Authors: David Duchovny
Holy Cow (5 page)
So I say, “I can’t shoot myself in the foot.” And she asks, “Why not?” And I say, “No hands!”
And we laugh.
And she says, “A spoonful of sugar helps the globe-warming, drought-inducing, superresistant-bacteria-creating medicine go down. Don’t forget the spoonful of sugar, sugar. We can also recommend to parents that reading this particular chapter to their children guarantees they will fall asleep immediately.”
I apologize, but I was an angry young cow at that point in my life, and fully taken with making stands against the Man. I refused to be called Elsie anymore ’cause that was what humans liked to call all cows, and I told all the other animals to call me “Elsie Q” because I didn’t know my real name, the Q standing for question mark. Clever, right? And I even had my own ready-made theme song by substituting Elsie Q for Suzy Q. I like the way you walk, I like the way you moo, Elsie Q.
And I guess the force of this revelation about my mom was too much for me and I passed out. Again. ’Cause when I woke up, Jerry the pig was eating my vomit. Don’t say “Gross,” don’t judge. We animals don’t waste anything. If one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, well, one cow’s vomit is another pig’s dinner. And I looked at him and smiled because I loved my mom again and I was free and he looked at me and smiled and said, “Deeeee-licious!”
So I was free. Ish. Yes, I was still stuck on the farm, but I was free inside, in my mind, which is the true place of freedom. I got into the habit of opening the gate at night, and with my mind-freedom came a new way of looking at things, and I looked at the latch, and it was simple to open with my tongue. Things that used to mystify me were so simple now.
And I would just open the latch at night after everyone was asleep and go wandering, usually up in the hills. Away from the bulls. I didn’t care about boys.
As I’d wander, my mind would kind of turn off and I’d go into this meditative state where I could talk to my mother. And we would have the most amazing conversations. Some were replays of old talks we’d actually had when she was with me, and some were new ones that would just come to me. Before you knew it, I would hear those stupid roosters start to crow and it would be morning. I was free, yes, but I was still sad somewhere deep inside.
One night, as I wandered through the hills, chatting in my mind with my mom over some insignificant thing like how many times you chew cud before you swallow it, she said to me, “Maybe you should go back down to the house.” I said, “I’m never going down there again, I hate people.” And she said, “Don’t hate. Hate is like a poison you make for your enemy that you end up swallowing yourself.” And I said, “Nice one, Obovine-Wan Kenobi.” And she said, “Why don’t you walk down there, maybe you didn’t get the whole story, maybe there’s more to learn from the Box God.” I said, “As if.” And she answered, “Elsie, do you know how proud of you I am? Do you know? Do you know I love you to the
n
th degree? Do you know how beautiful you are and smart and how I think about you every day and love you and no matter how long my life was, it was a good life because I had you?”
And I started to cry, again. Okay, I’m the town cryer. Guilty. I’ve never understood how love can hurt so much, but I guess it’s a different hurt from anything else. Not like a cracked hoof, more like a bear hug of the heart. But then I found myself all the way down the hill, by the side of the house.
The Box God was talking to the people. I could tell because of their obedient quiet and the flickering of the light. If you people think lambs are silent, check yourselves out while you’re praying to the Box God—passive and drooling. So I knew I was pretty safe looking through the window, because the humans were zoned out in a trance, like a night of the living dead. They were all watching something called the Discovery Channel. I know this because they broke out of their stupor long enough to fight over “channels.” I realized that the Box God is not just one god, but many gods in one box, and with a magic plastic wand, humans can switch from god to god at any given moment.
It seemed that everyone in the family wanted to worship different gods. The youngest girl wanted to worship the Nickelodeon God, the dad wanted to worship the ESPN God, the oldest, obnoxious son wanted to worship a goddess named Playboy or the Showtime God, while the mom was happy with this Discovery God. Mom won out. Everybody else except the mom and the young girl left the room grumbling, and then I realized that all humans must have a Box God in their own rooms, because the flickering lights started emanating from windows in bedrooms all over the house. What a strange god that instead of bringing people together, divides them.
So I’m kind of enjoying the Discovery God ’cause there are lots of pretty pictures of faraway lands. And it mentions that the name of this one place is India, and that seems to me a beautiful word, and then there are pictures of poverty and people suffering, but there are also cows in a lot of the pictures and I get that feeling of dread that the god is going to start showing these cows getting slaughtered and eaten again, but instead the god says that cows are “sacred” in India, which means respected and special, and he shows pictures of people being really nice to cows and even putting jewelry on them and making them look exotic and pretty. The god says that cows are considered gods themselves in this India place and that no one eats them.
Then the older, obnoxious son runs into the room, grabs the magic wand, and switches the channel to a bunch of men in uniform hitting and chasing and trying to catch a ball. And I learn that the ball is made of the hide of dead horses (cowhide since ’74—that awful summer) and each time the ball gets the slightest bit dirty, they throw it out like it’s no good, like there’s an inexhaustible supply of horses to kill to make more balls, and for all I know there is. And the thing the men wear to cushion their soft little human hands from the hard ball is called a “glove” and is made of something called “leather,” which is just a polite way of saying “the skin of dead cows.” And right before I pass out I think: Is there no end to your cruelty?
Over and over in my mind, I turn the word over and over:
India
. India. Like a jewel you might turn in your pocket. India India. I grew distant with this knowledge, distant from the other animals. I became fixated on the house and more secrets I might learn inside it. I learned what signs to look for when the family was going to be away for a while—the suitcases stacked in the car, etc.—and then I would go down to the house and continue my research. I found out so many things. I found children’s books where animals were beloved and even heroes. Even cows. Cows were heroic to the children in these books. A cow even jumped over the moon in one. Admittedly, it got unbelievable by the end and totally lost me when the dish ran away with the spoon (I mean, come on), but still, that was one bad cow.
I was confused at how people could mistreat and eat us on the one hand and then celebrate us on the other for qualities they admired. It was then I realized that humans were very complicated and confused and I could spend the rest of my life puzzling them out. I decided I didn’t have time to do that. I would spend the few years I had left on this planet trying to figure myself out, trying to figure out the mind of the cow, and if there was any time left over, then maybe, maybe, I’d think about humans again.
I found other books with maps and charts that showed every part of the world, showed me where this magical land of India was. It truly existed, this place where the people had wised up and realized that we cows were gods too. There were so many other lands and countries, more than I could memorize. I thought about how lucky those cows were that were born in India and got to spend their lives there. And then I thought: Why not me? I thought:
WHY CAN’T I GO TO INDIA?
I became obsessed. All day long, 24/7, I thought of India and little else. I grew apart from Mallory, who was swelling bigger every day, and that made me sad, but I was now a cow on a mission. I thought constantly about how I might get there. I knew it was far, far away, on the other side of the world actually, and that I would have to cross an ocean. (Ever seen a cow swim? Exactly.) And I wasn’t one of those cows who could just jump over the moon to get there. No, I had to get on a plane. Where would I find a plane? In a city. Where was the nearest city? About fifty miles away, within walking distance. So if I could make it to a city, I could make it to an airport, and if I could make it to an airport, I could find a plane going to India, and if I could find a plane going to India, I could get on it. It was a plan. Yes, there were a lot of ifs in it, but it wasn’t impossible. And it was so much better than the alternative: death, being eaten and turned into shoes, jackets, couches, car interiors, and baseball gloves.
So I committed myself to it. Operation India. I was going to wait till the end of winter, when the walking weather would be better, and then I was going to walk to the city and get on a plane. I started to believe.
But I also started to feel guilty. I would be leaving Mallory and my other cow friends and cow workers behind. Even those stupid bulls didn’t deserve their fate, same with the stupid chickens, and the pigs and horses. Keeping the knowledge to myself started to eat away at me, so I decided I had to tell someone about my plan: Mallory.
One night, when everyone was asleep again, I nudged her with my snout …
ELSIE
Mallory, Mals—wake up …
MALLORY
Ugh, I feel like such a fat cow … What is it?
ELSIE
I need to tell you something.
MALLORY
What? Why you’ve been such a bitch lately, is that what you’re gonna tell me?
ELSIE
Well, yeah … yeah. And also …
And then I told her pretty much everything I told you, pretty much the way I told it to you.
In the movie version, you’d have cool music playing, preferably a big hit from last summer, as I talk animatedly to Mallory and you see her wide eyes go even wider. Kind of a montage but not totally. Look, I’m not telling the director what to do, I am merely suggesting.
(But that would be the best way to shoot it, that’s all I’m gonna say.)
When I finished, Mallory’s mouth was wide open and I could’ve tipped her over very easily, she was that stunned. And by the way, cow tipping is stupid and we’re onto it. Maybe we’ll start some human tipping, or maybe we just feel like lying down and sleeping and don’t mind getting pushed over by the likes of you—ever think of that, genius? You know who you are.
MALLORY
OMG.
ELSIE
I know, right.
MALLORY
No way.
ELSIE
Yes way, and I am going to—
MALLORY
Shut the—
ELSIE
Overlapping
Shut the front door.
MALLORY
—front door.
There was a long silence between us. Reminded me of the old times when we were so close we didn’t even have to speak to know what the other was thinking. Sistas. Then …
MALLORY
What are you gonna …
ELSIE
Operation India.
MALLORY
Catchy.
ELSIE
Thank you.
MALLORY
You gotta.
ELSIE
Gotta what?
MALLORY
Go.
Like I said—Mals and me: sistas.
It took weeks for Operation India to come into crystal-clear focus. I had maps I had to deal with and figuring out the best way to get into the city without somebody reporting a lost cow. Once I got there, I had no idea how I was going to get on a plane, I just knew I couldn’t wait any longer. As I was sleeping one night deep in conversation with my mother, I felt something rooting around my feet. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw it was Jerry the pig. He had curlicues made of weeds dangling from his ears and he was carrying an old, tattered, leatherbound book that he held with great reverence. I believe in the screenplay this is called the beginning of Act Two:
JERRY
’Sup?
ELSIE
’Sup, yourself.
JERRY
I mean what is up? What is up with you? What is afoot?
What’s with all the maps and the whispering with Mallory at night?
ELSIE
Nothing.
JERRY
I’ll tell you what I think is up. I think you’re planning to get outta Dodge.
ELSIE
As if.
JERRY
Don’t stonewall me, cow. You’re thinking of makin’ a break, skedaddling, blowing this Popsicle stand, makin’ like a banana and splitting, makin’ like a tree and leavin’ on a jet plane, bustin’ a moooo-ve …
(Here’s the thing about
JERRY
—he won’t stop saying these obsessive strings of synonymous figures of speech till you stop him, it could literally go on forever. So to maintain my own sanity, I had to stop him.)
ELSIE
Okay. So what if you’re right, so what if I am?
JERRY
Well, did you ever stop to think of what will happen to the rest of us if you vamoose, if you fly the coop, if you go all goodbye yellow brick road—
ELSIE
You’ll be fine.