Aardvark With An Arrow by Marian Allen
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Everybody had aardvarks that year, remember?
One cute aardvark hologram on the etherwaves had sparked a dozen more, then the merchandizing kicked in, then the 'waves were littered with nodes celebrating the wonderfullness of all things aardvark.
ReeMarie had that hit single, "Your Aardvark Eats The Ants In My Heart" so, naturally, ReeMarie had to have one. The wonder is she didn't get a dozen. No, the wonder is the poor animal survived.
I'm responsible for that. Celebrity aardvark wrangler is not what my parents had intended for their son, but the job market popped up along with the craze. Ant breeder was another big job boom, but entomology was never my strong suit. I'd rather herd a 150-pound mammal than deliver 25-pound boxes of ants and termites to the back entrances of pet shops and McMansions.
I just happened to be window-shopping at the pet store when ReeMarie popped in on a whim. The aardvark on display was still a cuddly baby, mostly hairless, all wrinkly, with those big rabbit ears and no claws to speak of yet, so its little pink paws looked like stubby fingers.
"I thought they had hair," ReeMarie said, pulling her head back from the display tank and scrunching up that handsome nose of hers.
"They do, when they're grown," I said. "Hair, and claws that can rip through concrete. They weigh up to 150 pounds, full grown."
I hoped all that would discourage her, but she said, "You seem to know all about 'em. You work here?"
"No. I work ... elsewhere." I worked at a fast food joint, but I didn't need to tell her that. "I just always liked aardvarks."
"Before my song?"
"Yes." Then, being no fool, I added, "More, after your song, though."
"I don't know a thing about them." She said this as if it would surprise me, so I acted surprised. She stared at the little guy in the tank for a while, then said, "I ought to have one."
"You could get a stuffed one." Then I heard what that might imply and said, "A plush one, I mean, not a real stuffed real one, obviously. Maybe one to match each outfit you wear."
"That's fake," she said, curling that cute upper lip. "There is nothing whatsoever fake about me." She rolled her shoulders, making the rolly bits below her shoulders roll, too. "You want a job? Taking care of it? The aardvark? For me? I was going to look for somebody in the Yellow Pages, but I like it that we've met face-to-face. Besides, this makes a better story for the reporters."
She named a monthly salary twice my current yearly take, and I pretended to consider it for a couple of seconds, then agreed.
The pet shop carried a full range of aardvark supplies, so she arranged for a water bowl, a feeding station, a padded sleeping den and a week's worth of ant/termite mix to be delivered to her local home. She also bought an off-the-rack harness and leash, though she planned to have him measured weekly and new hand-tooled and bejeweled ones made as he grew. I put the harness and leash on him, but tucked him under my leather jacket and carried him in my arms.
She named him Valentine. Taking my plush suggestion, she had outfits made for him to complement hers: leg warmers, collars, hats, T-shirts, necklaces, belts. He tolerated it all. Aardvarks are actually good-natured, if they're raised by hand from a young age.
But you know that. And you know how I became a minor celebrity myself, as ReeMarie's Valentine's wrangler. And you know how I nudged ReeMarie into becoming a champion of animal rights, and about the books I wrote on aardvark care and training, and the kids' book, VALENTINE'S BIG ADVENTURE, which ReeMarie illustrated -- who knew she could draw so beautifully? -- with all proceeds going to the Aardvark Rescue League.
Then the fad passed. Aardvarks went out of favor, and it didn't take more than a year. As I told ReeMarie, they get big -- BIG -- and they live for over twenty years. Most of the people who bought real ones during the craze lost interest in the animals when the fashion moved on to pangolins.
"I can't be out of date," she told me, when she handed me my pink slip. "Plus, I'm established now. I don't need a gimmick. It just makes me look like I'm grabbing for attention, and I don't need to do that."
I couldn't just walk away, though. "What about Valentine?"
"He's yours." She handed me an envelope. "I thought you might ask. Just in case you did, I had these drawn up. I transferred ownership of Valentine to you. And ownership of that little place I bought in Indiana for him to play in."
That little place was five acres of woodland with a house and barnyard. It was amazingly generous.
"Thank you. I don't know what to say. Thank you."
She looked away. "You're a good guy. I'm gonna miss you. I'd keep you on, but I don't need the aardvark."
By "aardvark", she meant "expense". Fame is almost as fleeting for singers as it is for exotic pets. ReeMarie's revenues were sinking and her retinue needed shrinking. If she wanted to hop out of the category of Flavor-of-the-month and try for Industry Icon, she needed to simplify her profile, cut back on costs, trade extravagance for gravitas.
She smiled. "I'm gonna miss Valentine, too. Just when I was getting into him." She had been spending more time with us, taking refuge with his quiet snuffling, quizzing me about his habits and preferences and peculiarities.
She gave a laugh with no amusement in it. "The things we do for success, huh? Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it."
A whole waterfall of understanding cascaded through my brain and washed away all my cluelessness.
"Listen, ReeMarie," I said. "You've taken care of me these months. Paid me well, and paid my way. I've got money in the bank." I flapped the envelope with the deeds in it. "And now this. If the time ever comes.... If the time ever comes that you want off the merry-go-round, there's a man and his aardvark waiting for you in Indiana."
She smiled straight at me, then, those gorgeous eyes shining. "I'll keep that in mind," she said. "I most certainly will."
And she did.
[/caption]Everybody had aardvarks that year, remember?
One cute aardvark hologram on the etherwaves had sparked a dozen more, then the merchandizing kicked in, then the 'waves were littered with nodes celebrating the wonderfullness of all things aardvark.
ReeMarie had that hit single, "Your Aardvark Eats The Ants In My Heart" so, naturally, ReeMarie had to have one. The wonder is she didn't get a dozen. No, the wonder is the poor animal survived.
I'm responsible for that. Celebrity aardvark wrangler is not what my parents had intended for their son, but the job market popped up along with the craze. Ant breeder was another big job boom, but entomology was never my strong suit. I'd rather herd a 150-pound mammal than deliver 25-pound boxes of ants and termites to the back entrances of pet shops and McMansions.
I just happened to be window-shopping at the pet store when ReeMarie popped in on a whim. The aardvark on display was still a cuddly baby, mostly hairless, all wrinkly, with those big rabbit ears and no claws to speak of yet, so its little pink paws looked like stubby fingers.
"I thought they had hair," ReeMarie said, pulling her head back from the display tank and scrunching up that handsome nose of hers.
"They do, when they're grown," I said. "Hair, and claws that can rip through concrete. They weigh up to 150 pounds, full grown."
I hoped all that would discourage her, but she said, "You seem to know all about 'em. You work here?"
"No. I work ... elsewhere." I worked at a fast food joint, but I didn't need to tell her that. "I just always liked aardvarks."
"Before my song?"
"Yes." Then, being no fool, I added, "More, after your song, though."
"I don't know a thing about them." She said this as if it would surprise me, so I acted surprised. She stared at the little guy in the tank for a while, then said, "I ought to have one."
"You could get a stuffed one." Then I heard what that might imply and said, "A plush one, I mean, not a real stuffed real one, obviously. Maybe one to match each outfit you wear."
"That's fake," she said, curling that cute upper lip. "There is nothing whatsoever fake about me." She rolled her shoulders, making the rolly bits below her shoulders roll, too. "You want a job? Taking care of it? The aardvark? For me? I was going to look for somebody in the Yellow Pages, but I like it that we've met face-to-face. Besides, this makes a better story for the reporters."
She named a monthly salary twice my current yearly take, and I pretended to consider it for a couple of seconds, then agreed.
The pet shop carried a full range of aardvark supplies, so she arranged for a water bowl, a feeding station, a padded sleeping den and a week's worth of ant/termite mix to be delivered to her local home. She also bought an off-the-rack harness and leash, though she planned to have him measured weekly and new hand-tooled and bejeweled ones made as he grew. I put the harness and leash on him, but tucked him under my leather jacket and carried him in my arms.
She named him Valentine. Taking my plush suggestion, she had outfits made for him to complement hers: leg warmers, collars, hats, T-shirts, necklaces, belts. He tolerated it all. Aardvarks are actually good-natured, if they're raised by hand from a young age.
But you know that. And you know how I became a minor celebrity myself, as ReeMarie's Valentine's wrangler. And you know how I nudged ReeMarie into becoming a champion of animal rights, and about the books I wrote on aardvark care and training, and the kids' book, VALENTINE'S BIG ADVENTURE, which ReeMarie illustrated -- who knew she could draw so beautifully? -- with all proceeds going to the Aardvark Rescue League.
Then the fad passed. Aardvarks went out of favor, and it didn't take more than a year. As I told ReeMarie, they get big -- BIG -- and they live for over twenty years. Most of the people who bought real ones during the craze lost interest in the animals when the fashion moved on to pangolins.
"I can't be out of date," she told me, when she handed me my pink slip. "Plus, I'm established now. I don't need a gimmick. It just makes me look like I'm grabbing for attention, and I don't need to do that."
I couldn't just walk away, though. "What about Valentine?"
"He's yours." She handed me an envelope. "I thought you might ask. Just in case you did, I had these drawn up. I transferred ownership of Valentine to you. And ownership of that little place I bought in Indiana for him to play in."
That little place was five acres of woodland with a house and barnyard. It was amazingly generous.
"Thank you. I don't know what to say. Thank you."
She looked away. "You're a good guy. I'm gonna miss you. I'd keep you on, but I don't need the aardvark."
By "aardvark", she meant "expense". Fame is almost as fleeting for singers as it is for exotic pets. ReeMarie's revenues were sinking and her retinue needed shrinking. If she wanted to hop out of the category of Flavor-of-the-month and try for Industry Icon, she needed to simplify her profile, cut back on costs, trade extravagance for gravitas.
She smiled. "I'm gonna miss Valentine, too. Just when I was getting into him." She had been spending more time with us, taking refuge with his quiet snuffling, quizzing me about his habits and preferences and peculiarities.
She gave a laugh with no amusement in it. "The things we do for success, huh? Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it."
A whole waterfall of understanding cascaded through my brain and washed away all my cluelessness.
"Listen, ReeMarie," I said. "You've taken care of me these months. Paid me well, and paid my way. I've got money in the bank." I flapped the envelope with the deeds in it. "And now this. If the time ever comes.... If the time ever comes that you want off the merry-go-round, there's a man and his aardvark waiting for you in Indiana."
She smiled straight at me, then, those gorgeous eyes shining. "I'll keep that in mind," she said. "I most certainly will."
And she did.
