Foxtails

I rush out of exploding spruce trees, hair aflame, screaming. Mountain pine beetles shriek, shells popping. Flames leap along treetops and when I reach the road, there’s a wall of fire chasing me.

I’m on the highway, hours later, hazards on, inching forward through acrid smoke. Tree skeletons smoulder on both sides of the road, occasionally sparking into red flame. The sky is a fire cloud. There’s no sound of mountain beetles now.

When I joined the queue of cars, the fire marshals giving directions didn’t notice I was different. No one asked for my vehicle registration. They didn’t see the sheen in my eyes or realize my car was stolen.

I drive for hours before the sky lightens. Smoke thins and traffic moves faster. Trucks with flashing lights appear at the side of the highway, and firefighters in fluorescent coats direct me to a parking area.

I park the car. All around me, people spill out of vehicles, lugging suitcases and dogs on leashes. There are so many kids, I can’t count them all.

I step out of the car. A building looms in front of me. People are going in, but my instincts say to run. But where would I go? My home has burned. There’s nothing left for me.

I’m still hesitating when a fire marshal walks up to me, gesturing angrily. I push down my fear and follow the crowd into the evacuation centre.

###

There must be hundreds, no, thousands of people inside the building. The sea of cots makes me dizzy. Someone hands me a water bottle. Another steers me to a desk marked “Registration.”

There’s a line. When I get to the front, a woman pulls out a form and addresses me.

“What’s your name?”

I don’t know what to say; I’m not like the others. I stand there, blinking. Then it comes to me.

“Slick.”

She asks for my address, and I slip away. There’s a table at the back of the hall with bowls of food and colourful wrappers calling to me. I start toward it, but armies of children race past me. I flinch and jump back.

When they’ve passed, I venture toward it. One bowl in particular attracts me—it’s filled to the brim with shiny foil objects. I pull one out. The label says, “Granola bar.” I think, Finally, learning to read has come in handy.

I take a bite and taste metal. A child points at me and parents frown.

I look around, watching others eat, and eventually it dawns on me. I spit out the foil and unwrap the bar. I take a bite of sweetened oats and raisins, and I gag—the wrapper was better by far.

I’m still eating when someone taps my shoulder—it’s the woman from registration, holding out that paper. She gives me a pen and tells me to fill in the rest.

I tell her I will and she narrows her eyes, sceptical.

###

She comes looking for me, hours later. I slip away with my unfilled paper. I find myself in a bathroom. There’s a mirror on the wall and I stare into it, captivated.

I hook my thumbs into my Wranglers and the figure in the mirror does the same. I touch my charred hair and the burn marks on my temples. It’s the first time I’ve seen myself. I lean into the glass. I may be a monster but goddamit, I look good.

A woman steps out of a stall and approaches the mirror. She puts on gloss and smacks her lips.

Our eyes meet through the glass, and I hold out my hand and say, “Slick.”

###

That night I lie on my cot in a sea of people. I’m holding the pen. It feels strange in my hands. The oil in my skin makes it slippery.

I press my face into the pillow, and when I lift my head, there’s a stain. I sniff. It smells like kerosene. Like me. I take out the registration form and stare at it.

I learned to read only recently. I was bored, so I sounded out the names of gas stations along the highway and the cigarette brands from packets littered on the forest floor.

There’s a blank space where the form says, “Birthday.”

I don’t know what that word means to me. I was born in a tailings pond, bursting out from black water, gasping for air. Though I don’t breathe, not really. My eyes shine and my hair catches on fire easily. Cars start for me.

People think they can build giant refineries and make the earth shake with fracking and directional drilling and not birth nightmares like me.

They spend millions building giant telescopes to search the stars for alien life when we’re right here, us monsters of the petrochemical industry. We’re not even rare. We’re stealing cars and leaving slicks all over Oil Country.

###

They dim the lights, and people fall asleep. I lie on my cot, but it’s boring. I’m hungry, too, and feeling dirty. I wish there were tailings ponds to rinse in. I tiptoe to the table at the back. Someone’s dog growls at me.

There are still granola bars in the bowl, but what I see in the trash can is even better—there must be thousands of wrappers. The foil shines in the darkness. I can’t look away.

I bend into the garbage and take a handful. I stuff them into my mouth and savour the metal.

###

Days pass. Someone tops up the granola bar bowl. New foods appear on the table—cereal in boxes, orange juice in rectangular packages with plastic straws. A news crew comes to interview evacuees. Then politicians, wringing their hands and posing for photographs.

I’m no expert on people, but even I know most evacuations don’t make the news. Politicians for the most part don’t care.

Even today, they don’t linger. They’re carrying scissors—they have ribbons to cut, speeches to give. The dog that doesn’t like me growls at them too.

The woman from registration is still after me. She spies me from across the cots. When she starts in my direction, I slip out the back door. I find myself face to face with the woman from the bathroom.

I ask about her birthday, since that seems to be what people do. She tells me she’s a Taurus and asks me my star sign. I don’t know what to say, so I run away.

That night, I lie on my cot, chomping foil, wondering what it means to be a Taurus.

It occurs to me, I need a bigger vocabulary.

###

I read the backs of cereal boxes on the food table. The words bore me but the cardboard’s tasty and provides me with non-foil variety.

The fires ease and people start to go home. I steal a car but have nowhere to go.

I get on the highway and start driving. Foxtails on both sides of the road wave at me. There must be hundreds of them. I don’t know how they escaped the flames. They taunt me, like they know some secret. I open the window and spit kerosene at them.

I stop in a town and get out of the car. No one looks at me. Everyone’s face is buried in a smartphone. I buy one, too, to see what I’m missing. I pass a petrochemical monster when I’m leaving the store, but I’m so engrossed in my phone, I don’t realize until it calls out to me.

###

I linger at gas stations. They’re the best places to find foil wrappers, better than grocery stores, better than evacuation centres. There are people, but not too many. Fewer children, no dogs. No registration forms, thank god.

The best ones have convenience stores with rows of shiny foil confections and trash cans overflowing with wrappers. They make me dizzy. I’ve never seen so many colours or such beauty.

Sometimes gasoline pools on the ground. Or someone spills diesel. When no one’s looking, I crouch down and run my fingers through the liquid. I lift my hands, and my skin shines under the sun, silky.

One day, I’m hunched over a gas puddle when someone shouts at me. My legs shake—I panic and run away. It happens again at another station but this time I barely tremble.

I’m starting to understand. When I loiter at gas stations without a car, people think I work there.

###

I wander from gas station to gas station. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be an employee. I’m petrochemical nightmare. I never thought of getting a job. I know I shouldn’t daydream, but the idea stays with me.

I stop at a gas station outside the big city. Something about it appeals to me. A sign on the door says, “Help Wanted.”

There’s an application form. Just months ago, that would have deterred me. But after the evacuation centre, paperwork’s nothing to me. I write down my name and my birthday. I still can’t believe when someone hands me a name tag saying, “Slick.”

###

I spend hours in the convenience store, watching people pump gas through the camera monitors. Sometimes people buy cold drinks or lottery tickets. I’ve learned to smile and ask about their day, not to listen to their answers or ask anyone their birthday.

At night, when business is slow, I lock the door and take a handful of confections. I eat until the early hours and then go the trash can and pull out empty wrappers. One day, the owner of the franchise catches me. I prepare to be fired, but to my surprise, they praise my recycling efforts.

When I’m not watching the cameras or eating foil or cardboard, I’m on my smartphone. I download apps and upload a screen saver. I do an online quiz and learn I’m a Scorpio. It feels good to be more than a monster, to have a horoscope.

###

There’s a field across the road. It was wild when I came to the gas station, but it’s slowly being paved. They’re building a parking lot for winter storage of RVs. Politicians come weekly to inspect it. The whole thing puzzles me.

They’re building more storage lots daily. They’re everywhere—there must be more RVs than people, even. Politicians come in convoys, giving speeches and cutting ribbons. Now when I look out from the gas station, past the highway, that’s all I see.

There’s only one small patch of wilderness left. It reminds me of my old home that burned. During the day, deer wander through and gophers stick their heads out from their burrows. They have big shiny eyes like me. Sometimes I wink and tell them my name.

###

One day the area’s flattened by bulldozers. Instead of watching people fill up with gas, I watch traumatized gophers run across the highway. They’ve lost their homes. There’s nowhere for them to go. The cars don’t even slow. That night, when I walk to the road, the asphalt is slippery and crimson with their blood.

The sky darkens and the highway shines red under the moon. When I close my eyes, I can see the gophers. Can hear their panicked cries, then the crunch of wheels. The silence after…

My phone buzzes with a quiz for Scorpios, but I can’t look at it. Something tumbles from my pocket—a foil wrapper. I let it fall. I’m done with this razzle-dazzle. I can’t even think about recycling now.

I don’t give notice. I steal a car and drive away. Foxtails along the highway mock me. The sky is orange in my rearview, and when I open the window, I breathe smoke— it’s fire season again.

###

I drive to the city. It scares me, but I have no other choice. Every other place is burning or being razed. I find myself at the library. I walk inside, and the smell of moldy paper comforts me. I grab a book and start munching. I don’t even know what book I’m eating.

Before I know it, it’s nighttime. I’m in the literature section, reading and eating books. I start on a book, and the words surprise me. It’s a horror story like the others, but in this one, the monster’s the protagonist.

The book falls from my mouth. I flip through the pages to see how the story ends, but it’s too late. I’ve eaten the last pages.

###

I’m weeks in the library, eating book spines and reading. I try to forget the world outside the library and what it will be like when I leave.

At night I dream it’s not just the forest that’s burned, that when I step outside, even downtown will be smoking embers. The whole world will be RV storage lots and red smears on asphalt. That and foxtails, waving, smug and indestructible.

I lose count of the books I read and eat. My vocabulary grows monumentally. When I’m done reading monster stories, I stand at a crossroads of book stacks, trying to decide between romance and history.

The romance section pulls me in. The books are silly but something in them speaks to me. I stop having nightmares and push the past away. I catch myself daydreaming about the books’ central theme: the sappy but compelling conceit that love can change everything.

Finally I think, What the heck. I make a corsage of green foil wrappers and put my smartphone away. When I step out of the library, I’m not thinking about fire. I’m daring to be more than a monster. I’m a Scorpio, I’m letting my heart lead me.

###

I’m in a downtown mall, searching for love, when a petrochemical monster flits past me. I follow it to the food court.

My legs are shaking. I step in front of the monster and say, “Excuse me.”

The monster blinks.

My voice quakes. “What’s your star sign?”

The monster’s a Capricorn. We both know what that means. The monster’s also into horoscopes. We’ve both spent lonely, heart-hungry evenings checking compatibilities.

We go on a date to a restaurant with tablecloths. We marvel at the cutlery and try not to grimace, chewing our pasta. We make an effort. We even get through dessert, though what we really want to eat is the foil corsage I’ve given my date.

We have a thing. We download games on our phones and eat books together. We stay up late, watching documentaries about billionaires searching for life in outer space. I recount the stories from romance books I read in the library. I say maybe we can be more than monsters. My date agrees and decrees us “star-crossed lovers.”

We rent an apartment and get a fish. We go to pet stores to buy fish food and my lover’s eyes light up at the sight of the gerbils and hamsters. I try to be a good sport while we watch them play. But I have to turn away—all I can think about are those gophers.

###

My lover says we should make it official. I volunteer for the paperwork, since I’m experienced in that area.

But the week before our wedding, I can’t sleep. Those gopher families are haunting me. What if we become a family and end up as smears on the highway too?

I push the thought away, but it eats at me. I still see those big eyes, hear those panicked screams. I have nightmares of land being razed, and love turning to tragedy.

Finally, it’s too much for me. I slip out of our apartment the morning of our wedding.

###

I steal a car and drive out of the city. Flames lap at the sky. I don’t have to check the news to know the fires are getting close to the city.

I drive for hours. Every road has foxtails and every radio station is talking about billionaires going to space.

The towns I remember are smoke and embers. Even that old evacuation centre is burned. There’s nowhere to go, so I turn back to the city. When I get there, it’s changed. The library’s on fire and the river valley in the centre of the city has burned to the ground. There are evacuation centres on every street.

###

I go to a centre and register. Fill in the fields for “name” and “birthday.” My fingers smear the paper.

I walk to the back of the hall, and someone’s dog grows at me. I start for the table with granola bars and a woman with a registration form zeroes in on me. I look for the bathroom, but the giant TV screen distracts me.

There’s a banner at the bottom of the screen with news headlines. I read the words while an announcer narrates. Those days at the library have done wonders for my vocabulary.

The whole city’s on fire, but the announcer says not to worry, the march of progress can’t be stopped. A gas station is planned for what used to be the library. As for the river valley, those 18,000 acres will be converted to a giant RV storage parking lot.

According to the announcer, the fact that the paperwork’s dodgy hasn’t stopped anyone to date, and the land’s been stolen for almost two centuries. Besides, the politicians have sharpened their scissors and are standing at the ready.

The screen changes to show a billionaire in a rocket suit speaking into a camera. His face takes up the whole TV. People crowd around the screen, repeating his name and watching him speak.

He says his company’s found life in a faraway galaxy. He calls the discovery “cosmic” and says it will change everything.

The people around me gasp. I grab a granola bar from the table and devour the foil, not caring for once if people see me.

The billionaire’s still talking. He says he’s leaving for space shortly and not to worry, he’ll be the Earth’s emissary. He says we’re in good hands. The camera zooms out to show politicians in the background putting down their scissors and clapping vigorously.

I shake my head. What a con. I’m alive. I’m right here. The billionaires’ own companies did the fracking and created the tailing ponds that birthed me and my kind. We’re the furthest thing from cosmic. We have more in common with politicians and their scissors, both dirty facts of history, beholden to twits in rocket suits.

As for that twit on the screen, his mission has nothing to do with discovery. He’s trashed this place, and now he wants to colonize stars. He probably has plans for RV parking storage lots up in space too.

###

The TV smokes while cots burst into flame. People rush out of the building in a frenzy. This time I don’t have to be told to follow the crowd.

I step outside, and sparks rain down on me. Smears on the road make my feet slip. I look down and the pavement’s erupting with foxtails.

Someone taps my shoulder and I spin around, expecting the registration lady. My eyes widen. It can’t be.

An oil monster is standing across from me.

At first I can’t speak, then the words rush out of me. “What’s your star sign?”

The monster pulls that foil corsage from its pocket. For a moment, the whole world goes away and there’s only us two. Star-crossed lovers, Capricorn, Scorpio.

People push past us, panicking and fleeing. Our eyes shine. We move closer to each other. Our noses brush when we bite into the metal.

When we finish the corsage, our lips are touching. We stand there, not moving, breathing each other’s kerosene.

Then it hits me. All this time, it’s been right in front of me. Maybe we can do better than RV parking and some dimwit billionaire. Maybe we don’t have to slaughter gophers. Maybe we can be more than monsters and love can change everything.

###

I try to stop the crowd, to tell them my dream. But the flames are too loud and everyone’s screaming. They pile into cars and I watch as they race to the evacuation centre down the street.

I start after them, but my lover catches me. I turn around. We don’t have to say anything. We embrace, hearts open, breathing flame and kerosene.

I pull away. The fire’s hot in my face and foxtails catch on my Wranglers.

I reach for my smartphone, but it’s melted to nothing. I turn back to my lover, but the fire’s moved fast—there’s only flames.

I cry out, “Capricorn!” and fall to my knees like a panicked gopher.

I should have known. I’m too late. I shouldn’t have eaten those last pages. Should have chosen the history section instead of romance. Then I would have known what’s staring me in the face. Love can’t stop this.

My hair whooshes ablaze and I squint through the flames. Something flashes in the sky and I don’t have to look to know it’s that twit in a rocket, escaping everything.

Foxtails wave. They always knew it would end this way.