Smokey’s Day Off
By Claudia Schatz (4/10/14)
“And remember,” Smokey said, leaning close to the microphone and winking a dark eye. “Only you can prevent forest fires!”
The crowd applauded and whistled appreciatively, their enthusiasm shown mainly through high-pitched shrieks from four-year-olds and hoorahs from toothless seniors freed from their powdery, padded cells for a mediocre day-trip. But Smokey had seen worse, and had long ago lost hope of ever finding a reason to let go of his perpetual disgust for humans.
Smokey raised a paw in hefty acknowledgement and waved, a warm smile spreading across his muzzle and wrinkling his soft features into his endearing mask. It had taken him quite a while to master this particular mask, and he was very pleased with the results of his efforts. When Smokey smiled, the world smiled back (with or without teeth). And they cheered. And hired him. And were very, very careful with fire.
Smokey turned away from the crowd and entered the headquarters, allowing all traces of amiability to slide off his face. He hated impromptu speeches. He could think on his feet well enough--that wasn’t the problem. But he didn’t get any bonus for impromptu speeches.
Pawing off his perkily personalized ranger hat, Smokey stomped down the corridor to his office, pausing in front of his floor’s framed fire prevention poster. Every hall had one, as if the fire prevention agency itself was in constant danger of starting fires. These posters were the building-wide joke, but Smokey found their extensive placement oddly appropriate. In the reflection of his own sweet, pleading photo, he eyed his currently sulky face, which was exceptional, of course.
Please, the poster begged.
“Get out of my face,” Smokey snarled at himself. “Holy smoke, I need that day off,” he muttered as he unlocked the door to his lounge. Though the humans usually called it an office, Smokey disapproved of that term: it implied that he worked there. Smokey didn’t work there. Smokey didn’t even work. Smokey lounged. Therefore, it was a lounge.
Smokey was a very logical bear.
With a long, world-weary sigh, Smokey entered the room and promptly curled up on the floor in the pile of fresh leaves that the new intern had gathered that morning. This was a task about which Smokey was exceedingly picky. He would only rest upon the softest and greenest leaves, torn from the most valiantly struggling seedlings. He wanted them to die, to writhe towards the sunlight with their last feeble efforts, only to sputter and fail as their bodies were slowly starved of nutrients.
Smokey reached for his laptop computer, pulling up the office’s new obsession: a game of dodging missiles until inevitable annihilation. If anyone peeked in the window, it would look as if he were working just the same as everyone else. In his early years in the forest, Smokey had dutifully taken Camouflage 101. Oh yes--Smokey was good at blending in.
Smokey had worked hard (ordering the intern to paint the walls, haul furniture, go shopping, assemble impossible Ikea rip-offs) to give the office a sleek yet homey atmosphere: deep green wallpaper, polished rocks, and potted plants in the corners. Smokey’s self-autographed posters hung above the single hard chair that stood grudgingly by the side of the room, daring the occasional unfortunate human to rest his or her buttocks upon it. On the desk, which was merely a formality, really, sat a small bowl of mints and a large basin of live salmon, still flapping faintly. Snacks for everyone, that was Smokey’s policy.
Smokey yawned and growled huffily as his cursor exploded into sparks and the computer screen went dark. The day was nearly over. It always seemed to be nearly over, didn’t it? Soon, he would escape from this awful place.
A knock sounded on the door, and, instinctively, Smokey snapped on a wide-eyed grin, calling cheerfully, “Come in, come in!” The door opened and the new intern stuck his pimply head into the room. “Here you are, sir, your mail, Mr. Bear, sir!”
“Gee, thanks, kid!” Smokey gushed. “Now remember--”
“--only I can prevent forest fires!” grinned the kid.
Smokey suppressed another growl. He hated when people did that. It was his catchphrase.
“Thank you, sir,” the boy went on. “Oh, and I was told to remind you that tomorrow is your day off.” He paused and looked a bit closer at Smokey. “Didn’t you just have one, though? Maybe it’s a scheduling mistake.” The boy began ruffling through the papers in his arms. “I can check for you, sir...”
“Oh golly! I am sure that is not necessary!” Smokey said perkily, rolling powerfully to his feet and expanding to fill the room. “I have not had a day off in quite a while! But thank you so much for your concern!” Smokey said, silently adding, you snot-nosed little twerp. He smiled widely, allowing the light to play across each and every one of his teeth.
The intern’s smile faltered. “Uh, yes of course, of course you’re right, sir. Have a good night, Mr. Bear.” He retreated from the room.
“He even cut me off,” hissed Smokey angrily to himself, scraping his claws against the carpet as if it were the intern’s own skin. “Cocky little runt.”
He began to shuffle through the mail: “Please come visit our elementary school!”, “Please make an appearance at our town hall!”, “Please come to the Westbrook Nature Center!”. He scanned each one for monetary compensation; none was apparent.
Smokey dropped them all into the only office machine he used: the shredder. At the end of each week, Smokey drove for three hours to the nearest landfill dozens of miles away, just so he could stand at the edge of that foul sea of noxious garbage, breathing in the smell of human failure. He would shake out the shreds reverently, sending all that reusable goodness hurtling towards eternal rotting in the forsaken landfill.
Smokey loved forsaken landfills.
Smokey had long known that he was a very special bear who was seriously misunderstood. He knew it from the moment he pushed his mother into the flames of the forest fire and used her charred carcass as a step-stool to the tree branch he was reaching for to lift himself to safety. He knew it as soon as he first greeted the firefighters who had pulled him to safety. “What are you doing--putting the fire out?!” After this initial surprise, there had been some confusion among the rescuers over Smokey’s apparent approval of the flames. Smokey chalked that first mistake up to experience and insisted that he had been in shock at the time. But he learned his lesson: outwardly advocating for wildfires was not going to get him very far.
So Smokey didn’t do it outwardly anymore.
With a sigh, Smokey heaved himself to his feet, snagged a salmon, and swallowed it whole as he stomped from the lounge. Trudging to the front doors, Smokey was once again halted by the imperturbable intern. (Smokey hated people who he couldn’t perturb.)
The boy’s eyes were wide with concern, and slightly more hesitant than they had been several minutes ago. Smokey appreciated that he was a quick learner. “Mr. Bear!” the intern exclaimed, his sweet, youthful worry knitting his brow into an expressive visage of puzzlement. Smokey felt an almost irresistible urge to peel the boy’s arms off his body.
“Where are you going, Mr. Bear, sir? Is there anything I can do for you?”
Smokey smiled. “Nothing at all! I’m merely leaving for the evening a tad bit early.”
“Of course, sir.” The boy smiled in return and went on conversationally. “So, how do you like to spend all these days off?”
Smokey noted the word “all,” and made a point to smile deeply. “Oh, you know, just a bit of my own personal fire-watching,” said Smokey jovially, laying a hefty paw on the intern’s shoulder. “A good spokesbear is never off duty!” His claws slipped a bit, catching ever so slightly on the boy’s skin. “Now, run along, and save the forests!”
“Y-yes sir,” mumbled the kid, looking slightly pale and more than slightly confused. He paused for a moment, glancing from Smokey’s claws to his warmly grinning muzzle and back again. Then he turned quickly and disappeared down the hallway.
Smokey smiled, a real smile this time. Smokey loved days off.
Most people, in fact, 99.432 percent of the total American population, living and dead, believe that bears cannot whistle. The remaining .568 percent are no longer among the living.
Bears can, in fact, whistle. But bears save this skill for moments when they are unconditionally, exuberantly happy.
Smokey was whistling. More specifically, he was whistling “Disco Inferno” as he picked his way meticulously around the perimeter of a large swath of woodland, carefully soaking each and every leaf, twig, and branch in his path with a healthy splash of gasoline.
Bears can even sing when they are excessively, outrageously happy. Smokey had been hiking around the hill all morning, enjoying the sweetly tweeting birds and the fresh spring flowers that he crushed underpaw. He had already come across two rabbit warrens, a dozen squirrels, and several owls, foxes, and snakes. The woods were alive today.
Smokey sang, because he was about to change that.
“Burn, baby, burn--DISCO INFERNOOOOO!” he bellowed in what he imagined was a terribly melodious wail, splashing another wave of flammable chemicals over a flowering bush. The flowers sizzled and let out small, sad, whimpers. (Bears have ears perfectly designed to detect such sounds. Smokey had a black market surgeon do some fine tuning so that he could hear the same unconscious sounds of misery that humans often emit, but can not detect themselves. Smokey loved music.)
And now the circle of gasoline around that unfortunate patch of land was complete. With great ceremony, Smokey capped the gasoline and changed tunes. The opening bars of “Light My Fire” filled the air and Smokey struck a match, breathing in the smell of fresh earth. “You know that it would be untrue, you know that it would be a lie,” Smokey hummed to himself. He felt that some things in life were just perfectly, oddly appropriate.
He dropped the match.
Flames blossomed instantly, the most beautiful flowers in the forest blooming in bright orange hues. Smokey had done a thorough job with this one: the roar of the fire increased every second, racing along his trails of fuel and leaping from leaf to leaf until the whole sky was hot and blinding.
Smokey gave himself a few meters of safety from the flames, close enough that he could still enjoy the heat, then leaned back to admire his handiwork, switching over to “Play with Fire.” There was something so darn satisfying about a well-burned wildfire. Smokey loved the smell, the light, the all-consuming greed of the flames that ravaged the ground with fury. Besides, if he didn’t start the fire, who would?
No human seemed to have thought this through, but Smokey was no human. No, Smokey was a goddamn bear and he could use his infallible bear logic to manipulate any problem. It all came down to a simple idea: if people paid attention to fire prevention, then they were careful with their fires and gave money to the cause and bought the posters and stuffed animals and pencils and hired him to speak for money that he would not make if there weren’t those devilish fires around requiring public awareness.
Humans, as Smokey knew well, were only inclined to pay attention to something if it was either on fire, or slapped them several times across the face whilst simultaneously screaming “Did you hear what Miley Cyrus did?!” (The slapping is often optional.) But if there were no more fires to worry about, no one would be hiring Smokey for any more visits.
Ever since Smokey had been a small, sulky bear, he had loved only three things: himself, human money, and fire. The first was obviously understandable. The second was clear enough as well: Smokey hated humans, and though he loved getting his way, living the average life of a bear in the rapidly disappearing forests was not going to be much use. He had turned instead to humans and their petty human ways. There was something distinctly brilliant about using paper as power--no real effort was needed. (Smokey loved when no real effort was needed.) He had to admit that humans were intelligent, in their small, conniving ways.
And the third, fire, he preferred when it was not threatening his life. The one time his fire had gotten a little tiny bit bigger than he had planned, the rangers just had to kidnap him, claiming to be saving him. Smokey had been harnessed into a machine of anti-fire campaigning. He’d had that fire under control anyway, of course. Nearly. Sort of.
Smokey didn’t mind that his life had been saved--that part was just dandy, as far as he was concerned. But he had been twisted into something horrible, unrecognizable: a bear beloved by humans.
It was really such an unfortunate misunderstanding. Smokey himself could not possibly care any less about preventing wildfires and still remember that they existed at all. It was the humans, of course, who had their impulsive need to turn his survival into a sob story.
Smokey, of course, being an extraordinary and admirably logical bear, had accepted that the human concept of money was now the best thing that he could get out of the hopeless situation. With media coverage and coworkers in the office next door and no freedom to burn things whenever he wanted to, Smokey needed an escape. He realized long ago that having a great deal of money would give him exactly that. And he had been right, of course. The most delectable salmon, the most expensive matches, the most tasteful candles for when he really needed a little burn--all this and more was his.
At this point Smokey switched into “Streets of Fire” and wondered for a sad, brief moment if such a lovely titular image could ever come into reality. It seemed a shame that he had to keep these beautiful burnings away from where the best damage could be done--in cities and populated areas. Now, that would get attention, wouldn’t it? But secrecy was key.
No, Smokey didn’t always like living a lie. But he did always appreciate that it was a profitable lie.
The fire roared on, bellowing its fury and gnashing its feet on the bones of falling trees. Smokey took a long, deep breath of that sweet, smoked air. That was the real smell of money.
“Uhh...Mr. Bear? Sir?” A small, terrified voice behind Smokey whispered.
Smokey turned. “You again?” he said, incredulous. Then he grinned. “Well, I don’t believe it, buddy!” The bear promptly launched into “Great Balls of Fire.”
“What on earth are you doing?” hissed the intern, watching in horror as several squirrels, cowering over their nut stashes in a vain attempt to shield them from the flames, turned instantly into chestnuts-and-squirrels-roasting-on-an-open-fire. Smokey, inspired, considered switching songs again, but decided against it.
“Oh, just enjoying my day off!” Smokey grinned again, shifting his weight and crushing a brittle, blackened log underpaw. “What are you doing here? That’s the real question, isn’t it? Let’s see, does anyone know the answer?” Smokey looked around at the imaginary audience of drooling five-year-olds with which he was best acquainted.
The boy took one look at the glint in Smokey’s eye and moved, ever so slowly, backwards. “Uh, I had just realized that your day off isn’t til tomorrow, sir, read the calendar wrong, sir, I went to your house to let you know, sir, but I saw you driving away and thought I’d follow you before you went too far out of your way, sir!” He paused for a moment. “You drive mighty fast, sir.”
Smokey let out a jolly laugh which was lost in the roar of the flames and shook his head. “Oh no, I’m sorry--that’s not the right answer! What are we going to do about this?”
The intern laughed shakily, continuing to edge away. “Well sir, sir, I’ll just leave you to enjoy your day.”
“No, that just won’t do! Won’t you stay and enjoy it with me?” asked Smokey innocently, advancing on the intern. “It seems like you need a day with your ol’ pal Smokey, since you got my question wrong. I can teach you everything you need to know!” The fire was gaining speed, sucking in the air all around them.
“No!” screamed the boy. Instinctively, he added, politely, “No, thank you, sir.” He hesitated for a moment. “Are you...whistling?”
Smokey, overcome with the hilarity of the situation, doubled over with laughter for a long moment, leaving the puzzled intern to stare in shock at his shaking shoulders. “Mr. Bear, are you alright?”
With a final hoot, Smokey straightened and grinned hugely. “Sure I am! I haven’t had a burn this good in quite a while. But you know what?” He lunged forward and managed to snag the wailing intern. “It’s about to get a whole lot better!”
Smokey began to hum “Jump Into the Fire.”
With a leap and a bound, he started spinning in circles. He swung around and around in circles, the screeches of the intern whistling shrilly through the air. Again, and again, and again, the boy whooshed towards the flames and then away, until at last Smokey released his grip. The kid sailed off like a badly designed frisbee, his howls fading quickly. There was a sizzle, a shriek, and then silence. At least, relative silence: the voracious crackling of the fire still filled the air.
“And remember,” Smokey called after him, “only you can prevent forest fires!” He laughed for a long moment. “But only I can start them.”
With a satisfied sigh, Smokey turned from his masterpiece and began to stroll away, whistling “I’m on Fire.”
Then he stopped. The sound of the firetruck sirens met his ears, not far off. Smokey grimaced. He simply detested being forced back into character right after having such a nice break. Ah, well. He tossed the empty bottle of gasoline into the flames, smudged some soot into his fur, and wrinkled his brow in concern.
Smokey continued calmly through the woods until he could see the firemen clearly and broke into a frightened, shambling trot. He even made sure to hum “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” though he noticed with genuine sadness that the responders would probably not notice this final touch.
“Oh!” he wailed, approaching the rangers and firefighters, “Oh no! Just when I was enjoying the day! Oh my!” The medics patted him gently, checked for any injuries, and murmured comforting, meaningless phrases.
“Oh dear,” sniffled Smokey, but he couldn’t hold back his grin. “It seems as though someone was having a bit too much fun!”
It certainly had been a successful day off.
By Claudia Schatz (4/10/14)
“And remember,” Smokey said, leaning close to the microphone and winking a dark eye. “Only you can prevent forest fires!”
The crowd applauded and whistled appreciatively, their enthusiasm shown mainly through high-pitched shrieks from four-year-olds and hoorahs from toothless seniors freed from their powdery, padded cells for a mediocre day-trip. But Smokey had seen worse, and had long ago lost hope of ever finding a reason to let go of his perpetual disgust for humans.
Smokey raised a paw in hefty acknowledgement and waved, a warm smile spreading across his muzzle and wrinkling his soft features into his endearing mask. It had taken him quite a while to master this particular mask, and he was very pleased with the results of his efforts. When Smokey smiled, the world smiled back (with or without teeth). And they cheered. And hired him. And were very, very careful with fire.
Smokey turned away from the crowd and entered the headquarters, allowing all traces of amiability to slide off his face. He hated impromptu speeches. He could think on his feet well enough--that wasn’t the problem. But he didn’t get any bonus for impromptu speeches.
Pawing off his perkily personalized ranger hat, Smokey stomped down the corridor to his office, pausing in front of his floor’s framed fire prevention poster. Every hall had one, as if the fire prevention agency itself was in constant danger of starting fires. These posters were the building-wide joke, but Smokey found their extensive placement oddly appropriate. In the reflection of his own sweet, pleading photo, he eyed his currently sulky face, which was exceptional, of course.
Please, the poster begged.
“Get out of my face,” Smokey snarled at himself. “Holy smoke, I need that day off,” he muttered as he unlocked the door to his lounge. Though the humans usually called it an office, Smokey disapproved of that term: it implied that he worked there. Smokey didn’t work there. Smokey didn’t even work. Smokey lounged. Therefore, it was a lounge.
Smokey was a very logical bear.
With a long, world-weary sigh, Smokey entered the room and promptly curled up on the floor in the pile of fresh leaves that the new intern had gathered that morning. This was a task about which Smokey was exceedingly picky. He would only rest upon the softest and greenest leaves, torn from the most valiantly struggling seedlings. He wanted them to die, to writhe towards the sunlight with their last feeble efforts, only to sputter and fail as their bodies were slowly starved of nutrients.
Smokey reached for his laptop computer, pulling up the office’s new obsession: a game of dodging missiles until inevitable annihilation. If anyone peeked in the window, it would look as if he were working just the same as everyone else. In his early years in the forest, Smokey had dutifully taken Camouflage 101. Oh yes--Smokey was good at blending in.
Smokey had worked hard (ordering the intern to paint the walls, haul furniture, go shopping, assemble impossible Ikea rip-offs) to give the office a sleek yet homey atmosphere: deep green wallpaper, polished rocks, and potted plants in the corners. Smokey’s self-autographed posters hung above the single hard chair that stood grudgingly by the side of the room, daring the occasional unfortunate human to rest his or her buttocks upon it. On the desk, which was merely a formality, really, sat a small bowl of mints and a large basin of live salmon, still flapping faintly. Snacks for everyone, that was Smokey’s policy.
Smokey yawned and growled huffily as his cursor exploded into sparks and the computer screen went dark. The day was nearly over. It always seemed to be nearly over, didn’t it? Soon, he would escape from this awful place.
A knock sounded on the door, and, instinctively, Smokey snapped on a wide-eyed grin, calling cheerfully, “Come in, come in!” The door opened and the new intern stuck his pimply head into the room. “Here you are, sir, your mail, Mr. Bear, sir!”
“Gee, thanks, kid!” Smokey gushed. “Now remember--”
“--only I can prevent forest fires!” grinned the kid.
Smokey suppressed another growl. He hated when people did that. It was his catchphrase.
“Thank you, sir,” the boy went on. “Oh, and I was told to remind you that tomorrow is your day off.” He paused and looked a bit closer at Smokey. “Didn’t you just have one, though? Maybe it’s a scheduling mistake.” The boy began ruffling through the papers in his arms. “I can check for you, sir...”
“Oh golly! I am sure that is not necessary!” Smokey said perkily, rolling powerfully to his feet and expanding to fill the room. “I have not had a day off in quite a while! But thank you so much for your concern!” Smokey said, silently adding, you snot-nosed little twerp. He smiled widely, allowing the light to play across each and every one of his teeth.
The intern’s smile faltered. “Uh, yes of course, of course you’re right, sir. Have a good night, Mr. Bear.” He retreated from the room.
“He even cut me off,” hissed Smokey angrily to himself, scraping his claws against the carpet as if it were the intern’s own skin. “Cocky little runt.”
He began to shuffle through the mail: “Please come visit our elementary school!”, “Please make an appearance at our town hall!”, “Please come to the Westbrook Nature Center!”. He scanned each one for monetary compensation; none was apparent.
Smokey dropped them all into the only office machine he used: the shredder. At the end of each week, Smokey drove for three hours to the nearest landfill dozens of miles away, just so he could stand at the edge of that foul sea of noxious garbage, breathing in the smell of human failure. He would shake out the shreds reverently, sending all that reusable goodness hurtling towards eternal rotting in the forsaken landfill.
Smokey loved forsaken landfills.
Smokey had long known that he was a very special bear who was seriously misunderstood. He knew it from the moment he pushed his mother into the flames of the forest fire and used her charred carcass as a step-stool to the tree branch he was reaching for to lift himself to safety. He knew it as soon as he first greeted the firefighters who had pulled him to safety. “What are you doing--putting the fire out?!” After this initial surprise, there had been some confusion among the rescuers over Smokey’s apparent approval of the flames. Smokey chalked that first mistake up to experience and insisted that he had been in shock at the time. But he learned his lesson: outwardly advocating for wildfires was not going to get him very far.
So Smokey didn’t do it outwardly anymore.
With a sigh, Smokey heaved himself to his feet, snagged a salmon, and swallowed it whole as he stomped from the lounge. Trudging to the front doors, Smokey was once again halted by the imperturbable intern. (Smokey hated people who he couldn’t perturb.)
The boy’s eyes were wide with concern, and slightly more hesitant than they had been several minutes ago. Smokey appreciated that he was a quick learner. “Mr. Bear!” the intern exclaimed, his sweet, youthful worry knitting his brow into an expressive visage of puzzlement. Smokey felt an almost irresistible urge to peel the boy’s arms off his body.
“Where are you going, Mr. Bear, sir? Is there anything I can do for you?”
Smokey smiled. “Nothing at all! I’m merely leaving for the evening a tad bit early.”
“Of course, sir.” The boy smiled in return and went on conversationally. “So, how do you like to spend all these days off?”
Smokey noted the word “all,” and made a point to smile deeply. “Oh, you know, just a bit of my own personal fire-watching,” said Smokey jovially, laying a hefty paw on the intern’s shoulder. “A good spokesbear is never off duty!” His claws slipped a bit, catching ever so slightly on the boy’s skin. “Now, run along, and save the forests!”
“Y-yes sir,” mumbled the kid, looking slightly pale and more than slightly confused. He paused for a moment, glancing from Smokey’s claws to his warmly grinning muzzle and back again. Then he turned quickly and disappeared down the hallway.
Smokey smiled, a real smile this time. Smokey loved days off.
Most people, in fact, 99.432 percent of the total American population, living and dead, believe that bears cannot whistle. The remaining .568 percent are no longer among the living.
Bears can, in fact, whistle. But bears save this skill for moments when they are unconditionally, exuberantly happy.
Smokey was whistling. More specifically, he was whistling “Disco Inferno” as he picked his way meticulously around the perimeter of a large swath of woodland, carefully soaking each and every leaf, twig, and branch in his path with a healthy splash of gasoline.
Bears can even sing when they are excessively, outrageously happy. Smokey had been hiking around the hill all morning, enjoying the sweetly tweeting birds and the fresh spring flowers that he crushed underpaw. He had already come across two rabbit warrens, a dozen squirrels, and several owls, foxes, and snakes. The woods were alive today.
Smokey sang, because he was about to change that.
“Burn, baby, burn--DISCO INFERNOOOOO!” he bellowed in what he imagined was a terribly melodious wail, splashing another wave of flammable chemicals over a flowering bush. The flowers sizzled and let out small, sad, whimpers. (Bears have ears perfectly designed to detect such sounds. Smokey had a black market surgeon do some fine tuning so that he could hear the same unconscious sounds of misery that humans often emit, but can not detect themselves. Smokey loved music.)
And now the circle of gasoline around that unfortunate patch of land was complete. With great ceremony, Smokey capped the gasoline and changed tunes. The opening bars of “Light My Fire” filled the air and Smokey struck a match, breathing in the smell of fresh earth. “You know that it would be untrue, you know that it would be a lie,” Smokey hummed to himself. He felt that some things in life were just perfectly, oddly appropriate.
He dropped the match.
Flames blossomed instantly, the most beautiful flowers in the forest blooming in bright orange hues. Smokey had done a thorough job with this one: the roar of the fire increased every second, racing along his trails of fuel and leaping from leaf to leaf until the whole sky was hot and blinding.
Smokey gave himself a few meters of safety from the flames, close enough that he could still enjoy the heat, then leaned back to admire his handiwork, switching over to “Play with Fire.” There was something so darn satisfying about a well-burned wildfire. Smokey loved the smell, the light, the all-consuming greed of the flames that ravaged the ground with fury. Besides, if he didn’t start the fire, who would?
No human seemed to have thought this through, but Smokey was no human. No, Smokey was a goddamn bear and he could use his infallible bear logic to manipulate any problem. It all came down to a simple idea: if people paid attention to fire prevention, then they were careful with their fires and gave money to the cause and bought the posters and stuffed animals and pencils and hired him to speak for money that he would not make if there weren’t those devilish fires around requiring public awareness.
Humans, as Smokey knew well, were only inclined to pay attention to something if it was either on fire, or slapped them several times across the face whilst simultaneously screaming “Did you hear what Miley Cyrus did?!” (The slapping is often optional.) But if there were no more fires to worry about, no one would be hiring Smokey for any more visits.
Ever since Smokey had been a small, sulky bear, he had loved only three things: himself, human money, and fire. The first was obviously understandable. The second was clear enough as well: Smokey hated humans, and though he loved getting his way, living the average life of a bear in the rapidly disappearing forests was not going to be much use. He had turned instead to humans and their petty human ways. There was something distinctly brilliant about using paper as power--no real effort was needed. (Smokey loved when no real effort was needed.) He had to admit that humans were intelligent, in their small, conniving ways.
And the third, fire, he preferred when it was not threatening his life. The one time his fire had gotten a little tiny bit bigger than he had planned, the rangers just had to kidnap him, claiming to be saving him. Smokey had been harnessed into a machine of anti-fire campaigning. He’d had that fire under control anyway, of course. Nearly. Sort of.
Smokey didn’t mind that his life had been saved--that part was just dandy, as far as he was concerned. But he had been twisted into something horrible, unrecognizable: a bear beloved by humans.
It was really such an unfortunate misunderstanding. Smokey himself could not possibly care any less about preventing wildfires and still remember that they existed at all. It was the humans, of course, who had their impulsive need to turn his survival into a sob story.
Smokey, of course, being an extraordinary and admirably logical bear, had accepted that the human concept of money was now the best thing that he could get out of the hopeless situation. With media coverage and coworkers in the office next door and no freedom to burn things whenever he wanted to, Smokey needed an escape. He realized long ago that having a great deal of money would give him exactly that. And he had been right, of course. The most delectable salmon, the most expensive matches, the most tasteful candles for when he really needed a little burn--all this and more was his.
At this point Smokey switched into “Streets of Fire” and wondered for a sad, brief moment if such a lovely titular image could ever come into reality. It seemed a shame that he had to keep these beautiful burnings away from where the best damage could be done--in cities and populated areas. Now, that would get attention, wouldn’t it? But secrecy was key.
No, Smokey didn’t always like living a lie. But he did always appreciate that it was a profitable lie.
The fire roared on, bellowing its fury and gnashing its feet on the bones of falling trees. Smokey took a long, deep breath of that sweet, smoked air. That was the real smell of money.
“Uhh...Mr. Bear? Sir?” A small, terrified voice behind Smokey whispered.
Smokey turned. “You again?” he said, incredulous. Then he grinned. “Well, I don’t believe it, buddy!” The bear promptly launched into “Great Balls of Fire.”
“What on earth are you doing?” hissed the intern, watching in horror as several squirrels, cowering over their nut stashes in a vain attempt to shield them from the flames, turned instantly into chestnuts-and-squirrels-roasting-on-an-open-fire. Smokey, inspired, considered switching songs again, but decided against it.
“Oh, just enjoying my day off!” Smokey grinned again, shifting his weight and crushing a brittle, blackened log underpaw. “What are you doing here? That’s the real question, isn’t it? Let’s see, does anyone know the answer?” Smokey looked around at the imaginary audience of drooling five-year-olds with which he was best acquainted.
The boy took one look at the glint in Smokey’s eye and moved, ever so slowly, backwards. “Uh, I had just realized that your day off isn’t til tomorrow, sir, read the calendar wrong, sir, I went to your house to let you know, sir, but I saw you driving away and thought I’d follow you before you went too far out of your way, sir!” He paused for a moment. “You drive mighty fast, sir.”
Smokey let out a jolly laugh which was lost in the roar of the flames and shook his head. “Oh no, I’m sorry--that’s not the right answer! What are we going to do about this?”
The intern laughed shakily, continuing to edge away. “Well sir, sir, I’ll just leave you to enjoy your day.”
“No, that just won’t do! Won’t you stay and enjoy it with me?” asked Smokey innocently, advancing on the intern. “It seems like you need a day with your ol’ pal Smokey, since you got my question wrong. I can teach you everything you need to know!” The fire was gaining speed, sucking in the air all around them.
“No!” screamed the boy. Instinctively, he added, politely, “No, thank you, sir.” He hesitated for a moment. “Are you...whistling?”
Smokey, overcome with the hilarity of the situation, doubled over with laughter for a long moment, leaving the puzzled intern to stare in shock at his shaking shoulders. “Mr. Bear, are you alright?”
With a final hoot, Smokey straightened and grinned hugely. “Sure I am! I haven’t had a burn this good in quite a while. But you know what?” He lunged forward and managed to snag the wailing intern. “It’s about to get a whole lot better!”
Smokey began to hum “Jump Into the Fire.”
With a leap and a bound, he started spinning in circles. He swung around and around in circles, the screeches of the intern whistling shrilly through the air. Again, and again, and again, the boy whooshed towards the flames and then away, until at last Smokey released his grip. The kid sailed off like a badly designed frisbee, his howls fading quickly. There was a sizzle, a shriek, and then silence. At least, relative silence: the voracious crackling of the fire still filled the air.
“And remember,” Smokey called after him, “only you can prevent forest fires!” He laughed for a long moment. “But only I can start them.”
With a satisfied sigh, Smokey turned from his masterpiece and began to stroll away, whistling “I’m on Fire.”
Then he stopped. The sound of the firetruck sirens met his ears, not far off. Smokey grimaced. He simply detested being forced back into character right after having such a nice break. Ah, well. He tossed the empty bottle of gasoline into the flames, smudged some soot into his fur, and wrinkled his brow in concern.
Smokey continued calmly through the woods until he could see the firemen clearly and broke into a frightened, shambling trot. He even made sure to hum “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” though he noticed with genuine sadness that the responders would probably not notice this final touch.
“Oh!” he wailed, approaching the rangers and firefighters, “Oh no! Just when I was enjoying the day! Oh my!” The medics patted him gently, checked for any injuries, and murmured comforting, meaningless phrases.
“Oh dear,” sniffled Smokey, but he couldn’t hold back his grin. “It seems as though someone was having a bit too much fun!”
It certainly had been a successful day off.
Fruits of Life
By Aria DeFeo (4/9/14)
The Venus Fly Trap ate his cereal out of order to upset his mother/brother/father/cousin (or perhaps it was none of the above, it’s very hard to tell who relatives are when it comes to asexual reproduction). He would eat his cereal by emptying a cup of milk into his mouth, placing bits of the popular sugared squares of wheat into the puddle, and then producing a spoon from the back of his throat before swallowing the concoction whole.
“It goes spoon, cereal and milk, then mouth, not milk, cereal, mouth, spoon!” his mother, or possibly his brother-or maybe his father or cousin-would scream endlessly at him, which is what made him think it was his mother.
One day, a rogue aphid grew twelve times his original size and came to remove the cereal, milk, and pile of saliva-covered spoons from the table to throw them away.
The Venus Fly Trap realized he was incapable of swallowing because he lacked a proper throat. He also realized he did not have a cousin, father, brother, OR mother, and had, in fact, been conversing with his own reflection his entire life. The Venus Fly Trap immediately scheduled a therapy session with the renowned Dr. Diptera.
By Aria DeFeo (4/9/14)
The Venus Fly Trap ate his cereal out of order to upset his mother/brother/father/cousin (or perhaps it was none of the above, it’s very hard to tell who relatives are when it comes to asexual reproduction). He would eat his cereal by emptying a cup of milk into his mouth, placing bits of the popular sugared squares of wheat into the puddle, and then producing a spoon from the back of his throat before swallowing the concoction whole.
“It goes spoon, cereal and milk, then mouth, not milk, cereal, mouth, spoon!” his mother, or possibly his brother-or maybe his father or cousin-would scream endlessly at him, which is what made him think it was his mother.
One day, a rogue aphid grew twelve times his original size and came to remove the cereal, milk, and pile of saliva-covered spoons from the table to throw them away.
The Venus Fly Trap realized he was incapable of swallowing because he lacked a proper throat. He also realized he did not have a cousin, father, brother, OR mother, and had, in fact, been conversing with his own reflection his entire life. The Venus Fly Trap immediately scheduled a therapy session with the renowned Dr. Diptera.
Papercuts
By Amanda Sielaff (4/9/14)
“Why do things cause hurt?”
“What?” She looks at her sister.
“Paper. It cut my pinky, but I never did anything to it.” The child lifts her hand.
Her big sister kisses it and sighs, “Sometimes when we’re not treated properly, we wanna fight back.”
The girl frowns. “No fair. I don’t even do homework!”
By Amanda Sielaff (4/9/14)
“Why do things cause hurt?”
“What?” She looks at her sister.
“Paper. It cut my pinky, but I never did anything to it.” The child lifts her hand.
Her big sister kisses it and sighs, “Sometimes when we’re not treated properly, we wanna fight back.”
The girl frowns. “No fair. I don’t even do homework!”