Hotdogs

We’re sitting beneath blankets on the upstairs porch, watching the river of tigers. In ones and twos they trickle, and then in columns they saunter. It’s purposeful, as more arrive, a parade strolling through our town.

“Do you think they have a permit?” my mom asks, bundled between us. “They ought to have one if there’s going to be so many. It should be on the news. They’re just shutting everything down.”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. I think they do, but it’s not like it’s my place to go down and ask them.

Bengals and Sumatrans and Siberians, all of them striped, some big and others small, and one or two enormous, their tails twitch back and forth. I keep expecting the tigers to break ranks, to riot, to go hunting, to choose their spots in the community, like this is it, this is how it’s going to be from now on. No more walking by yourself at night, more time wondering if something is stalking you.

“They have to know we’re here,” my dad, also bundled, says. “I bet if they wanted to, they could just leap up and eat us.”

“Did you remember to bring the hotdogs?” my wife asks.

“Of course,” I tell her. I’ve just started up the hibachi.

“Do you think if we throw hotdogs at the tigers they’d leave us alone?” my mom asks.

“Or do you think they’d climb up and visit our balcony to see where all those delicious hotdogs are coming from?” my wife says.

We’re all wearing our Save the Tigers t-shirts, just in case. Meanwhile our neighbors across the street, they’re having a party, they’ve already got a whole bunch of hibachis going, and they’re drinking beer too. Why treat the parade of tigers as if it were some solemn occasion? When is the last time you saw so many tigers all in one place anyways?

One of the people at the party begins climbing down off the porch, his feet finding slots in the corner post, he’s halfway down before people notice and start yelling at him, but the guy is determined, he’s no longer listening, he’s down in the yard now, to get a better view.

I recognize him. It’s Nick, my supervisor at work.

The tigers walk around him like he isn’t even there. Nick waves to the party, and then he waves to us, like come on in, the tigers are fine. I wonder if he knows I’m here, if he’s recognized me.

So of course Nick walks into our yard, yells up to me, “Steve, is that you up there? You’ve got to come down here and walk among the tigers with me. It’s amazing!”

“I can’t, Nick. I’ve made other plans,” I yell.

“Fortune favors the brave, Steve,” he yells back. And I’m thinking, oh, is that why I’m not a supervisor, because I haven’t been brave enough? And that if I don’t, right there and then, hang out with Nick in a river of tigers, that’s it, that’s my life’s ceiling spelled out, right there.

Punctuating my thoughts before I can finish them, one of the tigers roars, and it’s so much louder in real life than what you see in the nature documentaries.

But I stay where I am, next to my wife and my parents, under a pile of blankets. We’ve got a hibachi, chips, cans of soda, and more than enough hotdogs to go around.

Nick shrugs. He turns around and begins walking with the tigers, going where they are going, wherever they are happening to be going. And he keeps up with them, he’s got his hand casually on the back of one even, like they’re already friends.

When I go to work on Monday, will Nick be there, talking about tigers with the new hire, or will there be a memo, and someone from HR telling us how they’re planning to do an outside search for the position?

“I hope he doesn’t have any hotdogs in his pockets,” my dad whispers.

“I hope he does,” whispers my wife.