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Priscilla was looking for a man.
It didn’t matter that Priscilla had beady eyes, a few stray hairs on her nose and a figure that resembled a beer keg on its side, supported by four squatty legs. No, for in the world of pot-bellied pigs, my four-year-old Priscilla was quite the looker.
She was in her prime and, whenever the moon rose ripe over the mountains to the east, nothing could keep Priscilla from looking for a mate. Nothing — Not fences of board or wire … not rebar rods of steel … not even rocks the size of basketballs – nothing would stand in the way of her lust for love.
She would dig, tunnel, root and, in the end, somehow manage to squeeze out of every confinement I built. Deep gashes ran the length of her back as if “keyed” by a malicious pedestrian. But that didn’t deter Priscilla. Her hide was tough. Her heart was free. Her desire was wild.
Unable to watch her tear her backside to shreds in the name of romance, I found Priscilla a new home. I packed up the pig and her two possessions – two blankets she slept with every night – in the back of my pickup and headed to the Mule Creek Post Office where Pumbaa lived.
Pumbaa had to be the biggest, ugliest pot-bellied boar I’d ever seen. The size of a cedar chest, a roll of whiskered fat hid his watery pink eyes and one of two thick tusks curled right up into his snout. He belonged to the post mistress, growing up all by himself behind the small, country post office in Southwestern New Mexico. Raised a vegan, Priscilla’s favorite foods were summer squash and broccoli. Pumbaa was a junk-food addict, given Oreos every day by children who came for the mail with their moms or dads.
But Priscilla didn’t seem to mind. She calmly went to her side of the barn and waited for her blankets. Pumbaa stuck his snout between the wooden slats that divided his side from hers and snorted with the power of a raging bull. I was worried for my sweet Priscilla. Could she live with such a beast?
I went into the post office to discuss my concerns. The post mistress chuckled, said she’d make sure nobody got hurt, and I walked back to the barn to say goodbye. Even in the world of pot-bellied pigs, love must be blind. There was Priscilla, pushing one of her blankets under the slats. It was her favorite blanket, the one with the yellow and pink ducks on it, and she was sharing it with Pumbaa, who had never had anything but dirt for a bed.
Priscilla looked content. She’d finally found her man and, as I drove back home, I knew they would indeed live happily ever after.
They met on a frosty December evening. They sat for hours, discussing anything and everything, overindulging in caffeine, imagining a life together. Years later, she would remember back to that night, so long ago. She could still see his worn Frye boot swung lazily on the booth, an oxford shirt rolled casually over his forearms, his penetrating grey-blue eyes. He was too handsome to be real. Too nice to last.
They married, and over time, he was still nice and still beautiful. They spent Sunday mornings listening to the Beatles, reading the paper, talking. They started a life, bought a home, spoiled a cat, waited for a baby. Friends came into their life, most stayed, some did not. They rejoiced in their friends’ babies, and they waited. People in their life died, several tragically. They moved.
And then a beautiful baby came. He was their world; a sweet, happy, lively, silly, rambunctious baby boy, with enough love for everyone, and tons of energy that spun their world around upside down and right side up again. They moved back.
This boy of theirs. Charming and sweet, with sufficient mischief to keep them running. A boy fascinated with bugs and birds, frogs and toads; a boy looking at the world with wonder.
And then one day, they sent their lovely, brilliant, beautiful, happy boy to school, where he grew to be a very sad, very angry, little boy. The other boys turned to baseball and soccer, while his teachers cultured obedient little boys who sat at their desks, studied math and science, and brought back educational projects designed to busy the entire family.
And so, one day in an act of desperation in their love for this boy, they decided to make haste to a faraway land. A place where people practiced love and tolerance. A place where little boys could learn about the world by traipsing through forests and meadows, digging for creatures. A place where people cared for each other. They bought a cute little house with a front porch swing. They’d sit outside on warm summer evenings, swaying to the sound of tree frogs, enjoying the moment together. Neighbors would walk by and wave. Boys ran about, indifferent to property lines. Children gathered together without taunting or teasing one another. Some played ball, others collected bugs, some stretched out on the cool evening grass, simply staring into space. No hurry, few worries. They worked enough, played enough, loved even more. Life was good.
The boy was happy. He had found his place. And they all lived happily ever after.
The rings exchanged, the vows uttered, the cake cut. The guests begin to leave, some with fake smiles and obligatory pats on the arm of good luck, others oblivious to what this little day really means, too drunk on free food and booze to care. I say thank you, wish them on their way, all the while wanting nothing more than to be rid of all these people, alone with the only person in the world that I feel I can be my true self with, having no fear of rejection.
“Let’s get out of here. I’m so ready to go.” It’s not a lie. I really am. I want nothing more than to take off the caked on version of me that everyone wants to see, the blushing bride. Do they realize that yesterday I almost refused to go through with it? Completely fed up with the woman that was once my mother, whose body is now being inhabited by a psycho whose concern of image is frightening. I want him, always wanted him, but never wanted this plastered smile, the one I know they all want to see.
Wasn’t this supposed to be the happiest day of my life? That’s not only what the fairy tales tell me, but also my parents, grandparents, friends, TV, media, etc, etc, etc. Well aren’t I a shit because all I feel is the desire to get on with my life and be rid of the whole charade. I’ve felt like molding clay for the last year, bended and prodded and pushed into the shape everyone wants me to be, the me they think I am or should be.
I remember watching all the Disney classics as a child: Cinderella, The Little Mermaid, Aladdin. All of these beautiful, talented girls wanted nothing more than to snag the man of the dreams, each one having this thing or that stand in their way. And in all these iconic movies, The End pops up conveniently as the decked out couple leaves the church (or sails away on the boat or kisses under the stars, you get the point), as though that’s it! You’ve found your man! Your life’s dreams and goals accomplished. Good work!!
No wonder I feel so shitty.
I know he’s not like that, the one who was in cohorts with me to cancel this whole thing half way through, completely satisfied to do it our own way, leaving everyone else behind. No, he’s only standing here because I was too chicken to ever stop the process mid-stream. But it’s over now right? We can ride off into the sunset and…
Then what? Ahhh, so that’s where this dread is coming from, this 50 pound weight crushing my ribcage. The part of the story that always got left out and that I always wondered on.
What the hell do I do with my life now?
