It’s New Year’s Eve and where have I wound up? Not tubing with friends, nor drinking myself silly on cheap champagne, but in the dark bowels of rural Arkansas: the Elephant Sanctuary. Hank, Peggy, Toby, Max, Betsy, Amy, and Booper are all asleep, tucked away somewhere I have yet to explore. Or will ever, for that matter. My dreams may have been a little crushed when Turk, the head intern, told us not to approach the elephants, not to address them, and not to look them in the eye. “Why in the world not?” I wanted to ask, but thought it inappropriate. “They get crappy,” she said, “don’t be mistaken—these are not caring or affectionate animals.” Well there they go, dreams dashed to bits.
Arriving at the sanctuary was a slightly tumultuous journey, from Detroit airport to Charlotte to Little Rock. My favorite part of the 3-legged trip?
“Do you drink?” says the 20-something year old sitting in 14 C next to me.
“Er—” I started, not sure where this was going. “Yes?” He smiled with approval.
“Would you like a cocktail?” Oh, dear Lord.
“I’m alright, thank you though.” He looked crushed.
“It’s my coping mechanism,” he said. I could tell by the already beer-laden breath oozing from his mouth into my nostrils. These seats were too damn close.
For the rest of the flight he battered me with questions, all too deep for a strange encounter with a communications major from Cal State I just met on a plane ride to North Carolina. Then there was the kicker, the real doozy that left me questioning both his intelligence and his true intentions in all this seemingly meaningless banter.
“Is it bad,” he started, “that I feel unsafe?” He pointed to the man sitting ahead of us in the other row who had a Koran open on his table tray.
“What do you mean?” I asked, hoping his answer wouldn’t be what I thought it was.
“That he’s reading Islamic. Is that bad? Is that ignorant?” He looked genuninely concerned. I thought for a moment, and then nodded my head violently.
“Yes, that is bad,” I said aloud, thinking to myself that there was no such language as Islamic. He didn’t seem phased by my response. You can’t win them all.
After getting off the plane I met Gail and her dad at the baggage claim. We went to a tiny Chinese restaurant where the waiter didn’t understand the word “vegetarian” and said thank you every time he left the table, as if we had done him a great honor by emptying our glasses, requiring him to refill them. I then took it upon myself to go to the gas station next door to get milk while Gail input directions into the GPS. Going in, a woman of 40 or 50 stood with a brown paper bag in her hand, asking an elderly man when the next casino bus was. Inside were three thuggish men at checkout. As I passed, I caught a stench of weed heavier than I’ve ever smelled, even in the halls of Fairchild House at Oberlin College. One of them looked at me for too long as I passed. To be safe, I checked the expiration date on the milk. 12/31/09. Today. Super. I quickly walked out, not looking back as one of the men called after me.
“Well we are on the wrong side of town!” I said, smiling nervously at Gail. “Let’s go.” She laughed, asking why. “Trust me, let’s go.” I watched the men get into a spotless white Cadillac that, judging by their demeanors, could only have been paid for through the buying and selling of copious amounts of cocaine. Or they worked hard for it. Who knows.
Finding the sanctuary was no easy thing. We turned around a few times, fumbling through the darkness of the town. No street lights here, just like home. We finally found it, and drove up, greeted by a pug and an Australian Sheppard. We’d meet the cats later. Fick, Fack, and Dixie. Dix, for short. A crack-addict of a feline. The rules were lain, the bags unpacked, the tour given. In the laundry room I saw no dryer.
“Is the dryer in there?” I pointed across the hall. Turk, the head honcho of the interns, gave me a “You dumb bitch” kind of look.
“We line dry. It’s out there,” she said, pointing outside. And what if it rained? Later that night I told Gail we might have to find ourselves a Laundromat.
“It won’t be bad,” she said, “jeans will be stiff, but it will be fine.” I frowned.
“I turn off lights. I take 5-minute showers. I don’t kill people. I deserve my damn dryer.” She backed off, laughing.
It was time for bed. The next day started at 8:00 AM sharp. Coffee and a few slaps in the face by the morning chill was enough to get me up and running for what lay ahead. Onward, ho.
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