By Hugh Behm-Steinberg
Tired of feeling stuck in the house, I decided to put on my mask and yank the granny cart free from all the nasturtiums. But while sauntering towards the produce market, I saw a Bengal tiger sunning itself in the middle of one of the community gardens flanking the abandoned railroad tracks. I stood very, very still while she licked herself, hoping she’d go somewhere else and not kill me, but with hardly a thought she leapt over the fence and walked right over.
Running seemed pointless, so I just stood there next to my cart, contemplating death by tiger, carefully removing my earbuds to give the animal my complete attention.
“Hi there!” I said. “My name’s Jen. You’re not going to eat me, are you?”
“I don’t know,” said the tiger. “Do you want to be eaten?”
“I’m good,” I said, relieved to have encountered such a polite tiger. I had heard of people getting devoured up in the hills, but it was good to discover things up there weren’t also happening down here.
“Just don’t make any sudden movements,” the tiger chuffed. “Instincts kick in, you know.”
So we walked together, the tiger periodically rubbing against my side.
I resisted the urge to pet her, like I resisted the urge to scratch under my mask, but it was nice to feel warmth, to be that close to a body. And talking! How wonderful to have an actual conversation with someone new, right there, even if periodically the tiger chased down a squirrel or somebody’s housecat.
After a couple of blocks and chit-chat, the tiger looked up at me. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
As we crossed the parking lot of the produce store, the tiger proceeded to tell me about the various male tigers that lived around here. She tossed around the pros and cons of each, how none of them really seemed like boyfriend material. “I know it’s a longshot,” she said, “but would you happen to know any eligible tigers?”
The guy checking receipts at the door stared at us. I thought maybe he was trying to decide if it was worth getting mauled for telling a tiger she wasn’t allowed to come into the store, but finally with a shrug he waved us in. I tried to remember what I knew about the tigers around here.
“What about the one, what’s his name, the Siberian who lives up in the hills that has a thing for joggers?”
“Larry?” snorted the tiger. “Larry’s a jerk. We went on a date once, and you know what his idea of a good time was?”
“No idea,” I said.
“National Geographic Specials. On tigers. In the wild. Mating.”
“He made you watch tiger porn on a date?”
“I was not turned on by this.”
“What an asshole!”
“Larry’s so not on the list.”
In the checkout line I remembered hearing that this guy Chuck, two blocks over from me, had kept a tiger during the “let’s all foster endangered animals” fad from a few years ago. “Maybe there’s a match over there?”
So off to Chuck’s we went.
Chuck’s place was one of those triple expanded bungalows, the sort that started out as modest houses non-tiger-collecting people lived in before they got rebuilt from the sticks up to be as large as legally possible.
There was a box on the porch, which gave me an idea; I picked it up and rang the doorbell.
“Can I help you?” came the shy voice of Chuck from behind the peephole.
“I’m Jen,” I said, briefly holding the package up to the peephole. “Your neighbor down the street. UPS mistakenly dropped this off at my place the other day.”
Chuck opened the door and the tiger pushed her head inside, sniffing the air before making a sort of yowling call that was eagerly returned from somewhere deep in the house.
“Tony, do you mind?” Chuck yelled behind him. “I’m dealing with a package.”
“Excuse me,” said the tiger, and she leapt past us.
Soon there was the sound of tiger sex, which was so, so much louder than I thought it could be. Chuck’s house had tons of bookcases, and surprisingly good taste in science fiction. As we walked down the hallway to his kitchen, I kept my distance from Chuck while he tried not to look at anyone or anything as the blinds swayed from the tigers getting it on. Chuck was wearing a Save the Tigers Foundation mask, but I could read his expression: the look of the utterly single roommate who shared a house with someone who has never ever ever ever had any trouble bringing lovers over, and who demonstrated that skill all the miserable fucking time.
“Your tiger’s named Tony?” I asked.
“The people at the shelter thought funny names would get their tigers adopted faster.”
“Oh.” The tigers were making the house shake. They sounded way too happy.
“Would you like something to drink?” Chuck said. “There’s lemonade in the fridge. We could drink outside. I think they’re going to be at it for a while.”
“Lemonade’s great!” I said, a little too quickly, surprising myself, but instead of feeling embarrassed about how bad I had become at talking to people in person, people I might like, I just grinned, even though I was masked. “I just picked up some strawberries at the market. Would you like some?”
The tigers roared one last, loud time, and in the quiet I wondered what Chuck’s mouth looked like when he smiled, whether it would surprise him if I went ahead and bit him, softly, just a little.
Then the tigers began to go at it once more.
While Chuck fussed with the glasses, I pulled down a short story collection I’d already read six or seven times. “Could I borrow this?” I asked. “I’ve been wanting to read it for ages.”
Why not indeed? One bite. Just a little.
~~~
Hugh Behm-Steinberg’s writing can be found in X-Ray, Bull, Midway, Hex and The Offing, among others. His short story “Taylor Swift” won the Barthelme Prize from Gulf Coast. His most recent collection is Animal Children (Nomadic/Black Lawrence Press). He lives in Barcelona, where he’s the fiction editor of Mercurius. More information: https://linktr.ee/hughsteinberg.