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Authors: Ian Frazier

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I was driving back to New York from Boston last Sunday and I stopped in a restaurant to get something to eat, and as I sat there waiting for my order to come, looking at my ice water and my silverware and the paper placemat, suddenly something struck me: I just might be on a savage nightmare journey to the heart of the American dream! I wasn't sure exactly what savage nightmare journeys to the heart of the American dream required, but I knew that since America has a love affair with the automobile, it was probably difficult to pursue a nightmare journey on public transportation. Fortunately, I had my own car, a 1970 Maverick. Beyond that, I couldn't think of any hard-and-fast requirements, so I decided that I
was
on a savage journey to the heart of the American dream, and I was
glad that it was a Sunday. That made it more convenient for me. Once I had accepted this possibility, it was amazing how I saw all of America in a new light. Insights started coming to me one after the other, and I decided to reveal them in a voice as flat and affectless as the landscape that surrounded me (I was in a relatively flat part of Connecticut at the time).
First, I realized that discount stores—you know, the discount stores you see all over the place in America —well, I realized that discount stores equal emptiness. Beyond that, I realized that different discount stores represent different shades of emptiness—Caldor's equals an emptiness tinged with a sad, ineffable sense of mourning for a lost American innocence, while Brands Mart equals an emptiness much closer to what European philosophers call “anomie,” and Zayre's equals an emptiness along the lines of Sartre's “nausea.” Next, I realized that the interstate highway system equals nihilism. Have you ever been on Interstate 75 north of Berea, Kentucky? If you have, you know the stretch I'm thinking of—it's one of the most nihilistic stretches of four-lane possibly in the whole world. Although there certainly are lots of nihilistic interstate highways in every state in this country. In California, every stretch of road—I don't care whether it's interstate or a state highway or a county road or gravel or asphalt or oil—all of it is nihilistic.
Thinking about California led me to dizzying thoughts about L.A.—L.A., where sometimes on the signs advertising used-car lots they actually spell “car” with a “k.” … L.A., a place that is so different from the East Coast. New York City, of course, is a woman. In fact, the entire tristate area, including New York,
Connecticut, and New Jersey, is a woman. But L.A.—L.A. is the City of the One-Night Stands. Or at least that's what I had heard. Just to be sure, I decided to call L.A. long-distance, my voice crying through wires across the vast, buffalo-scarred dreamscape of a haunted republic. I told L.A. that I was coming out for four days, and could I possibly get a three-night stand. They said no, sir. They said I had to get three one-night stands. Q.E.D.
I paid my check and left the restaurant and got in my car. Luckily, it started. I began to drive—to drive to nowhere on a vast blank ribbon, to drive without direction or purpose (beyond getting home sometime that evening), surrounded by other Americans, my partners in the dream, all of them sealed off from me and each other by metal and glass. It got dark and began to rain, and still I was driving. I turned on the windshield wipers, and it wasn't long before I saw in the windshield the images of all my fathers before me. I saw my great-great-grandfathers' faces—not all eight of my great-great-grandfathers' faces but, say, maybe five of them—and then I saw my great-grandfathers and my grandfathers and my father, and all the faces merged into my face, reflected in the blue light from the dashboard as the wipers swished back and forth. And then my face changed into the faces of people who I guess were supposed to be my descendants. And still I was driving, stopping only occasionally to pay either thirty cents or twenty-five cents for tolls. I was on that stretch of 95 where you have to pay tolls every ten miles or so.
I stopped at a gas station to buy cigarettes. I put eighty cents in change into the machine, and pulled
the knob for my brand—Camel Lights. Nothing came out. Then I pulled the knob for Vantage. Nothing came out. Then I pushed the coin return, and nothing came out. Then I pulled all of the other knobs, and nothing came out—a metaphor.
Then, Beckett decided to become a commercial pilot
 
“I think the next little bit of excitement is flying,” he wrote to McGreevy. “I hope I am not too old to take it up seriously nor too stupid about machines to qualify as a commercial pilot.”
—
Samuel Beckett: A Biography,
by Deirdre Bair
Gray bleak final afternoon ladies and gentlemen this is your captain your cap welcoming you aboard the continuation of Flyways flight 185 from nothingness to New York's Laguardia non non non non non non nonstop to Chicago's Ohare and on from there in the passing of gray afternoons to empty bleak eternal nothingness again with the Carey bus the credit-card machine the Friskem metal detector the boarding pass the in-flight magazine all returned to tiny bits of grit blowing across the steppe for ever
(Pause)
Cruising along nicely now.
(Pause)
Yes cruising along very nicely indeed if I do say so myself.
(Long pause)
Twenty-two thousand feet.
(Pause)
Extinguish the light extinguish the light I have extinguished the No Smoking light so you are free to move about the cabin have a good cry hang yourselves get an erection who knows however we do ask that while you're in your seats you keep your belts lightly fastened in case we encounter any choppy air or the end we've prayed for past time remembering our flying time from New York to Chicago is two hours and fifteen minutes the time of the dark journey of our existence is not revealed, you cry no you pray for a flight attendant you pray for a flight attendant a flight attendant comes now cry with reading material if you care to purchase a cocktail
(Pause)
A cocktail?
(Pause)
If you care to purchase a piece of carrot, a stinking turnip, a bit of grit our flight attendants will be along to see that you know how to move out of this airplane fast and use seat lower back cushion for flotation those of you on the right side of the aircraft ought to be able to see New York's Finger Lakes region that's Lake Canandaigua closest to us those of you on the left side of the aircraft will only see the vastness of eternal emptiness without end
(Pause)
(Long pause)
(Very long pause)
(Long pause of about an hour)
We're beginning our descent we're finished nearly finished soon we will be finished we're beginning our descent our long descent ahh descending beautifully to Chicago's Ohare Airport ORD ORD ORD ORD seat backs and tray tables in their full upright position for landing for ending flight attendants prepare for ending it is ending the flight is ending please check the seat pocket in front of you to see if you have all your belongings with you remain seated and motionless until the ending until the finish until the aircraft has come to a complete stop at the gate until the end
(Pause)
When we deplane I'll weep for happiness.
On cold, cold winter nights—when pitiless wolves come bounding across the frozen surface of Gunflint Lake, on the border between Minnesota and Ontario, now yipping and snarling, now calling in a high-pitched, keening wail, now silent and intent, pursuing a whitetail deer that they have startled from its bed, moving like shadows across the snow through the forests of alder and pine and white spruce and red osier dogwood in an easy lope that can carry them for miles without tiring—then is the best time to raise funds for the Pitiless Lamb-Murder Museum.
I am Sandy ffonville-Woof, the curator of the museum. My mother was a ffonville, from one of the first families of St. Paul, Minnesota, and through her
I trace my ancestry back to Norman nobility. My father was a huge timber wolf. (The word, by the way, is properly spelled as it should be pronounced—
woof
with a short
oo
—and I continue to spell my name the older, more correct way, rather than accept the modern corruption,
wolf
, a word I can spell but not for the life of me pronounce.) In the winter of 1928, one of the coldest winters anyone remembers, my mother was staying at her family's cabin in Minnesota's Boundary Waters. One night, right around midnight, with curtains of Northern Lights in the background, she met a huge Eastern timber woof bounding across the frozen surface of Gunflint Lake. They fell in love, and the following June they were married in St. Andrew's Episcopal Church in St. Paul, my mother wearing a gown of cream-colored tulle trimmed with Venetian lace and holding a bouquet of black-eyed Susans and baby's breath, and my father yipping, snarling, biting, and howling a high-pitched, keening wail.
I was born a normal boy except for the woofish silver-gray hackles between my shoulder blades, and I grew up in a loving crowd of uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents. I had the first go-cart in the neighborhood. It was gas-powered and could go twenty-five miles an hour. One day I drove it off the track that Grandpa ffonville had built for me and onto Interstate 35, which ran near our house, and when my mother found out she sent me to bed without my supper. I lay in bed scared to death that when my father came home he would nip me about the head and shoulders with his powerful jaws, which made a sound like two pieces
of floorboarding being clapped together. When I heard his claws click across the tile of the family room downstairs, I crawled to the far end of the bed and hid under the covers. But when I peeked out, I saw him coming through the door at an easy canter carrying a fat yearling heifer that must have weighed almost as much as he did, full off the floor. He dropped it next to my bed, and then he showed me how to find the choicest parts—the hindquarters, the loin, and the leaf fat around the kidneys. Then we took the carcass outside and buried it in the back yard.
My mother, accustomed to the usages of St. Paul society, never really fit in with the pack of ravenous, tireless timber wooves that my father hunted with. I remember when he tried to teach her how to bobtail cattle—that is, how to chase cattle across a pasture and snip their tails off at full speed with one powerful bite. She tried and tried, but lacking two- and three-inch-long canine teeth, she never could get the hang of it. My father, for his part, did not get along well with her family, and sometimes when they came by the house he would harry them across frozen wastelands for days until they dropped from sheer exhaustion. But I believe that, deep down, my parents were devoted to each other. Wooves mate for life, and after my mother died my father never took another mate. He lost himself in his work, and became one of the last great stock-killing wooves of northern Minnesota. He eluded government trappers who came from seven states to try to end his depredations, and although no sign was seen of him in the territory after 1963, he was never captured.
 
 
It was through a friend of my father, Old Three Toes of Lac Qui Parle County, that I first became involved with the Pitiless Lamb-Murder Museum. I was in my early thirties at the time, working for the St. Paul Historical Society, and dissatisfied because I felt the society did not put enough emphasis on the hamstringing of sheep. Then Old Three Toes led me, with barks and whines, to a museum in the twilit north woods of Minnesota's Boundary Waters—a museum founded in 1906 by pitiless, yipping, snarling, biting, hamstringing wooves to commemorate the slaughter of helpless, fleecy-white little lambs. I realized immediately that I had found my life's work.
The Pitiless Lamb-Murder Museum sits in a broad clearing in the Northern forest of alder and pine and white spruce and red osier dogwood. In front of the museum are the bobtailing grounds, with spectator stands and stock chutes at one end, and a practice area and special tooth-sharpening rocks at the other. Behind the museum are the pens for cattle, sheep, hogs, horses, deer, caribou, elk, reindeer, big-horn rams, dall sheep, mountain goats, varying hares, marmots, ground squirrels, rabbits, lemmings, and mice. Entering the museum at an easy lope, the visitor first passes through the Outrages in Broad Daylight exhibits. There, helpless immigrants huddle on tree limbs while red wooves made bold by hunger devour their draft oxen and mules, animals that represent the immigrants' life savings. It is midday, but the wooves do not care. There, also, gunmetal-blue wooves, five feet tall at the shoulders, with bright orange teeth, follow close behind office workers on their way to their jobs in Northern cities, breathing horrible woof-breath
down their necks. In another exhibit, you see first blue-eyed, fluffy white baby lambs with pink ribbons around their necks frolicking innocently around gentle, benign wooves. Next, you see the wooves' expressions change to interest. Then you see the wooves staggering meat-drunk, and nothing left of the lambs but pieces of pink ribbon in woof stool.
In the rest of the museum, it is night. In most of the exhibits, it is an arctic night, so cold that your nostril hairs freeze and break off. In one exhibit, there are no wooves, only woof howls, and two thousand frightened caribou. A pack of wooves have spread out over the caribou's night range, and a woof howls. The caribou run from him. Then the next woof howls, and the caribou run from him. Then the next woof, and the next, and so on until morning, when grinning wooves descend on the exhausted herd. Another display shows a blinding snowstorm, with huge flakes driven by a sixty-mile-an-hour wind. A herd of deer is yarding —standing close together in a small clearing in the deep woods for warmth—when suddenly out of the storm, as if they were part of the storm themselves, without warning leap pitiless Leonard Woof, Virginia Woof, and Thomas Woof, their hackles hoary with snow, cruel teeth bared, plumes of steam blowing from their flared nostrils. They bring down many more of the deer than they could possibly eat, apparently just for the fun of it!
Wooves, pitiless wooves, my ancestors, now driven to the extreme places of the continent!
Thanks should go to the National Trust for Historic Preservation and the Tandy Company for the generous grants that have enabled the museum to continue
its work, and that sponsored the clinics at the museum for wooves, coyotes, and coydogs. With help, the museum does what it can, remembering that nothing anyone could do today will ever bring back the age of unchecked predation by wooves.

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