Raccoon
EDITOR’S NOTE: Following is Chapter 35 of “Adrift in America: Diary of a Minimalist Mariner,” a work found in the nonfiction section:
Center Ossipee, New Hampshire. July 15, 1990.
In the apron of the southbound lane of New Hampshire Route 16, just south of the overpass spanning old Route 16 in Center Ossipee, lies a dead raccoon, his neck bent at an unsurvivable angle, a string of blood dried to his rectum. In the same lane just to the north lies a half-chewed hamburger bun.
“Jimmy, what did you throw out of the car?” a mother might have said to her child in the back seat with the window down.
“What?” the child probably said.
“I saw you throw out that bun,” the mother might have said.
“What?” the child probably said.
“You can’t eat the burger and throw the bun away,” the mother might have said.
“What?” the child probably said.
Oh well, the mother might have thought, although maybe not, at least the bun is biodegradable.
It is mid-July, with daily highs in the humid 80s. The raccoon will soon be gone. He also is biodegradable.
So are the mother and child.
Not so the chrome spoked hubcap, green wine cooler bottle, twin Coors Silver Bullet cans, plastic department store bag and empty styrofoam burger box that lie within sight of the dead raccoon.
I am soaked with sweat when I get back from my walk. The pines in front of my grandmother’s place have kept the truck in the shade all day, but when night comes, it is still too hot for sleep.
(Chapter 36, a different place, a different season, a kindred theme.)
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