Day Twenty Five and Six: A Brief Word On the Relations Between Foxes and Coyotes

There are five species of canids in North America, three of which are classified as endangered. The coyote, by comparison, boasts nineteen subspecies in North America. None of these are endangered. Foxes are quick, reclusive and above all solitary predators, and the smaller of the two. The coyote, on the other hand, hunt in unstable packs or in loose pairs, and have been known to snatch dogs from right under their owner’s nose.

            Neither coyote nor fox is a naturally dominant species. Coyotes, in particular, flourish in areas where wolves have been eradicated, replacing them in a rougher, less disciplined capacity, and hunting similar prey, albeit less effectively. So less effectively, in fact, that human trash or domesticated animals make, like the coyotes themselves, for makeshift replacements of a bona fide counterpart.

            Foxes also fulfill the ecological niche that damaged wolf populations leave open, but in a much more limited capacity. Foxes are not large predators. They do not hunt in packs, and so larger prey such as deer or pets are left alone. They could almost be described as modest: they live only where the environment can support them, occasionally and infrequently stooping to trash raids, and avoiding interaction with humans.

            Neither one of them will inhabit the area of the other. They fulfill such similar roles in all their capacities, only their attitude seems to set them apart. In most Indian cultures, even the myths reflect this. The coyote is clever and tricky, like the god Loki in Norse mythology, often causing trouble that only he can offer a way out of. He is humorous but also greedy and desirous of things above his station, a capacity often offered to him by his wise, kind brother wolf.

            The fox, by comparison, has a rich Eastern history, in which the kitsune can transform into humans and back. In Western culture they too are creatures of trickery, but opt for cunning instead of mere cleverness. ‘Foxy’ in the United States has come to be synonymous with ‘sexy,’ though indeed both creatures share an odd affiliation with sexuality. While the mythology of the fox is more subtle, he is much more entwined with man, appearing in many stories, recent and old, as a character incarnate, puns in the name notwithstanding.

            Though they do not seem to have any confrontations, one can’t live with the other. Their roles are too similar. The fox inhabit the border-land, where survival meets dignity, if it could be called that. Flashes of red in the night is all that most see of a fox in their area, and usually there are plenty of rabbits, squirrels and other small prey around as a token of modulating behavior on the part of the fox. The fox will never use up its resources.

            The coyote is much more intrusive, living wherever it can, among us and off of us, hunting like wolves occasionally but not wolves–fearless. If pets disappear, coyotes might be the culprit. It fulfills its own niche and encroaches on others, presumptuous of its place and ultimately all the more successful for it. With Brother Wolf gone, the coyote remains a creature of hunger and the freedom to seek it out.

            But it will never live with a fox.

Day Twelve: This My Clipboard

Missed a day, but don’t care that much. I just honestly could not fit anything in.

But we’re back on form now, with a bit o’ prose about my first day of work. Or rather, ‘observation day.’ I still haven’t decided if I’m going to take it. Anyway, read this all ready. Christ.

 

I clutch the flimsy plane to my chest, repeating “This is my clipboard. There are many like it, but this one is mine.” Honestly, I had a lot of expectations coming into my job, but this was not one of them.

            This is my clipboard. There are many like it but this one is mine.

            “Don’t hold it like that,” Melanie scolds. “You’ll look defensive. And no hands in your pockets either,” she says, cutting me off at the pass. “People might think you’re hiding something. And stand to the other side of the door. That’s right, the way it opens to. That way it doesn’t look like you’re hiding. Big smiles,” she whispers again.

            Defeated, hands at my side, with a big shit-eating grin gracing my features, the door opens and Melanie, with her own friendly eyes and white hair, calmly but certainly opens her mouth and lets the magic flow.

            Afterwards, twenty-five dollars richer, she gingerly descends the stairs and says to me by way of explanation, “I’ve got to go down this way. Bad knees.”

            This is my first day working as a canvasser. You may have met me or my compatriots at the door, after we invaded your life, took your time and maybe, if we were lucky or if you were feeling particularly generous, took some cash as well.

            “Your Rap,” Melanie says suddenly. “Show me.”

            I pause.

            “Hi,” I begin, my face twisting quickly into a gleeful smile. “My name is Andrew and I’m here with the RDA. We’re out here in Fakestown fighting for jobs.” That last sentence rubbed me wrong at first; I’M not looking for a job. I’ve got a job. Otherwise I wouldn’t be standing on your doorstep, interrupting your dinner.

            “I’m sure you’ve noticed that jobs are disappearing,” I continue. Melanie raises her eyebrows. “… And the jobs that are replacing them are service industry jobs that don’t have benefits and don’t pay enough to raise a family on.” That last bit was hers, but I’d noticed she’d adapted her own to steal a few of my turns-of-phrase. Anyway, the point isn’t competition. The point, as always, is hard, cold cash.

            “Do you think that the legislation is doing enough to address these concerns?”

            She grins. “No, of course not.”

            Of course not. It’s a stupid question. Legislation is never doing enough to address whatever concerns you may have. That’s the point: it’s a gimme. They answer the same way every time, and thus the illusion of a dialogue begins. They told us, if they answer that question wrong, it’s done. Just thank them, apologize for their time, and exit.

            That’s the “check-in”, she’d said in training. And that’s how important it is.

            “Well,” I continue, “what would you think an independent candidate, really working to reinvigorate the job market in Fakestown?”

            “What do you think of the idea of an independent candidate?” Melanie corrects me.

            It’s all in the wrist, it seems. That is, it’s all in the spin. I don’t know whether I feel like a member of a secret fraternity or just very, very dirty.

            “We’re here in the neighborhood, introducing people to Cesar Broker, born and raised in Fakestown, thirty-three years as a fireman, two terms on the Council—”

            “Two things,” Melanie interrupts me. “Just two.”

            The Rap: this is our real cause, our most vicious weapon. It’s hungry in all the right places, bred big, streamlined, and set right for the throat. It is our spiky shield and decoy behind it. It is our self-immolation.

            “We’re out here today circulating this petition,” I say, preparing for the big finale. I can never remember the last bit. “People who sign are backing up their signature with a contribution.” Smooth now. It’s the gunshot to the face of this little Western. “Checks are preferred—for your safety and for ours—my goal tonight is twenty five dollars a house.”

            “How do you feel about that?” Melanie says.

            “I feel like I’ve got to do it better that that,” I say.

            “No, I mean, repeat after me, ‘How do you feel about that?’”

            God, can you feel it, tugging at you in its innocuousness? Can you see the strength in it, the pull? The Rap sounds so innocent, but I wouldn’t let it wear white on its wedding day.    

            It’s still a wrench for me: I just wish I could sit down with everyone, talk to them about this stuff. Make sure they’re okay with it, reassure them about what they’re signature would mean, what a few bucks from them would mean. I wish I could level with each and every bemused face behind a metal screen door.

            But I can’t, otherwise the Rap wouldn’t exist. I understand that. But it just feels… wrong. Jarring.

            It might be that the words that go into the Rap are all empty. Odd, grammatically, and unreal. From the awkward joke-question of the check in to the fractured grammar of the pitch: “People who sign the petition are also backing up their signature…” Hammered into the place! The sentences jamb brokenly together over a dark pit of meaning.

            Did you know that swears aren’t words? Yes, they’re made up of letters and they have meanings independent to them, but on the EEG machine? Not so much. They engage a different part of the brain than the language centers, and they too employ bizarre grammatical rules that favor meaning over semantics.

 Only the Rap is the exact opposite, the metaphorical rhino camouflaged in the grass. The phrases, after I repeat them enough cease to become meaningful. They’re not real words. Not to me, anyway. Like I’ve been taught a few sentences in another language and repeat them, ad nauseum, while people I’ve never met and only partly understand take the time to toss coins into my hat. Or just spit on to my clipboard.

This is my clipboard. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

Answer the door. To me, you are a quota and a few moments of interesting conversation, the breadth of one severely impacted by the other. From the moment I open my mouth, we are just two monkeys, and it is your turn to jump through the hoop.

This is my clipboard. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

“You’re doing much better,” Melanie says, and laboriously begins another set of steps. “How about you try the next one?”