Rudolph the Red-Nosed Pig
It was after midnight when Ron and I got back to our room. I dumped my dirty clothes on the top bunk, lined the laundry basket with a clean towel and set the pig inside. I took off my shirt and examined my right bicep. There was a quarter-sized black and blue welt where the little bastard had bit me. Ron started laughing again.
"You just better hope she likes it," I threatened him. "Or neither one of us is getting any sleep tonight."
The pig snorted loudly. Ron quit laughing. I called and woke up Jean. I told her I'd been bit.
"Do I need a rabies shot or anything?"
Jean chuckled. "No," she said. "I get bit all the time." This did little to reassure me.
As soon as I hung up, I called Cameron's cell. She was at some party off-campus. I could barely hear her over the music.
"Why don't you come over," I shouted.
"I will afterward," she said, a little crossly, upset I'd interrupted her good time.
"No," I countered, "come over now."
"I've been drinking a little," she said, growing bored. "I should sober up first."
"Fine," I told her. "I guess I'll just have to find someone else to give your Christmas present to."
Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door. I sat on the bottom bunk and cradled the swaddled pig in my arms. Ron stood by the door. I took a deep breath and nodded. Ron opened the door. The rain had stopped for the moment. Balmy, sea-scented air filled the room. The rustling of palm fronds and the humming of air-conditioners could be heard in the distance.
Cameron looked stunning in a slinky, leopard print dress and spiked heels. She smiled at Ron and stepped into the room. Then she saw the pig and stopped dead in her tracks.
"That's not mine," she said.
I tried to swallow, but couldn't.
"Merry Christmas," I said, holding forth the pig.
"That's not mine," Cameron repeated.
I patted the bed. "Come hold him," I said. "You'll love him. I promise."
"No, I won't," she shouted. "It's a pig, Sean! A pig! Are you crazy?"
"Don't worry about your R.A.," I said. "When you have room inspections, we'll just keep him over here."
"Yeah-and that's real fair to the pig, keeping it locked up in some tiny dorm room all day. What if it eats my clothes? What if it shits? What in the world possessed you to do this? It was Dan, wasn't it?"
"No," I said, defensively. "It was my idea. Honestly. I thought you'd like it."
"You are from Texas," Ron reminded her.
Cameron flashed him a nasty look. The color instantly drained from Ron's face.
"God," she whined in her thick accent. "Now you can't get me a real present."
She stood there a minute just glaring at me. The phone rang, but I didn't answer it. I knew it was Dan.
"I'm going back to my party," Cameron said. "We'll talk about this in the morning."
She slammed the door. The pig snorted and squirmed.
Ron shook his head.
"That didn't go well at all," he said. He grabbed his GamePro from on top of the television and stepped into the bathroom.
I put the pig back in the laundry basket and sat there a minute, thinking about what Cameron had said. She was right. Fucking Dan.
Growing up, my cousin was always getting me into trouble. On holidays, we'd hide under the dinner table, and after the women had gotten up to wash dishes and the men had gone back to watching football, Dan would filch the leftover cups of wine and get me drunk off the backwash. Or we'd go to the mall and he'd convince me to stick quarters in the mannequins' bras.
Naturally, my parents were a bit concerned when I decided to follow him to Tampa. But not really. They knew, for all his instigating, Dan would never let me get hurt. Which is why, at first, he'd cautioned me about Cameron.
"Girls like that don't date guys like us," he'd said. Cameron's father was a wealthy tax attorney. He bought Cameron whatever she wanted, including a brand new Toyota Celica, a single dorm room typically reserved for upperclassmen and a closet full of designer clothes, most with the tags still on.
Not coming from money, I found such extravagance attractive. Until Christmas rolled around, that is, and I was faced with the unenviable task of buying something for the girl who had virtually everything.
I decided to be bold and do something that might distinguish me from all the jerks she'd ever dated, while at the same time show a little rebelliousness. Though strictly forbidden by residence-hall policy, I decided to buy Cameron a kitten. Dan loved the idea and decided to get one for his girlfriend Heather.
The last Friday before exams and our month-long winter break, Dan, Ron and I piled into Ron's barely street legal, two-seater Mitsubishi and drove 10 miles north to the University Square Mall. Ande's Pets was tucked away in a far-off corner, sandwiched between Payless Shoesource and a struggling-to-stay-in-business JCPenney. The smell of urine was overwhelming and the sight of Yorkshire Terrier puppies trapped behind Plexiglas was just too much.
I waited outside while Dan and Ron inquired about the kittens. It didn't take long. "They want $400," Ron said. "For each. And that doesn't even include shots."
"Too bad," Dan said. "It was a great idea."
I wasn't giving up so easy. The thought of trying to pick out clothes or jewelry for Cameron was too daunting.
"What about the newspaper?" I suggested. "I bet there are tons of kittens in the classifieds."
We picked up a Tampa Tribune and drove back to Dan's dorm. It had been a beautiful day, but like most beautiful days that winter-the winter of El Niño-it was short-lived. As the sun faded, the sky turned cloudy and gray. The paper predicted rain all weekend, with the possibility of tropical-storm-strength winds.
I was right. The classifieds were full of kittens. Most of them, though, had already been sold. The few left were just as expensive as the pet store's. While Dan was on the phone haggling, I came across a strange ad: POT-BELLIED PIGS 4 SALE. MAKE GREAT PETS. FRIENDLY. SMART. CLEAN. SHOTS INCLUDED. I knew what would happen if Dan saw this. I also knew that if I tried shoving it under the couch or, say, eating it, I'd only arouse his suspicion. So I threw the folded paper back on the pile and hoped he wouldn't see it.
"Holy shit!" he exclaimed, not five minutes later. Before Ron could ask what, Dan was dialing the number. "Hello? Yes, I'm calling about the pigs. Are there any left? There are? Great. How much? Eighty dollars! A piece? Fantastic! Now, it says that includes shots. But what about getting them fixed? Oh, you can do it yourself, can you? What's that? If you've got a little country in you, huh? I see. So you just heat the knife over the stove and that sterilizes it. And the pig doesn't need to be knocked out or anything. Just make sure someone's holding him down. Interesting. And they just pop out? I'm sure they do taste delicious. I'm just wondering how you-a needle and thread? Well, that seems awfully unsanitary to me?"
When Dan got off the phone, I had just one thing to say: "No fucking way."
But Dan pleaded. "Just think of the look on those girls' faces when we show up at their doors with a couple of pigs."
"That's exactly what I'm thinking about, which is why there's no way in hell we're doing it. I really like this girl. I'm not about to fuck it up."
We took Dan's car-a 10-year-old, royal- blue Dodge Daytona with a busted passenger- side windshield wiper, a burned-out driver's-side headlight and no air-conditioning. The farm was an hour east of Tampa, closer to Orlando. It didn't start raining until we exited I-4, as we were making a series of turns, each road more desolate, dimly lit and shoddily paved than the last.
Finally, just when Dan was about to concede we were lost and turn toward home, Ron spotted a narrow clearing in a patch of roadside pine trees.
"That's gotta be it."
Dan swung the car onto a humpbacked, dirt path that led into the middle of the forest. The path became muddier as we went, but like some stubborn pack mule, the Daytona plodded along. Finally, we came to a low, makeshift gate of chicken wire and railroad ties. A small intercom dangled by its wires. As we argued over who would risk electrocution, the gate swung open on its own like the door of Dracula's castle.
Dan parked the car in a grassy clearing. There was a rusting, 20-foot fishing boat up on cinder blocks. The ranch-style house wasn't much bigger than the boat, its yellowing aluminum siding was just as dilapidated. A petite woman of about 50 came out to meet us. Her short, dark hair was graying; she wore glasses and a faded, purple housedress. She wasn't wearing shoes.
Jean was her name, and she led us around the house to another gate. "Wait here," she said, then disappeared into the rain and darkness. She reemerged a few minutes later carrying a pig under her arm like a football. It wasn't much bigger than one. Its fur was black and coarse. Its nose and ears were pink. She handed the pig to Dan. The pig didn't squirm or make a sound; he just looked up at Dan with glassy, innocent eyes.
Jean went back inside the pen, and soon, there was a spine-tingling sound-a squeal, followed by a string of curses, many of which I'd never heard and have yet to hear repeated. Jean zigzagged back toward the fence, shimmying like a lunatic trying to escape a straightjacket. More than once, she nearly fell to the muddy ground; the pig continued to struggle and wail until he was finally subdued.
"Whatever you do," she wheezed, "don't let go. You'll never be able to catch him."
I took the pig as if he were made of Waterford Crystal. He was identical to Dan's, except for the eyes. They were excitable, mischievous-they looked just like Dan's eyes. Jean led us into the house to collect the papers. Once inside, we were nearly trampled by a stampeding, full-grown boar. As he went by, his stomach swept the floor.
He weighed 200 pounds, easily.
"Billy," Jean's husband called from the sofa. "Get yer ass over here and watch some tv with papa."
The charging pig skidded to a halt. His ears and nose were pierced by giant, silver hoops. So were the rest of the pigs'. There must've been 10 of them, all different colors and sizes, scampering about the cramped living room. Billy turned around, his backside knocking against the big-screen tv. With surprising agility, he leapt onto the sofa and plopped down. The sofa creaked under the weight.
"They make great pets," Jean's husband said. "Smarter 'en hell. And clean too. Ain't gonna go stinking up yer house like one of them cats."
He was at least 300 pounds, bare-chested beneath his denim overalls. He wore glasses and a full, white beard. His ears were also pierced. We collected our papers and a week's worth of feed. Jean reminded us about getting the animals fixed. Recognizing our lack of "country," she recommended we find a veterinarian.
"I'd do it for ya," she said. "But it gets pretty messy." Jean looked at me and grinned. She was missing a couple teeth. "Besides, that one's worked up enough already."
Whether she was referring to me or the pig, I'm still not sure.
By the time we found I-4, the rain had turned torrential. Ron was driving, with Dan riding shotgun and me in the back. The lone wiper worked furiously, but with only one headlight, we couldn't see but a car's length in front of us. To make the trip even more difficult, my pig woke up and started squirming. Remembering Jean's advice, I tightened my grip-which made him squirm more. I squeezed harder. Soon he was thrashing with all his might and squealing at the top of his lungs.
"Keep it down back there," Dan said. "You're making mine nervous."
"Yeah," Ron said. "I'm trying to concentrate here."
Right then, the pig sunk his tiny, razor- sharp teeth into my arm.
"OWWWW!"
Dan and Ron burst out laughing, whereupon I unleashed a litany of expletives that would've made even Jean blush. I didn't finish my tirade until we pulled up in front of Heather's apartment, and though Dan and Ron kept chuckling, my pig quivered silently with dread. The pattering of rain seemed to calm him. After 20 minutes or so, Dan and Ron came back to the car. For a moment, they just sat there, staring at one another in disbelief.
"Well," I said. "What happened?"
"Your cousin's a genius," Ron said, unable to take his eyes off Dan. Dan glanced over his shoulder.
"She said it was the sweetest gift anyone had ever given her."
"A genius," Ron said. We drove back to campus and Dan dropped us off.
"I'd love to see the look on her face," said Dan. "But it's probably better if I'm not there. I don't want her to think I put you up to it."
It was the most reasonable thing he'd said all night, and so I said goodbye, not knowing that his real excuse for not coming in was that his flight left at six a.m. and he still had to pack. After Cameron stormed out, I checked my voicemail.
"Hey. It's your cousin. Crazy night, huh? Just wondering how things went. Also, I'm not sure if I told you or not, but I'm flying to Miami this weekend to interview for their master's program. I don't have a number there, but I'll be back Monday. Talk to you then."
Fucking Dan.
Not that I was surprised. Not that I wasn't furious, either. I called him 15 times that night, but he'd turned his ringer off. I would've walked across campus and pounded on his door if it hadn't started raining again. Plus, I was tired. Ron managed to convince some girl down the hall to look after the pig for the night, but despite how exhausted I was, I still couldn't sleep.
It was the first time in a week I'd stayed in my own bed and, in the month that Cameron and I had been dating, the first time I'd slept alone. The phone rang around nine the next morning. I thought it might be Dan or maybe Cameron, but it was Heather. She and Dan had been dating for almost six months. She was from South Carolina. To my untrained, Midwestern ear her drawl sounded no different from Cameron's, yet her manner was far more genteel.
"Oh, Sean," she said, worriedly. "I'm not sure about this. He was fine last night, but now he's hiding in the closet and won't come out."
I told her Cameron's reaction. "Maybe she's right," Heather said. "It's a big responsibility to take care of a pig. Can't you return 'em?"
"I don't think so," I told her. "It's not like a sweater. I don't even have a receipt." As soon as I got off the phone with Heather, I called Jean. She refused to take back the pigs. "But you don't even have to give me my money," I told her.
"How do I know what you did to 'em?" Jean said. "There's nothing worse than traumatized pigs. Sorry, hon." I searched the Yellow Pages for pet stores, feed stores, even John Deere salesmen-anybody who might know what to do with a couple of illegitimate swine. I finally found a feed store 20 miles north that was willing to take them off our hands.
I called Heather and told her the deal. Then I called Cameron. I brought her up to speed on everything, and since Ron still refused to let the pigs in his car, she agreed to drive-on one condition: We go to the mall afterward and pick out her real Christmas present.
When Heather answered the door, she was practically in tears. "I tried to get him out of the closet," she said, "but he got scared and ran under the couch. Now he won't come out. I'm afraid if I move the couch it'll crush him." I spent the next 20 minutes face down on Heather's wood floor, taking futile swipes at the pig, who stayed tauntingly out of arm's reach.
Finally, I got so frustrated I lifted the couch up on its side. The pig scampered into the corner, where it peed and trembled with fright. This was too much for Heather. She collapsed in an armchair and burst into tears.
Then the strangest thing happened. As if compelled by some inherent fealty, the pig waddled over to her. She reached down to pet it, but before she could-before she could fall in love with the little monster all over again-I scooped him up, dropped him in my laundry basket and raced down to the car. The rain had intensified overnight. Sections of the interstate were closed from flooding. So were most of the local streets.
After an hour of detours and near stalls and wrong turns, we made it to the feed store. I assumed I'd spoken to the owner over the phone, but it was merely a woman who worked the register. She planned on giving the pigs to her two sons for Christmas. I couldn't imagine they'd have gotten much otherwise.
Even that wasn't enough to appease Cameron-not after slogging through the feed store's gravel parking lot in her designer jeans and leather boots. We never did go to the mall that afternoon. But when I came back to Tampa following Christmas break, I brought with me a one-of-a-kind, handcrafted pewter pendant necklace. Damn thing cost me 100 bucks. Cameron, of course, hated it.
As for Dan, I didn't speak to him for an entire week. It was another week before he finally spoke to me. To this day, he has yet to forgive me for not getting our money back.