Animal Sightings

It was a strange day in Orange County, and I am happy to be home.

In the morning I swung by the assisted living facility to look in on my mother. The day was glaringly bright and she donned her pink sunglasses; her only wish was to go to McDonald’s for an ice cream.

As we pulled up to Main Street she pointed to a certain corner where she claimed to have once seen a furry white rabbit.

“I could hardly believe my eyes,” she said. “But it was only that one time, never again. That’s what’s wrong with this place. There are no animals here. No animals at all.”

I had some time to myself later in the day and decided to drive down to Newport Beach, where I was rear-ended by a silver Impala driven by an annoyed blonde. We pulled over to exchange information. She was one of those skinny women— the spidery blonde species — dressed for business in black slacks and pointy high-heels, good-looking in a matte foundation fixed up kind of way, and very brusque of manner. I tried to make a pleasantry or two, but she was having none of that. (Helloo? I wanted to say. You hit me. Remember?)

“This is a leased company car,” is all she said, “and I couldn’t care less, but I’m already late for five appointments.”

She began talking to her insurance guy on one of those hands-free cell phones before I’d even gathered my thoughts, looking beyond me as though I were the sort of person who had absolutely nothing to be late for, and I suppose on this particular day she was right. I noticed the year of birth on her driver’s license: 1975. It occurred to me that I could be her mother. (But then again, no daughter of mine would have turned out this way.) Anyway, she left a small dent in my bumper and rendered me feeling oddly vulnerable for the rest of the day.

I decided I needed the comfort of soup, ideally the sort with lemon grass and coconut milk, so I stopped into a deserted Thai place in Corona del Mar that was bright with sunlight, Hopper-esque and lonely. Outside, a pair of bicyclists rode by, their legs toned and muscled and butter-smooth, and a pair of joggers jogged, and there was a steady procession of shiny clean cars along the highway, but the sidewalk was bereft of walkers.

By now, the sun and the soup were making me sweat, and while pondering the fact that it was summer in January, I heard on the radio that the cold weather in Florida had been causing iguanas to drop from the trees. I couldn’t shake the image.

Now at last I am back at the ranch, where the coyotes are howling in the hills. 

Finally, a creature I can relate to.