One Great Big Melting
Most days, Oden was a dishwasher, but today, it was his turn to shear a woolly mammoth.
The mammoth’s name was Lolly. She was in her usual spot, lying on her side in the middle of the shallow Blaxacat River. The flow from the waterfall nearby cascaded into her dam-like body, squeezing through a passage between the rocky bank and her sleepy head.
Oden had never sheared Lolly alone. It’s not like the procedure was anywhere near as intricate or exhaustive as what he did at his last job, but Oden never even grew up with a cat or dog, let alone a wooly mammoth. His kitchen supervisor’s words ran like a news ticker across his brain. Don’t forget to bring Lolly a present when you first see her—she likes big sticks and donuts. Make sure to never approach Lolly by her tusks or tail. If Lolly trumpets at you, say something back or she will get offended.
It was considered a privilege by the rest of the staff at Wooden Flower—Blaxacat, North Carolina’s world-renowned five-star restaurant—to be assigned to Lolly Duty. Oden was beginning to understand what the 300-page NDA he signed was for. Every winter, global elites would come to indulge in desserts garnished with mammoth wool without even knowing it. Lolly’s wool sat like spun sugar atop scoops of gelato, and golden isomalt butttercream cakes, and ghost chocolate mousse tarts. The wool had the consistency of cotton candy, with the taste of fried honey, and a hint of citrus.
Once every two weeks, a lucky server, or host, or cook, or dishwasher like Oden, got to spend the afternoon in the restaurant’s privately-owned woods with Lolly, who was enamored for her trunk hugs and the way she kicked large river stones around like soccer balls. Like every giant animal, or mythical creature, or monster, or whatever Lolly could’ve been categorized as, she had no idea how big she was, which was equally cute and terrifying.
Oden had with him a dozen donuts from Honey Pot, and a pair of XL duty single bow hand shears. He did just as his supervisor told him and set the donuts down by the water’s edge, a good few feet from where Lolly was snoozing. He took a few steps back and waited for Lolly to wake up.
First to come to life was Lolly’s trunk, which kneaded the air in the direction of the donuts. Then her visible eye, small and black like an obsidian pallino, scanned the bank for the smell her wriggly trunk had picked up.
When Lolly got up, it was like a boxcar getting out of a bathtub. The river rose with her, like Moses, like she could’ve forklifted the entire town of Blaxacat between her tusks. The impact of Lolly getting to her feet sent waves and rain to the shore where Oden was standing. He backpedaled to avoid Lolly’s storm, but tripped over a slippery rock, landing squarely on his ass.
Lolly caught the box of donuts before the pastries got swept away in her self-generated riptide. She wrapped her trunk like a boa constrictor around the wet cardboard and lumbered towards Oden. Her cratering footsteps shook the ground underneath them. Oden had to consider that he was being set up. Perhaps it was Lolly who was going to turn Oden into an item on the menu. Her mighty hoof a steam press. Maybe she would craft Oden into a nice crepe or quesadilla.
Oden was used to occupational hazards, but nothing as intimidating or evident as being trampled by a woolly mammoth. His previous job had its fair share of risk, but most of its risk was under the surface. Literally and figuratively. Oden was the sandman for a frac crew back in Doom, Pennsylvania. There was no telling what chemicals lay dormant in his lungs and in his bloodstream.
Lolly stopped mercifully short of flattening Oden into breakfast batter. She dropped the box of donuts just short of Oden’s feet, raised her trunk like a soldier tipping a rifle to the sky, and bellowed.
Oden had forgotten to open the lid of the donut box. He held a hand up to Lolly and said, “My bad, big girl.” He scooted forward just enough to open the soggy box for Lolly to see her treats.
Inside the box was actually nine donuts, not twelve. Oden had eaten three on the drive over. His supervisor mentioned that Lolly liked sprinkles but wasn’t a picky eater otherwise. Oden had his donut guy put sprinkles on the donuts without sprinkles, and extra sprinkles on the donuts with sprinkles.
Oden stood where he could see the donuts in their box, making sure they looked all right. River water slowly leaked through the folds of the box. Most sprinkles stayed attached to their frosting and glaze. Some sprinkles floated like alphabet soup in the thin layer of water at the bottom of the box.
Wait for her to finish, his supervisor had told him. Even if it takes an hour or two.
So, he did. “Yeah, good girl,” he said as Lolly rolled each donut in her trunk and brought them down to her mouth. He hoped his tone didn’t come off as patronizing. He wasn’t really sure how to talk to a woolly mammoth.
Lolly didn’t waste any time, swallowing each donut whole, one by one. Glittery silver lights stirred in her eyes like flurries of snow. Oden’s supervisor did not mention how pretty Lolly’s eyes were. Maybe Lolly was romanticizing about the Ice Age, her dear, distant home. Somewhere nice and cold.
Oden felt a sense of accomplishment. It was a feeling he thought he’d lost long ago. Not that he hadn’t been good at his last gig. He was damn good at it. You needed a reliable tech at your site—Enter Sandman. That’s what his crew called him almost exclusively—Sandman. Out of respect, but also because they knew he was a metalhead (though Metallica wasn’t personally heavy enough for his taste). Oden went from making six figures as a lead operative for a lucrative oil company to making minimum wage as a kitchen lackey in the Enchanted Forest. His crew probably would’ve had a good laugh about it—where he ended up. That is, if he was still in touch with them.
When she’s done, put your hand on her cheek. Tell her she did a very good job.
Oden held the side of Lolly’s head in his cosmically small and inconsequential human hand. He smoothed the bristles of her cheek—like petting damp shag carpet. A mildew stench flooded his nose. Mildew and burning. Like a laundry room. Lolly was almost too warm to touch. How happy could a woolly mammoth be in Blaxacat of all places? Clearly, Lolly fared well enough to the Earth’s rising temperature, despite all of her ancient ancestors perishing in the heat of the Holocene. Or maybe she just had more perspective than other mammoths. For as long as the world had existed, it had always been melting. That’s what life was—one great big melting. Always had been, always would be. Like any creature, Lolly must’ve had a fundamental understanding of neglect. Still, she probably would’ve been better off in Antarctica, or the frigid backcountry of Northern Canada, or at least Maine in case she wasn’t permitted to travel internationally.
Definitely not in Doom, Pennsylvania though. Where the water was copper, and the air was clotted with acidic dust. Lolly’s cavernous lungs would fill up with chemical-dyed sand like two hourglasses. Maybe it would’ve been hospitable in Doom back when Oden was a kid and it used to snow, but that was twenty years ago. Now in the winters—it was just a long, steady rain. There were no more white Christmases—only gray ones.
Just shear a little off the sides. Enough to fill a bucket will do.
Oden had meant to bring a bucket, but as it stood, he was woefully bucket-less. The only container he had was the empty donut box—tattered and damp and internally bleeding with river water. Oden would have to shear as much as he could carry.
Maybe the shearing would cool Lolly down a bit. Oden’s supervisor mentioned that Lolly probably didn’t feel it at all. At least while it was happening. Sometimes she’d scratch at her phantom wool, but that was it. The description of the process sounded eerily similar to a mosquito bite—how you didn’t know they were ever there until the itch and the bump after. Oden didn’t want to think of himself as a parasite. Especially since he could’ve very recently been labeled as one. That’s what Ivy used to call fracking, anyway—parasitic.
Oden didn’t really think twice about what he was doing when he was stationed in Doom. In his mind, he was a hired gun. A mercenary. A machine. And if he didn’t do the job, someone else would’ve happily stepped in and done it for him. He wasn’t naïve to the effects of his work—environmental, health, and otherwise. It was just that he was good at compartmentalizing. One of America’s greatest values.
Ivy wasn’t good at compartmentalizing and had the emotional poker face of a toddler who doesn’t get five extra minutes at the playground. Oden had met her at an underground death metal show just outside of Doom. Most women that Oden met in the area didn’t venture far outside of country radio. Oden was just eager to talk to a kindred spirit, regardless of his attraction towards her.
Ivy was on tour with the headlining band, taking pictures and doing some graphic design for them. She was exactly the type of girl that Oden’s mother would’ve claimed to have the devil in her—more metal than a scrapyard pierced on her face and horror movie tattoos from her forehead down to her feet. The band she was covering was one of Oden’s favorites—a band called Sepsis Amputation. He and Ivy quickly bonded over their mutual fandom of the band in between opening sets, sharing a joint together outside of the venue.
They got to talking about their lives, and naturally Oden brought up what he did for a living.
“Wait, that’s totally fucked,” Ivy told him.
“What is?” Oden asked.
“Dude, fracking. Fracking is fucked.”
“Maybe. But is it any worse than deforestation? Microplastics? Food waste?”
“You’re seriously making the argument of which poison is the worst? Poison is poison, man.”
“I think we all have a carbon footprint a couple sizes larger than the shoes we walk around in. That’s what I’m saying.”
“So, you’re a nihilist?”
Oden snickered. “Maybe. I don’t know. I was kind of hoping to not say anything else that would make you think less of me.”
“My opinion of you should be the least of your concerns.”
She held the joint between her tattooed fingers, a ribbon of smoke unwinding into the night sky.
“Do you think I’m an evil man?” Oden asked her. The question came out less facetious and more naked than he intended. He didn’t mean to invest in Ivy’s answer, but her immediate pause had Oden’s heart doing all kinds of gymnastics.
“Why do I get the feeling that you’d gain some sort of satisfaction with me telling you yes?” she asked him, smirking in a way where Oden couldn’t tell if she actually hated him or if she was just teasing him.
She must’ve not hated him too much. They stood together for Sepsis Amputation’s set, minus the times when Ivy went to go get a good shot or Oden went slam dancing into the pit.
After the show, they walked the pastoral backroads of the county line, passing the sleeping cows in their hilly pastures.
“I’m sure you know about the old mining town, Eternalia. Only about an hour outside of Doom,” Ivy said.
“Never heard of it,” Oden admitted.
Ivy scoffed. “Of course you haven’t.”
Oden could practically hear her rolling her eyes.
“My family lived in that town for generations. Born and buried. My parents got married in a gazebo behind town hall,” Ivy said. “The mayor officiated it. Some guy on his lunch break from the parks department was there as a witness.” She laughed.
“The charms of small-town America,” Oden said, laughing too.
“I was born there too. Would’ve grown up there if not for the fire.”
“What fire?”
“The Great 1996 Eternalia Mine Fire,” Ivy said with sarcastic flair.
Oden stopped to light a cigarette and think. He leaned against a wooden fence, contemplating the smoggy night sky for any recollection of some big local fire. A quiet moment passed. Oden kicked a stone and handed the cigarette to Ivy.
“It’s ironic how it started,” Ivy said. “The town hired firemen to burn trash to help clear out the landfill. By the time they put the fire out, it was too late. The fire had already spread underground into the mines. There was nothing they could do to stop it. It’s been burning ever since.”
“For thirty years straight?”
Ivy exhaled smoke. “Yep. No signs of slowing down anytime soon either.”
“So, what happened to the town?” Oden asked.
“It’s still there,” Ivy said. “It’s just the people that aren’t.”
Oden wasn’t sure what to say. Something consoling, probably. But only if it came off as genuine. Not like pity. Pity—the counterfeit bill of emotional currency.
“You could still drive through up until a couple years ago. Now all the roads are blocked off. The potholes are like hot springs.”
“I guess that explains why I’ve never been up there,” Oden said. He took a drag until the smoke got in his eye. He blinked until he was teary.
“One day, someone will start a fire big enough to burn this entire planet. If I had to guess the culprit based on history and empirical evidence, I’d bet it’d be somebody like you. Someone in your position, I mean. But it could also be somebody like me. It could be anyone. We’re all fucking this up all the time. Someone will start a fire, and it will never go out. Only spread. Only grow taller. And eventually, we’ll all be engulfed in flame,” Ivy said.
“That’s the most metal shit anyone has ever said to me,” Oden said.
“I’m not being hyperbolic,” Ivy said.
“Now you’re the one whose sounding kinda nihilistic,” Oden said.
Ivy looked at Oden. Her eyes were as sunken and dark as tree hollows.
“If I was a nihilist, I wouldn’t be talking to you,” she said.
Oden wasn’t sure exactly what Ivy meant. He should’ve asked her, but he didn’t. They didn’t talk much more about the climate after that. Somehow, they meandered back to the venue. Sepsis Amputation was outside eating slices of pizza off paper plates soaked through with grease. The drummer drew a smiley face in grease on an empty plate and handed it to Ivy.
“Can I call you sometime?” Oden asked Ivy.
Ivy took a bite of her pizza. She pinched threads of loose cheese from her chin. “Why?”
“I usually don’t like talking too much,” Oden said, rubbing the back of his neck, “But I like talking to you.”
Ivy washed down her pizza with a swig of Miller Lite. Oden offered her his phone. She traded him her beer and typed her number in. In Oden’s contacts, next to Ivy’s name, she had added a tombstone emoji.
She probably would’ve gotten a real kick out of seeing Oden hanging out with a woolly mammoth. Maybe would’ve even been impressed. Oden felt silly to want to tell Ivy about it. He felt silly to think of her at all. It’d been a year, and she still crossed his mind on occasion. Even in a couple of his dreams. She was hardly more than a stranger. Oden wished he would’ve called her. Even just to say hello and hang right back up. But he never did. The moment was never right, and then it passed.
Oden snipped at the overgrown fur on Lolly’s pillar of a front leg and prayed that she didn’t punt him all the way back to Pennsylvania. As he trimmed, he collected the fallen tufts with his other hand. Rust brown fuzz piled in his palm like the seed fluff of a marsh full of cattails. Lolly stared apathetically forward—the same dissociative look of a zoo animal tolerating human attention. She knew the drill.
Oden had heroic thoughts of freeing Lolly back into the wild. He just needed time to form a plan. The plan had to be as approximately nonsensical as the circumstance of a woolly mammoth living in the 21st century, so Oden had his work cut out for him. The only escape Oden could provide Lolly was underground. If he could get the old crew together and drill a tunnel wide enough to comfortably accommodate a woolly mammoth’s passage, he could build a discrete superhighway and take Lolly anywhere on the planet that she wanted to go. He was more than just someone who knew how to take the world apart—he knew how to build it too. He just never really got the chance.
His kitchen supervisor didn’t say anything about proper goodbye etiquette for Lolly. If he was supposed to say something or give her a hug or a wave. Oden was mostly an Irish exit kind of guy. It was nothing personal. He just didn’t like to linger. He left Doom without saying goodbye. He left his crew without saying goodbye. All he left was a sticky note on the door outside of his office. I don’t have it in me anymore, boys, the note said, I don’t know what’s next, but probably something in the South. At the bottom of the note, Oden signed his name—Sandman.
But saying goodbye to Lolly was something that Oden wanted to do. It wasn’t like the restaurant expected him back at any time. As long as it takes, his supervisor had told him.
Short of returning Lolly to her prehistoric frozen tundra, Oden had another idea.
“Don’t move,” Oden told Lolly. “I’ll be right back.”
Lolly narrowed her eyes skeptically.
“I promise!” Oden shouted as he hustled to his truck.
He hopped in, tossed Lolly’s clump of wool in the cupholder, and cranked the stereo. He left the woods and re-entered the decisively less spellbinding outside world. The rat race of interstate traffic.
Oden passed grids of powerlines woven as intricately as spider webs. Plumes of smoke from factory chimneys like slow-erupting volcanoes. Bubby’s House of Beef billboard as tall and majestic as a redwood tree.
Oden pulled off the highway to the nearest Sir-Gas-A-Lot. A woman was sitting outside spitting snuff into an empty water bottle. Beside the woman was a freezer full of ice. Oden dug through the freezer, looking for a bag with some heft to it. Every bag was seven pounds—premium ice. After making his arbitrary selection, he brought the bag inside. The cashier was reading a magazine about hunting rifles. Oden lay the ice on the counter. Just as the cashier set down his magazine, Oden said, “Wait!” He went outside to grab another couple of bags.
After returning with the extra bags of ice, Oden went back outside and grabbed a couple more bags of ice. And then, a couple more.
“You building an igloo or something?” the cashier asked.
“Or something,” Oden said.
The entire checkout counter was covered in ice. The cashier told Oden to stop bringing them out. He’d charge him for the first 20 bags and leave it at that. Fuck it, Oden thought. He bought out the entire freezer. Paid for all 37 bags in cash.
The cashier and the woman sitting outside both helped load up the bed of Oden’s truck. He tipped them both a hundred dollars and went on his way.
Oden’s favorite Sepsis Amputation album—Momentary Consciousness After Decapitation—raged from his speakers. Banshee shrieks over a hailstorm of drums and swamp ogre riffs. Oden sang along. More aptly, he screamed along. He’d gotten good at it—the screaming. Reaching into the deepest well of his chest and bringing up the wild and torrid heat that perpetually lay within him. He screamed until his neck was swollen and his throat was torched. And then he felt better for a while.
Lolly hadn’t ventured far from where Oden left her. She was munching on a pinecone—most likely as part of a balanced meal with the donuts she inhaled earlier. Oden tore open the first bag of ice. Cubes spilled out of the plastic.
“I brought you something!” Oden said.
Lolly side-eyed Oden as he brought the bag of ice to her side. He made sure to stand out of range of Lolly bitchslapping him with her trunk. She continued to loudly munch on her pinecone.
Oden made a platter with his hands and presented the ice to Lolly. He waited for her curiosity to pique. The crunching quietly subsided and stillness became the gravity that held Oden and Lolly in place.
“It’s your favorite,” Oden said. “It’s premium.”
Lolly snorted.
“Yes, that’s right, big girl! I don’t know if it’s glacier quality or anything, but it’s cold!”
Lolly had no discernible reaction. Perhaps she was intrigued. Or she considered one measly bag of ice as an insulting joke and preferred to have the other 36 bags Oden had hauled with him to recreate her winter wonderland.
Back and forth Oden worked. He carried as much ice in his arms as he could bear. He ripped open the packaging and dumped the ice among the rocks while Lolly gazed stoically ahead like the bow of a mighty ship.
Oden kicked the large pile of ice around to spread it out. He wanted to create a patch of ice large enough to make a bed fit for a woolly mammoth. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best he could do. Maybe Lolly appreciated the gesture or maybe she found the gesture to be lacking in nuance.
He wasn’t sure what he waited around for—a thank you? Lolly hadn’t squished him or impaled him—those were gestures that probably constituted gratitude. Really, Oden didn’t know anything. He just wanted Lolly to feel a little more at home.
Eventually, Oden sensed he overstayed his welcome. Lolly probably wanted her space. Before he left, he looked her in the face, straight on, for the first time. He noticed the curvature of her tusks—like giant parentheses. Their frosted white color—like icicles. Icicles that would never melt.
Paul Dickerson says, “I am a writer, librarian, and professor based out of Cleveland, Ohio. My work has appeared in 3Elements Review, Glint Literary, Typishly, and Semicolon Lit. Follow me on the pop culture blog I co-author—I’ll Take That Applause.”