There are more soybeans in a denim pocketful than there are people in Hardy, Arkansas. It's the type of town next to a model train set—a general store, candy shoppe, post office, gas station, library, and bait and tackle purchased at the grocery. Everyone in town still uses stamps. Church is on Sundays and you wouldn't want to be caught drinking out late by the constable. I was born in Little Rock, but my family tree took root in Hardy. My grandmother rode a horse to school, and her father was the town medical doctor. I'd stay a full week and never see a soul. Perhaps one or two drunken innertubers would float by, but other than them, only family and fauna. 

      I'd walk barefoot in the river and happily tear up my feet. I tied bacon on lines of dental-floss to catch crawdads in the creek. The floating shadows of great blue herons appeared on the face of the water making me feel small. I’d follow them home with my gaze and imagine how they gossiped. Wolf spiders cuddled under the dock in a furry mound. They scared my cousins, but I knew they didn’t bite. I cannot emphasize how much I loved my pocket knife—I still do, and keep it in the front pocket of my everyday purse.

     Phoebes nested on the front porch in the 50’s and have lived there ever since. Helpless fledglings shook their beaks in hungry peeps with eyes still closed from youth. I apologized for showing up empty handed. I felt like I tricked them. Dragonflies buzzed in holographic blue. They laid their eggs on mossy rocks and their larvae nibbled. Rainstorms made the canopy droop in a peaceful slumber that inspired the same. I'd sleep on the porch swing knowing I’d get all bit-up through the night. Fish jumped, frogs croaked, and in the privacy of nature I found a crucial part of myself.

     A tranquil recognition was planted, and a boyhood confidence flourished in its freedom. Imagination became my sanctuary. I brimmed in a terrestrial curiosity that colored the world. I grew to like this part of myself the most. My playdate. I had little favor for my face or form but began to think I had a wonderful mind. Of course I felt the squirmy insecurities of youth, but I knew this sense of self was mine to covet. I learned who I was, ebbing in the swirling tempest of my imagination and knew it felt like home.​

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     I'm now in Brooklyn as my twenties ripple past and can’t afford the cost of fiction. The commuter’s lament has made my monologue mumble. I dream less. I lack the headspace. I work just enough to pay for my expensive habits of paying for rent and cat food. The wizard's a sham and lemons taste bitter. Responsibility courses down my skull leaving canyons in its wake. It's arid, and little grows. I don’t see mystic creatures trapped in marbles anymore. I haven't wished on whimsy or an inverted horseshoe in God knows how long. I used to find treasures in tall grass and easter eggs but haven't even bothered to look.

     I thought a return to Arkansas would offer the expanse I needed to chart a better path through life. Nature has always provided me clarity. I was looking for continuum, and hoped the river would spell a way forwards. Declutter the cobwebs and draw up some blueprints. I worked as a background actor on days-off to afford a trip back to Hardy. I was cast as a well-tailored paralegal, then a circuit-party club kid in silver lamé. A few paychecks and stolen granola bars later, I could afford the ticket to return. I packed a few swim trunks, watercolors, and arrived with everything just as I remembered. The river was high. The house felt haunted as always, and my shoulders rested low for the first time in a while. ​ 

      

     I settled my belongings then killed the last swig of whatever road-trip soda I chose that day. I unlocked the doors to the house and was hit with the reassuring scent of age. It was remodeled in the 50’s and other than a few shingles, it was left preserved. Relics lined the walls with distant relatives preserved in picture frames. An untunable piano covered in dust left permanent impressions on the carpet. The kitchen featured a Frigidaire icebox, laminate countertops, and a percolator that lived on the stovetop. I cracked open the window to listen to the songbirds when I noticed a menacing structure through the woods.

     My uncle-aged cousin claimed the land next to my ancestor's river house to build a military grade fortress. These are the types of cousins you see to make your old man happy and save some sundried face. The kinds who shoot bottle rockets at your shins and throw sticks at small amphibians. They were much older than I and bored me, so we were never close.

     I’m calling the man Todd, because it's just as stupid sounding as his real name. He was a marine doctor on nuclear submarines and is incapable of apology. He now works as an ER doc and burps when he waddles. I’ll name his wife Ida, because she reminds me of mashed potatoes. She is not as offputting as her husband, but her voice is irksome. She tends to shriek at her kids Dirk and Darla. All to say, seeing this family did not fit into my fantasy of reconnecting with myself and with nature. Between the four of them, was one little neuron and a full-blown addiction to pulled pork. I can’t blame them for the latter, but I do blame the neuron. I was bound to run into family but I chose to camouflage.

     Turning a blind eye to Todd’s house, I focused my intentions on the river. I wanted to float. I grabbed a paddle and canoe from the basement and dragged it to the lip of the river. I brought some watercolors and a pad of paper too. I struggled with my balance getting in, but soon I was off downstream.

      I looked on the scene hoping to spy a few alligator gar. I was eager to see my friends again. From above, gar have an eerie slenderness straight from the Mesozoic that speaks to my inner Bella Hadid. Their torpedo-like bodies are lined in rows of diamond-shaped scales, olive and ivory. The corners of their snouts curl into a disarmingly charmed smile that I found myself returning without a thought. Their jagged mouths are cluttered with fangs that look designed to maim, yet never do. If Nosferatu and Nemo had sex, this thing would come out. Absolutely horrifying. But I’ve always liked them. Prehistoric beauties. They don't bite people and do no harm whatsoever. They would frighten any stranger, but I know their intentions. I know their grace. I like their juxtaposition. They choose a peaceful existence despite their form and circumstance. Misunderstood creatures of hideous descent lurking just beneath the surface. The gar are far too noble to socialize near the bank. They are too remote, and prefer a distance and depth from things that can breathe air. 

     I paddled to a cove accessible only by canoe where the gar lay quiet beneath mimosa trees. They liked the stillness it bestowed. The mimosa blooms blushed like pink water fairies pirouetting in the wind. Their swooshing leaves were stitched together with even smaller kelly green leaflets. They reminded me of Seurat. The flowers stirred a childlike awe like cotton candy peacock feathers fanned out and fluffed. I watched the fish hover beneath the water's reflection, motionless like idle drones, as I cooked in the sun. That was another goal of mine, to burn in meditation. The fish flinched at my every move. I took after their stillness and enjoyed a moment of ultraviolet solitude. 

     I heard the splash of a fish’s latest meal and turned to a large albino alligator gar. His ghastly glow emanated a trance that compelled me to stay a while longer. Glinting all white. A stark siren whose beauty persisted through haunted monstrosity. He radiated a pearlescent rarity that shone through the water like a beacon. An apparition. He looked regal in a way, and I understood I was merely a visitor in his dominion. We didn't need words. He was clairvoyant. We shared the sanctity of nature in harmonious bliss.We admired her symmetry through silent stills of gratitude and called her serene. I spilled some secrets to earn his trust then sang him bluegrass music. He told me fables when man was sand and mollusks ruled the river, then reminded me of fortune. An opalescent oracle sent up from the deep reawakened my sleeping blessings. A predetermined soothsayer, hypnotizing my fate before descending into the depths.

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     A waterfall nearby lapped and foamed and eventually its rumbles called me over. I paddled to the river’s edge, docking the canoe with a heavy rock and a slimy square knot, then removed my clothes. I swam to the falls, then jumped naked in the rapids—skinny dipping for my first time. The cold water surged over me, and I gasped for air. Goosebumps freckled my skin. The greenish water gurgled with bubbles that tickled as they flowed off the rocks and onto my shoulders. I felt young and queer and sunkissed. I was connected with virility in a way I never felt in New York. My baptismal purification ritual of classical lore was Hollywood picturesque. I was the protagonist in a disgustingly gay YA novel set in the Fire Island of Arkansas. I can't afford regular Fire Island, so this was my realistic fantasy—an oxymoron I live by. I long for fantasy, yet am humbled in perpetual reality.

     The pinnacle of prime threatens me. I struggle to champion my body beyond its duty to house my organs and consciousness. I'm constantly grateful for that quality, but often feel I’m not maximizing my youth. A trophy in a box.  I don't feel strongly about my features, but on this day, I was happy with them. I love my complexion and the way my hair looks when it's wet. I like how I felt when people complimented my eyebrows. My height commands attention, and I'm fond of the noirish shadows my cheekbones throw. I have all my fingers and toes. It was the redemption I needed after a painfully lonely Pride Month and the reminder that I am worthy of desire. If not by others, then by myself and the turtles. It felt romantic, but no one was there. Not in a friendless way, but in self-love. A sexy, 25-year-old man, the beading sun, and a colorless alligator gar, a quiet witness to my christening.​

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     For a long while, I floated somewhere between fantasy and flesh, until all illusions dissolved and I resigned to the monotony of obligation. I said goodbye to the river and the creatures that called it home, and paddled back to the dock. I carried the canoe and chained it to the basement workbench.  Once I finished cleaning the house and locking the doors, I heard a voice call out from the woods—a dull voice I can only associate with spuds. It was Ida. She spotted me from her Armageddon bunker. She hollered from a massive concrete compound built in preparation for something only they could explain. Most of me wanted nothing to do with them. The other side of me was extraordinarily curious about what type of wackado makeshift crap they were building. That side scratches poison oak and picks his face.

     I can only imagine what living in a submarine does to a person, let alone a Todd. Todd is a nutcase. Always has been, always will. Inside their home is a bunker, and inside that bunker, is you guessed it, another fucking bunker. I didn't ask what they were preparing for, I just pretended to be impressed with the amount of rations stored. They surprisingly installed three beautiful chandeliers hanging from the living room ceiling. They were ornate with gold and cut crystal pendants and for a moment I thought they were lovely. I was delighted by Todd’s sudden sense of taste! He then showed me how he programmed the lights to change colors with his EDM music. Enclosing the encampment was a wraparound screened-in porch, which is like owning a Dyson for podunk folk. I jangled my keys in my pocket to elicit a Pavlovian hug farewell. It didn’t work in my favor. Ida’s ears perked at the prospect of me leaving and hastily called me downstairs. They hadn't shown me their crowning glory, mother of all bunkers, subterranean Mecca of imminent nuclear fallout. So I followed them into the second interior bunker.

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     I shuffled down a half-built stairway into a slate grey basement. The walls and floors were the same sidewalk material poured in the driveway. LEDs glared overhead, bleaching the room into a type of purgatory. A pallid limbo. There were no windows, and it was locked with a vaulted door. The space was divided with false walls, buttercream-colored bedsheets and wooden clothespins. The sheets only caught some of the sound, so every word was still heard twice.The room smelled of a dankness that comes with any basement, newly furnished or not. Like unwashed pillowcases. Sawdust along the baseboards were swept into piles to be dealt with later. Rusted nails and woodchips littered the floor as construction confetti. A cinderblock column anchored the corner and sheltered the beast.

     A seventy-five-pound Doberman exploded into a sprint. No warning bark. No flash of fur. Just a determination to kill me. She ran towards me, her eyes black as beast. I looked down the dog’s throat. A horrendous ocean black cave rimmed with stalactites carved to tear through my skin. She lunged through the air and sank her teeth into the bony part of my cheek, right above the apple. She bit hard, twice. Once through the bridge of my nose and into my undereye. The other on my lip. Blood dripped down my face in a skinny trickle, staining the floor and wetting my neck. The contrasting colors are vivid in my memory. Iron rebar, cement, and a steady stream of bright red blood. Her rounded teeth were described by sensation. More like blunt stones than filleting blades. I felt a V-shaped flap under my left eye, then traced the missing chunk with my fingertips. My hands pooled with blood and the top of my feet were polka-dotted in drops. I turned to a tacky Tuscan mirror to catch my breath and assess the damage. My face was weeping cherry. My ears filled with a cotton-soft hush of shock, then everything slowed out of focus. The walls came closer as my kneecaps liquified. I realized what occurred.

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      I was never in immense pain, but immediately felt fury. Hot, seething, kill-your-first-born-Dirk type of fury. They crated the dog, jokingly admitting, "Believe it or not, she's usually the sweetest girl.” I rushed to the bathroom to wash my face with dish soap. I took my shirt off because I was about to vomit and felt too hot. The primal jolt of a cold sweat ran up my spine and onto my temples, accompanied by the feeling of dread. I threw up, washed my face, and held gauze to the gashes. An ER doc prepping for the Reaping has rolls and rolls of gauze. Eventually, the bleeding clotted enough to where I could drive home. Todd gave me a few Advil, Bacitracin ointment, a room temperature can of Coke, and half a leftover pulled pork sandwich before sending me on my way.

     Halfway through my three hour drive, I stopped at Walmart to get a tetanus shot. They do that now. I made an Instagram story in the parking lot making fun of the incident because that’s how I roll, and my ex-boyfriend unfollowed me. I told myself he was uncomfortable seeing me in pain, and that's what I choose to believe.

     My flight to NYC left at six a.m. the next morning, so when I arrived in Little Rock,  I only wanted to sleep. I previously gave my mom my copy of the play “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf”. As any good gay, it’s one of my favorite plays, and like any good mother, she read it for me. I got in her bed and we rented the Elizabeth Taylor version to watch. We both fell asleep before the end. In the morning, I frankensteined my face with bandages to frighten TSA and got on the next flight to see my cat.

     I was back in New York for less than an hour when a woman shoulder-checked me and told me to watch where I was going. It's good to be home. About a week later, I got a text from Ida with a long apology and no venmo notifications. Without a check, I didn't feel the need for absolution. I felt unsympathetic. After a few days of ghosting, I received a message saying, “Hi Ollie, I hope you are ok, feel free not to respond, the dog is dead.” Apparently, this was the second time the sweetest girl tried to bite someone's face off.

 

     I am now three months removed from the dog attack, and my wounds have healed to a degree difficult to describe as positive or negative. Thick, raised scars sit under my eye, with a razor-like slash beneath my lip. The lip scar is subtle, looks like it could have a sexy backstory, so I don't mind that one. The cuts under my eye have hardened into keloids. Those scars I do not like. Not at all. One looks like a worm, the others a pox upon my visage. Like four unpopable whiteheads right under my eyeball. Maybe they’ll grow on me, but for now, I hate them. Friends and family praise my healing, but the way I see myself has been altered. All I notice is the change. I haven't taken a selfie other than to document the healing process. I avoid prolonged stares in the mirror, except applying a winged-liner and shaving my chin hairs. In tired moments, I rub my eyes and sadly remember why it feels so strange. I wear a hat to shield my face from the sun and dodge questions when customers and coworkers feel the need to pry. I secretly savor the awkward moments when someone asks what's wrong with my face, and the quiet smug knowledge that they will soon regret that. I prefer a deadpan delivery.

      I understand it is just a scar. I'm not mangled into disfigurement and my older-self sees this as an unfortunate blip. In a year or two, nobody will be able to know. People find scars sexy or mysterious! I didn't even really notice it until we started talking about it. Hey! What happened to your, uhm… gestures circling the face. I wonder if laser could help. Did you sue them yet? You really can’t tell at all. What you need to do is use Aquaphor every night and stay out of the sun and you’ll be fine. Keep it wet and covered. I hope you don’t have any auditions this month ha! Have you heard of the silicone patches? It shouldn't really affect my bustling acting career. I got bit by a dog once and ended up in the hospital for three days and still in litigation from it. You need to get over this pity party. Now I’ve seen a lot of dog bites in my career, and you know, yours is like a three. You got lucky. Once it heals, it’ll be so hot I love scars on guys. It shows life experience! I’ve heard a good lot of voices of late but can only think fondly of the moments before, where I felt beautiful in the water. It's hard to recall the transcendent embrace of the gaze from an alligator gar. 

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