The Ways of His People

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...The dancing bear yawns grandly, maneuvering on the ball until he is flat on his belly. Hail, great spirit, he says. Our meeting is fortunate, for John Bennington has many questions to ask regarding the ways of his people. 

“Then he shall ask them,” the ancestral spirit says, “and be answered.”

But the scout says nothing. Hearing the spirit speak the names of parents he has never known has caught him off guard. For a moment, there is only the sound of recorded moaning and the leaky-tire hiss of the smoke machine. The ancestral spirit clears its throat. The bear is irritated. The dreaming Pekinese rolls over on its back and bicycles the air with its paws.

For example, the bear interjects, John Bennington may wish to learn the wisdom of the Homeowners Association. Tell him how a strict observance of yard-waste disposal guidelines helps to maintain harmony with nature.

“And property values,” the ancestral spirit says.

That, too, the bear says.

“No,” the scout says, finally finding his voice. “Tell me why my people left me at the Gavin’s Point boardwalk to guess the weights of drug addicts.”

The ancestral spirit looks momentarily cowed. It pretends to be distracted by an e-mail on its cell phone. “Are you sure you would not rather ask another question?” the spirit asks. “About your place in this world, perhaps? Have you no wish to access the volumes of cultural insight bequeathed to you by your people?”

Tell him the parable of the independent subcontractor and the hornets’ nest, the bear says.

“Yes,” the spirit says. “That’s a good one.”

“No,” the scout repeats. “Why was I abandoned?” The Pekinese suddenly stirs. This exchange is unexpected, and worth being awake for.

It is not your people’s way to ask such direct questions of their ancestors, John Bennington, the bear says. It makes them uncomfortable.

“I do not know our ways,” the scout says.

“That is why I am here,” the ancestral spirit says.

“Why do they flee?” the scout asks. “Are they in danger?”

“Ours is a story of constant discomfort, of annoyance that knows no end,” the spirit proclaims in a voice meant to carry over the crackle of back-yard terra-cotta fire pits and the chewing of Caprese-salad skewers. “Dilapidation makes us uneasy,” the spirit explains, “and passé architecture offends us. We search for new exclusive and ergonomically designed playgrounds as one might look for a sun that has already set, a moon that is always new, for no place is ever truly ours and ours alone, to lounge in as we please in safety and in peace.”

“What the hell does that mean?” the scout wants to know. But he knows.

 From "The King's Teacup at Rest" by Michael Andreasen, as featured in The New Yorker.