The Caged Parts
The interstate runs straight into the full moon at this truck stop. That’s the angle I have from the storefront window. I look out into the night, expecting something to stare back at me. The bone-colored disk is cut by the humming overpass, as if that’s the end destination. Or is the overpass holding up the moon? The jury’s still out.
“Here,” Skeeter says. “Open up your mouth.” He pulls back the PEZ dispenser. The lighter mechanism opens Tigger’s mouth. A chalk brick spits out. “Here. I’ll put it right on your tongue.” A night’s worth of construction, caked on Skeeter’s hands, makes the lemon square look pale.
“You know,” I start. “I’m good. Thanks for the offer though.” Skeeter pops the PEZ in his mouth. The crunch of bone on bone, then he downs a whole row of a Kit-Kat, reverse PEZ style. “Do you have a spare phone charger?” I ask.
Skeeter turns around and points to the phone chargers in the back of the store with his Frito claw.
“I’m not going to steal them.”
Skeeter says, swallowing through the sharp chips, “I’m not-a-sayin’ to steal ‘em. Just open one up, borrow it for a bit, then put it back. You know, restock damage.”
Skeeter works the dead shift. Somewhere between late night and early morning. Either way, he sees it as his obligation to come in and keep me company. Skeeter doesn’t know about the pump and dump with the Trucker, swinging by, filling up on gas, seeing me in the back, before setting on the road again.
The Trucker and I met on a dating app — one of those systems, designed and divided into buffet cells. In the city, you’ll see nothing but abs and ass, but around the truck stop, it’s an endless scroll of blank — anonymous profiles with cheeky names. DomDaDDy420 is thirty miles away, looking for some chill, BearStare07 somewhere in the neighboring town, wants an eggplant, but the profiles that make me bust out laughing are Bi-Bi-Miss-American-Pie and AssGrass19. They are a day’s drive away to the city.
It’s always a gamble — really — you don’t know who you’re going to get until you’re face to face. That’s how I met the guy I’ve been calling the Trucker. He stood at the counter waiting for his semi to fill up. He didn’t have a uniform like the other guys coming through. He wore that sun-faded-Chiefs hat, which around here, can get you a beer bottle flung to the face. The Trucker adjusted his pose while standing, can’t keep still, his boots scuffing up the linoleum I’d be expected to buff out. Was it fag withdraw? No, he’s too clean for a smoker, and Skeeter wouldn’t let me say that. The Trucker threw down a pack of mint gum. He could be a Mellow-Yellow slammer, but none of his teeth are missing —
How long till I’m full, the Trucker asked.
About ten, I said.
He walked back to the cooler with all the energy drinks, picked out a Starbucks Frappe, Caramel, and on his way back, nabbed a bag of Lays, which crinkled when he placed them on the counter. The flavor? Dill Pickles.
Put this on the bill, he said.
Will do, I said. Where are you heading?
Colorado, the Trucker said.
One Frappe’s going to get you there?
Don’t upsell me, please, the Trucker asked. His brown eyes darted around looking for an exit. Can I leave my stuff here while I use the restroom?
Go for it, I said. No one’s gunna take it.
The Trucker walked back to the bathroom. His jeans puckered on the sides, the tightest I’ve ever seen at the truck stop — no, on a man. If a guy from around here, let’s say Skeeter, wore those jeans, it’d cut circulation off to his legs. There’s the flick of the lock, and soon after, I get the ping.
A user named RealDeal34 messaged me: Are you the clerk? The GPS on the app said RealDeal34 was three feet away. I closed the app, placing my phone facedown, so I could play it off as if I didn’t see the note. Then everything rushed, the flush, hands under water, the unlocking of the door, his stroll back to the counter.
Check your phone, he said, not as a question.
Yeah, I saw it.
I’d like to kiss you, the Trucker said. His words hung out there in the open like a creaking chandelier, swaying in the ceiling, about to drop, and bust on the floor.
I locked the truck stop’s front door, flipped the sign to close, while the Trucker led me to the bathroom. The door locked behind us, hands rub the side of the Trucker’s cheeks as I directed his face to mine, hands tore my shirt off, the Trucker fights out of his. As we guided one another to different places on our bodies, I tasted the current of electricity blooming when his tongue met mine.
We broke to consider the logistics of the bathroom. Bleach fumed from the floor. I looked at the Trucker. He looked at me. We both considered the strength of the toilet’s seat, before deciding to stand, my hands pressed against the wall.
Goober runs up panting, shaking his stup of a tail, then lifts his leg on the Warhorse’s left back tire. We call him Goober ‘cause he looks like something picked out of a drain or nose. Probably some part coyote or how they say it around here, “Ki-Yoat.” Probably. The town’s stray yodels to something invisible. Perhaps he calls to the Trucker, forty miles away. Skeeter’s still here, longer than usual, trying to shoot the shit.
“You hear about that new zoo going up in town?” Skeeter asks.
“Zoo? What?”
“Buckle up,” Skeeter starts. “I was driving the Warhorse, about to turn on Main Street” — The Warhorse is what Skeeter calls his truck, more rust than actual car. It’s probably one of the first Fords ever produced, passed on to each and every one of Skeeter’s relatives, who also called it The Warhorse. She’s a cold-blooded bitch, Skeeter told me when he first got it, because the only time the engine doesn’t cut is the winter.
“Main Street and I pass Gene Stargell, putting up a sign in his cornfield, reading Big Cat and Kitty Palace. And I stop and says to him, ‘Gene’, I yelled to him actually, ‘Gene you don’t have enough pussy already?’ You know ‘cause he’s a philanthropist, and he got redder than the Bengal on his billboard. And Gene says back to me, he says, ‘Buzz off Bitch.’ That old potato is off his rocker,” Skeeter says before he slams down a carton of Junior Mints.
“Big Cat and Kitty Palace,” I say. “I think there’s something there. A few months back, a weird cargo truck stopped by.”
Outside, the gas smell hit us in waves, as if one match would light the place up. The front door opened, and the Trucker put his hand in front of me. You gotta stay, the Trucker said.
What are you — I couldn’t finish my sentence, when I saw the pacing, great shape inside the hog trailer. Every step the trailer creaked, buckling under something great. The shadow passed through the ovals of the trailer.
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, the Trucker said.
I didn’t.
“Tigers?” Skeeter asks. “That’s Bull.”
“It adds up, doesn’t it?” I ask. “Or are you too afraid to accept the truth?”
“I ain’t afraid of nothin’. Not the coyotes picking after my dogs, not tetanus, not the queer bars in the city — nothin’.”
“The queer bars?”
“It’s nothin’ spooky, I get free drinks, classy conversation, and head anytime I want,” Skeeter says.
“Thank you again for oversharing,” I say. “Glad you are getting back on your feet.”
“Don’t you judge me,” Skeeter says. “That’s a hate crime, and besides, I think you needed to hear that.”
I say, “That’ll be eight dollars and fifty cents.”
Skeeter slams a Hamilton on the counter and kicks open the door. Skeeter climbs into the Warhorse, turns the key over, once, twice, the engine roars then squeals, and he peels around the stop sign toward town.
There’s two types of queer people at this truck stop. Those wanting something more. Commitment maybe? And those like Skeeter, just looking for a hole.
I’m still about an hour out, the Trucker messages me on the app. Are you still down?
You know it, I type with a winky face.
Bubbles hop on the screen, Hey are you safe? The Trucker writes.
What do you mean?
My battery flicks below five percent.
There’s a howl from outside — a flash of fur running for the door. The door parts automatically, and Goober runs inside. His mismatched fur is long and short in some places. Long black fur, short gray hair that’s never been cut. Sometimes he makes his way up here and The owner says I’m allowed to give him as many hotdogs as he wants. No one ever orders them. He usually paws at the door, slinks in, then rolla around on his back to show he’s hungry.
But now, he runs to the door, knowing it’ll open. I hop over the counter, meeting him at the rug in front of the register. Inches before he hits the door, the door opens, and Goober keeps running, jetting right into my arms. He’s more heartbeat than dog. Goober’s eyes are wide, darting around. He whimpers and whines. This is different than the coyotes chasing after him.
He’s afraid this time.
The roar reaves like two cars ready for a street race, a gas pedal of a sound, starting low, growing louder till the boiling over of harsh breath.
The blackout kills the lights at the truck stop. A backup flicks on outside by the pumps. The bulb flickering on and off. All lights in the store are down.
On the overpass, a large shape slinks in front of the moon then bounds off the concrete, charging through the ditch and up the other side, faster under the blinking light, then the half moments start.
Light.
Then dark.
I lock the front doors as the light hits the tiger’s body. Then the light flicks off. The tiger’s closer. Two paws on the ground, then it goes black, but I still see the dark bounding shape. Holding Goober, I sit on the counter just high enough, blocked by the moonlight, so the tiger won’t see us. The tiger comes to the door, racks its claw on the glass, cracks spider web through the frame, but it doesn’t break. The owner thought the bulletproof windows were overkill. I’m glad we got them now. It shakes the blood off and hits the door with his paws, again, again. It’s paws big enough to scalp the skin off a shoulder. Then it stops pounding at the door and scans inside.
Our activities eventually outgrew the bathroom, so I met him in the cabin of his semi, which is only two feet bigger, of course I checked, after closing the truck stop. Climbing up the built-in side stairs, I realized, why didn’t we meet here to begin with, then opening the door to the crumb-less floor, the scent of artificial tree sucked outside, I came to this conclusion; This is where the Trucker spends a whale-sized percentage of his life, driving, sitting, where he picks his crotch. Not much of a life, but it’s his. It’s personal to the Trucker.
You done air condition the rest of the state? the Trucker asked.
Out of spite, I began, No.
I smiled. He smiled. Then looked at the growing bulge in my pants. I, his.
What are you carrying today?
A meat locker, the Trucker said, or at least that’s what they tell me.
You never check?
No, the Trucker said, then I’d be incriminated. It’s best that way, always moving forward.
My brain pictured the truck moving, the Trucker and I with our seatbelts plugged in, windows rolled down, wailing to The Eagles, knowing every mile is another mile away from the truck stop, away from the town I was born and will be buried in, just away enough.
I asked, You bring all your guys inside like this?
I wouldn’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, the Trucker said. He reached for my belt loops, hooked a finger in them, and pulled me closer.
The tiger’s stare starts at the back of the store, by the beer cooler, rotating to the middle, where the ice cream treats sit, then stops at the tobacco case, behind the counter, behind us.
When I look into the tiger’s eyes, I recognize standing in the presence of growing hunger. The tiger sits down on all fours, blocking the only exit, without breaking eye contact.
I go to turn the brightness of my phone down. The Trucker has messaged me.
I got an advisory warning from my boss saying there was an incident. Something about an exotic animal warning.
No shit.
I’m making sure you’re alright.
Then my phone dies.
I drop Goober. He lands with a yip. He scuttles behind the counter. I go for the portable charger, next to the tie-dye and American flag lighters, and rip open the plastic case with my teeth. I stick the unwound cord into the jack of my phone, waiting for it to spring back to life. I stare at my black screen. I stare back at myself. I flip open the box to read, Batteries not included.
Blood snakes through my veins when the big cat licks its lips. I dash with my phone to the back of the store, seeing myself out of the corner of my eye, running in the bulby mirrors stationed at every corner of the store. I finally slide down the side of the beer cooler in the back. Slinking up two aisles, I visualize the hook the double A’s hang on, and when I get to the aisle in front of the store, there’s one packet left.
Ripping open the box, I hold the plastic, putting the battery in the port, I’m almost there, until the spring launches the battery forward, NO, I drop the container, scattering the batteries. One scurries until the lip of the rug stops its momentum. The battery lands right in front of the tiger. The tiger looks down at the battery, stares through it, then pans its head, looking for me in the shadows.
The highway sits silent. No cars, all moon. About a mile out, the tires on the road make this low hum. It’s an ever-approaching force, only passed by the whush of wind as the vehicle speeds on by. The concrete hums for another mile down the interstate into nothing. Again.
Where’s the Trucker? Five — ten miles away — perhaps speeding to get here? Will the Trucker climb down from the cabin of the semi, soaring through the air, to land his fist on the tiger’s jaw? Would the Trucker break the glass of the doors, call my name, run toward me, and lift me off my feet, buckling me in the cabinet seat of his truck to take me away from the truck stop town?
The hook where the batteries hung, straight-gleaming metal, mocks me. At a glance, no batteries are on the floor, having rolled away underneath the shelves. The only one visible in the moonlight sits in front of the tiger. I look at the tiger, the battery, the tiger again, and then focus on the empty hook. I’m sure I can make a Molotov cocktail out of the grain alcohol or fashion a metal aluminum rake to scoot the battery toward me. How about I send Goober outside as a diversion, wrapped in hotdogs? How much time would that buy me? What if the tiger bombards the door, wanting more hog lips, not having his fill with Goober? How many more blows can the doors take? I can’t risk it, so I have to risk it.
The front aisle floor is clean, despite Skeeter’s romping up and down with his boots caked with earth. He doesn’t realize this, but every time he walks up and down the candy section, thinking on what he “needs” before settling on the usual PEZ dispenser, refills, and Kit-Kats, I clean up after him. Now sliding, belly on the floor, my shirt sweeps up the mud flakes.
I stop at the newspaper rack, right before I’m in arms reach of the battery. I imagine tomorrow’s headline, something like Tiger Walks into Town’s 7-11 or Store Clerk Suffers Stroke, and Shit Attack from Escaped Tiger. Both sound like the beginning of a bad joke, or maybe the joke’s on me for thinking I’ll read tomorrow’s paper.
The shadow of my hand breaks into the box of moonlight. The tips of my fingers, then my palm and wrist move slower than the shadow of death. A breath, a breath, another breath before my hand finally touches the ground. Another slink should do it. I scrape my belly one more time. My fingers pinch around the double A’s — I look up and see the tiger staring through me. I name that something I couldn’t name earlier. Couldn’t place before. When meeting the tiger, coming face to face, it’s the closest thing I’ve come to know as epiphany prayer, or God. One creature recognizing another. An acknowledgement of sorts. Of life and how easily it can be taken away. And then I notice again.
I never knew Tigers have eyelashes. Without breaking my eyes from the tiger’s, I grab the battery. The tiger looks up at the ceiling. Its eyes landing on Goober huddling in the corner. I see the tiger’s eyes narrow like a flower closing up from the cold. I grab the battery and hop over the counter. The tiger punches through the glass. There’s a squeal and the blast of an engine. High beams cut through the dark. The Warhorse jumps up the curb, bashing into the tiger, momentum carrying the truck through the front of the store. There’s the rain of black glass and when the dust finally settles, Skeeter flings open his door, cocks his rifle, and empties the barrel into the tiger’s skull — four — five times — until the tiger doesn’t look like a tiger anymore.
Goober walks up to the tiger. Nudges the tiger’s body with his face. He laps up some blood, before Skeeter walks around the bend of the Warhorse, spooking Goober. The town stray runs into the dark.
Skeeter goes to the back of the store, by the beer cooler, and picks up a pack of Witchslap. I walk around the counter, still staring at what’s left of the tiger face. It’s eyes still open. Then Skeeter starts, “Tina, the second tiger, chased a squirrel right in the town’s transformer and came up extra crispy. Cops zoomed to Stargell’s door because the cages weren’t stupid proof.”
“Are there any more animals loose?”
“Some Bobcats, but they’re good,” Skeeter says. He sits on the crumbled hood of the Warhorse, takes out his keys and opens a beer, slugs it down before speaking again.
Going on and on, I hear bits and pieces of how Gene Stargell’s charges came too late, how nobody needs all those big cats, let alone tigers, who don’t belong here. Period. “Here” being the truck stop far from the jungle tigers are meant to prowl. When a cage is all you’ve known, born into, grew up in, will die in, what options are left but throwing your body toward the opening of any door? I toss the battery over and over in my hand before placing it in the charger. The screen flicks on white and loading.
“You expectin’ someone?” Skeeter asks.
“You wouldn’t know him.”
Skeeter flips his phone on. I hold it in my other hand. Side-by-side, I compare the screens, on my phone there’s nothing left of the Trucker, and on Skeeter’s, RealDeal34 is miles away.
We sit on the hood of the Warhorse. He pops open another beer. I take a swig.
“You knew RealDeal34?” Skeeter asks.
“Knew parts of him,” I say. “You?”
“Probs the same parts,” Skeeter says. “Not enough pean for me.”
“You didn’t have to kill it,” I say.
“I didn’t kill the pean,” Skeeter says.
“The tiger,” I say. “You didn’t have to kill the tiger.”
“Oh, I know,” Skeeter starts, “but when would I get a second chance to kill a tiger?”
Silence grows between us. The fruit flies populating the soda fountain whizz out into the open air. We wait for the lights to flick back on.
“If RealDeal isn’t stoppin’ no more, there’s more room for us —” Skeeter starts. And it doesn’t matter, because just like Goober, Skeeter will take anything he can find.
There’s the hum of the overpass. His semi cutting through the dark background of barren cornfields. Not even a flinch of the wheel, not one moment’s hesitation while he approaches exit 240.
Author's Statement:
“The Caged Parts” was written in the beginning of the pandemic when over half the U.S. was investing themselves into Tiger King. In fact, the inspiration came from the line by Joe Rinke, Park Manager in the documentary, when he said "How you gunna keep him (a tiger) from running downtown to the 7-11?" In early drafts of the story, I had that line as an epigraph to cue the reading into the critique I was trying to make of rural queerness, however, in its first published version in Foglifter, we decided to leave it out, since everyone knew about Tiger King. It is cruel that the tiger is killed; ultimately, he is killed for just being himself.
ξ
“The Caged Parts” was first published in Foglifter Journal, Volume 6, Issue 1.
Harrison Cook is the Creative Nonfiction Editor at Guesthouse. His work has been published in Gay Mag, Essay Daily, Foglifter Journal, Passages North, and elsewhere. His essay "Atlas," was 2020 notable for Best American Essays. He is working on a collection of essays about football and queerness.
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