perceiving his precarious situation, he resolved to let his tin can drift aimlessly into space. If there was an emotion gauge, his response to the crisis would resemble that of perceiving Earth as blue and spherical. Unsurprisingly, many view Major Tom as a deranged pariah.
But we regard him as a dauntless representative, and Old Hickey upholds him as a spirited pioneer. The act of drifting away is not a passive concession; it is a choice. Psychologists love the cliché “find where you belong.” Well, Major Tom found where he belongs. That is, away from Earth.
Old Hickey esteems Major Tom to the extent that he impersonates the astronaut. But rather than a spacesuit or a military uniform, Old Hickey chooses a vintage cowboy outfit to portray the spaceman. He also complements the forlorn, yet heroic, narrative with a prairie dog. Ever seen a prairie dog in space?
Justifiably, the clubhouse constantly plays one song through its crackling speaker: “Space Oddity.” And so does the Store. “And we would appreciate it if y’all could stop whining and let the song play on. Listen…
“Here am I floating ’round my tin can, far above the moon. Planet Earth is blue, and there’s
nothing I can do.”
See? Tin can and blue Earth.
“Where are our horses?”
“Come back in a week. How was the monastery?”
“We want them now.”
“You can’t. The horses need to sit in the refrigerator for another week, during which we need to make the wood wool. It then takes us another week to scoop out the dead stuff and put our secret sauce in there. Then you can come and pick the horses up. Alive.”
“The monks told us that you kill animals, not revive them.”
Ugh.
“Look around you. Do you see a dead animal? Here comes the best line…
Ground Control to Major Tom.”
