Fox is Blue
Fox was down. Way down. It wasn’t just that Mrs. Fox had left him. That was pretty hard and he should have seen it coming, but what really bugged him was that she’d taken off with a musician, a goddamn sax player. Talk about irony, talk about payback.
He’d been sure she’d come crawling home. He imagined her pounding at the door, begging him to let her in, pleading with him to take her back. He’d stand on the other side of the door, quiet as a mouse, and when Mrs. Fox paused to get her breath, he’d holler out, “We don’t want any!”
But as the weeks and months rolled by, Fox concocted another scenario altogether. She’d come back all right, but now Fox saw himself, at her first knock, throwing open the door and wrapping her in his arms. She’d tell Fox she’d made a terrible mistake, could he ever forgive her? “Bygones, baby, bygones,” he’d say.
After six months it became clear that Mrs. Fox probably wasn’t wending her way back to him from some crummy town where lover boy had given her the old heave-ho. And if she was heading home, she sure as hell was taking her own sweet time about it.
Fox’s business was in trouble, too. In the beginning, he sold mostly chickens. Some ducks and turkeys. Standard stuff. Then clients started asking about free-range and organic and hormone-free. When Fox realized the kind of prices he could command by claiming it was all organic, he became a purveyor of high end poultry. When the bust came, when the banks went down, when even high-rollers began going to jail, there was less and less call for cage-free and grass-fed. Customers started waxing nostalgic about the good old days; they weren’t afraid of antibiotics anymore. They complained that the organic birds were stringy and tasted gamy. Fox was barely scraping by.
What I need, Fox thought one evening, is a night on the town. Get out and about, get the old juices flowing. He slipped an Ornette Coleman album from its sleeve and put it on the record player. He listened to the music while he freshened up. Then he put on some Charlie Parker and, when he felt good and sad, Fox went out into the night and through the woods. He walked across a field of alfalfa and found the path that wound up and over a little hill and down the other side into a meadow. Fox followed the path until he came to a fence. He took a couple of steps backward, got a running start, and cleared the fence. Just barely. Fox thought, Well, the old boy still has what it takes. He sauntered along the path until he came to a busy highway. On the far side of the highway sat a tavern. Fox waited by the side of the road as cars whizzed by. When he saw a gap in the traffic he ran across the road.
Fox looked up at the neon sign advertising half-price drinks on Thursdays. He pushed open the door, strolled across the room and took a seat at the long zinc bar. Norah Jones was singing about lost love and the only other patron sat staring into an empty glass.
“What can I do for you?” said the bartender, a tall fellow with a bad hairpiece.
“Bring me a Cosmopolitan,” said Fox.
“That’s out of the question.”
“Oh, I get it,” said Fox. “I guess you don’t serve foxes.”
“With business the way it is, pal,” said the bartender, surveying the nearly empty tavern, “we serve anybody.”
“So, what’s the problem?” said Fox.
“We don’t serve fancy cocktails. Just regular drinks. And beer and wine.”
Fox settled for a glass of cabernet. It gave him quite a buzz. Because it was half-priced, he ordered another. After his third glass of wine, Fox was really bombed. He dropped a ten dollar bill on the bar and stood up. He held onto the edge of the bar until the room stopped spinning.
“Hey, buddy,” said the bartender, “are you okay to drive?”
“Drive?” said Fox. “That’s rich, that’s a good one!”
“How so, my friend?”
“I’m a fox, for Christ’s sake, I can’t drive a goddamn car!”
“Well, how about if I call you a cab? I gotta be honest, you don’t look so hot.”
“I’m okay, but I need some fresh air,” said Fox. He turned and started for the door, staggering and working to keep his balance.
“Hey, pal, don’t take it the wrong way, okay?” shouted the bartender. “I had a couple of raccoons pull up here in a Mercedes a few nights ago. I just thought…..”
“Yeah, yeah, I know what you thought,” said Fox. “One carnivorous mammal is pretty much the same as another, right? Those coons have articulated digits – if I had their hands, I’d have a fine set of wheels, too.” He held up both paws in a defeated gesture. Then he shoved the door open and went out into the crisp, moonlit night.
There was no traffic in sight, so Fox walked unsteadily across the road and onto the rough path on the other side. When he came to the fence, he crawled under it. He stumbled through the meadow and over the hill and on into the woods until he came to a tree stump. He sat down on the stump and wiped his brow. He was sweating like a pig, but as the alcohol seeped from his pores, Fox began to sober up. Nearby an owl hooted and two frogs croaked at each other across a muddy pond. A faint breeze rustled the leaves above him. He looked up through the trees at the full moon. Soon a wonderful feeling of peace settled upon Fox.
This forest, all the creatures in it, the moon, my life, everything is just the way it should be, thought Fox. He took a deep breath, stood up, and headed for home.
Back in his den, Fox slept and dreamed about having sexual intercourse with Mrs. Fox. Except she didn’t look like Mrs. Fox, she looked exactly like Nina Simone. It was a confusing dream that involved, along with inter-species sex, cartons of pencils and a marching band.
When Fox woke up, the sun was shining through the window. He squinted over at the clock. Eight-fifteen. Whoa, better get a move on! Fox went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, smoothed back his whiskers and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked pretty damn good, everything considered. There was that gray patch at the top of his head, but his eyes were clear, and he still had all his own teeth. Don’t count Fox out, he thought. Not yet.
Fox made himself a three-egg omelet, some toast and hash browns. He drank two cups of strong coffee. He rolled himself a joint, lit it and sucked at the sweet smoke. Fox was starting to feel good. He was thinking about the day ahead of him, where he’d go, what he might find. Perhaps he’d surprise a couple of ducklings at the edge of Grassy Pond. He might snag an ailing pigeon, or a pheasant with a busted wing. Free-range, for damn sure.
Afterwards, maybe a quick look at the Dexter place. See if the chickens were pecking around outside or locked in the shed. Check out whether old man Dexter was lurking around with that ancient shotgun of his. Not much danger there – the farmer couldn’t shoot for shit – but just the sound of gunshots always got Fox’s adrenaline pumping. All in all, a day with splendid promise. As he stepped out into the sunlight, Fox felt like a million bucks.
Todd McKie is an artist and writer. He staggers from canvas to keypad, dazed and paint-spattered, but grateful for the exercise. Todd’s stories have appeared in, or are forthcoming from, PANK, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Pure Slush, Dark Sky, Twelve Stories, and elsewhere. He lives in Boston, USA. Find out more here: toddmckie.blogspot.com.
