It is about focus, about noticing things that used to go unnoticed. But, mostly, it’s about taking in a little and putting out a lot.
Sitting on his bedroom floor, in the ladder of shadow cast by the blinds in the singular window, Sunny takes small bites of air, holds them in his mouth, feels them dropping, down his throat, down to his belly, down all the way to the tips of his toes. And then Sunny blows, clenches his hands, fists no bigger than hens’ eggs, summons all the air inside him, up from his belly, up from his toes, drives it up his throat, into his candy-sweetened mouth, and out through his puckered lips. Sunny might be kissing the air goodbye as it leaves him.
Another small bite, another big blow. Another small bite. Another big blow. There’s a rhythm to it, like bailing out a boat, Sunny thinks, just force out more than comes in, just don’t stop bailing until all is gone.
The hummingbirds that constantly flutter and thrash in Sunny’s belly are the first to ushered out, six or seven or eight of them, impossible to count, exactly, as they dart around Sunny’s bedroom. There’s one right above the desk. Now it’s gone. Now it’s back. Or maybe not. Maybe that one’s a different one. Maybe that one’s more red. Gone again. Six or seven or eight or maybe nine. Impossible to count.
The hummingbirds arrive in a painful whoosh. One second Sunny’s throat is all rushing air, the next second, a chaos of vibrating wings and tickling feathers, tiny bird toes and bird beaks that poke and pinch. But now, in the air of Sunny’s bedroom, the hummingbirds are beautiful, tiny jewels dancing and darting in the fading light of the day, red and green and blue. There then gone then back again, impossible to count.
The rattlers are different, their entrance easy, smooth. They stop top slithering through Sunny’s veins, and ooze out of his mouth, toothpaste flowing out of the tube, just two, one right after the other, landing on Sunny carpet with a plop, a sound like a flyball dropping into a mitt. Sunny hears their rattling now, but doesn’t feel them, doesn’t see them. The rattling sounds like it’s coming from the darkness that lives under the bed.
The yellowjackets arrive like smoke through a keyhole. A crackling heat in Sunny’s mouth, then a stream of yellow jackets tickling across his lips, swirling through the grey light of Sunny’s bedroom, spinning into a kind of cloud, as the electric crackling that has haunted Sunny’s spine evaporates. So many yellowjackets, hundreds at least, but not really, really just one swarm, a single energy, a single shared consciousness. It’s taken an interest in the top corner of Sunny’s bookshelf, yellowjackets crawling over the surface of the shelf, yellowjackets crawling over yellowjacket; the swarm moves like an oil slick, their buzz a melody joining the rhythm of the rattlers.
How the bear arrives, Sunny can’t say. He never feels fur in his throat, never feels claws scrabbling out of his mouth, just feels hot, moist breath on the back of his neck, turns around, and, ta duh, bear, big as a Volkswagen. The bear stands on all fours, drops his head level with Sunny’s face. The bear’s breath smells like salmon, its teeth glint a pail yellow, its eyes are big as walnuts, black as midnight. Its eyes are empty. The bear looks like he is about to cry. Are you lonely, Sunny asks the bear. The bear doesn’t answer, because the bear is a bear.
The bear rises onto his hind legs, stoops to fit under Sunny’s bedroom ceiling, casts a shadow that passes across Sunny like storm cloud. The bear’s paws cut through the air, missiles, take out hummingbirds one after another after another, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Now they are easy to count. Eight hummingbirds disappear between the bear’s saliva-slick teeth.
The rattlers slither out of the darkness under Sunny’s bed curious to join the commotion. The bear drops back down to four feet, turns towards the rattlers, their music growing louder, a frenzy of rhythm. Sunny braces for a fight. The fight never happens. Two quick bites. Two rattler heads separated from two rattler bodies, two rattles that continue to sing, even in death, a lament, until both rattler heads and both rattle bodies disappear between the bear’s saliva-slick teeth.
The bear knocks over Sunny’s bookshelf with a single lazy swipe. In the seat of his pants, Sunny feels the vibrations of the toppled shelf rippling across his bedroom floor. The buzz of the yellowjackets rises an octave, a sound like a scream. The bear turns toward Sunny, cocks his head as if looking for approval, then turns back toward the toppled bookshelf. Movement furious and greedy, the yellow jackets, the hive they have started to build, everything disappears between the bear’s saliva-slick teeth.
Then it is just Sunny and the bear, still licking yellowjacket sweetness from its paws. And the bear knows exactly what it must do.
It’s hard to explain exactly how Sunny eats the bear, because Sunny doesn’t exactly eat the bear. It’s more like a dance, two bodies one purpose, movement, graceful and uncomfortable. Bear claw, bear paw, bear snout, bear fur, bear fat, bear muscle, bones, breath, and blood, it all moves with Sunny, makes Sunny follow its lead, disappears behind Sunny’s saliva slick teeth.
Sunny breaths easy now, lazy inhale, lazy exhale, unconscious motion. His hens’-egg fists unclench. Sunny thinks about Noah’s ark, how it carried creatures, that ate creatures that ate creatures, too, how it was storm tossed and fragile and God scared. Sunny feels a warmth at the center of his chest, feels movement. Sunny feels the bear curling into the cave of Sunny’s heart.
