by Chelsea Bets Christenson
The bear showed up on the fifth of May, a Saturday, and the first warm day of the year. The townsfolk were all gathered on the valley floor, at the lake, celebrating the approach of summer. Their children splashed in the green water, while they drank cheap beer and congratulated each other as only secretly competitive neighbors can. Their community was called Bear Valley and they were proud of it; they felt clever for avoiding city life. They slept with their doors unlocked, picked up hitchhikers, and sent their children to the bus stop alone. There were few sightings of the creatures for which the valley had been named, perpetuating the townsfolk’s belief that this carefree little place belonged to them. And yet, somewhere on Bear Mountain, an older presence stirred. Waking after three long months of hibernation, the bear was hungry.
While the townsfolk drank their beer, the bear ambled from his cave toward the nearest neighborhood. He smelled food and found a surplus of it, discarded carelessly in the townsfolk’s trash. The townsfolk argued local politics, while the bear feasted on their leftover dinners. Digging through used napkins and plastic wrapping, the bear uncovered secrets the townsfolk thought they had thrown away.
When the townsfolk arrived home, they found their lives strewn across their lawns. The town priest’s trash had been littered with used lotto tickets that blew through the air like fallen leaves. The sheriff’s garbage was peppered with what suspiciously resembled marijuana roaches. The principle of the elementary school had recently discarded a large selection of Playboys, which now lay torn and scattered across his yard, glossy and incriminating in the afternoon sunlight. The baker had been cooking more than just baked goods. The school nurse had used more than her share of complementary condoms.
The townsfolk were shocked. Only the neighborhood shut-in had an explanation of what had happened, and she shared her story with relish, basking in the sudden attention. The bear was big, she said, and would grow larger with food. When he stood to open the trashcans, he was taller than most men, and he crushed several of the cans under his weight. He noticed her once, she said, and he stared at her across her yard, curious and simply unafraid. Afterward she ran back into her house, bolted the door, and began researching Black Bears on the internet.
“They can weigh up to 900 pounds,” she informed them. “They can run up to 30 MPH.”
The townsfolk panicked. Not only were their secret lives exposed now for the first time, but they had been revealed by a creature they knew nothing about. Without knowledge, they resorted quickly to fear, which suited them well. They scurried around their lawns, trying in vain to clean up their mistakes, denying responsibility at the same time. At sunset, they locked their doors, and peered anxiously out their windows, suspicious of the bear or of each other, they didn’t know.
To Be Continued…
