works by w.pham

works by william pham, 2005-present

The Tiger in My Room

I woke up with a tiger lying on top of my legs. It was licking its paws and paying no attention to me at all. I was very surprised. There is no context that can explain this kind of situation with any level of rationale or logic. Even if there was a reason for a tiger to be on the loose, there was no reason for it to be in my apartment, and even less of a reason, less than no reason whatsoever, for it to be lying on top of my legs and licking its paws, and at the very least, the tiger could acknowledge my existence in some way. In the end, that's something we all want, I think: acknowledgment of our small existences. We know, some better than others, that we are essentially the plastic and metal in a pinball machine that we have no control over; we disagree on who's playing the pinball machine, maybe there's no one at all, but we agree that our realities are subject to circumstance, coincidence, and chance, for better or for worse.

That's not to say we have no free will. At the very least, we can decide the theme, the framework, of our particular corner of the pinball machine. Do you remember The Princess Bride, that cheesy fantasy movie from the 80's? "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die" and "As you wish" and so on. It's one of my favorite movies, even to this day. Adventure, comedy, self-referentiality, Fred Savage: what's not to like? I watched it for the first time when I was probably around five or six years old, and I've watched it many, many times since then.

Growing up with an older brother and sister had its advantages. My brother taught me how to read, and both of my siblings had their own small collections of books that I often borrowed from. There was The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and Ender's Game, and a lot of Piers Anthony novels with dirty parts that my brother and sister warned me away from but I read them anyway, sneaking the paperbacks into my room and skimming through them for the dirty parts when I was supposed to be asleep.

Anyway, the tiger. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I spent five years at a four-year university but this institution did not have a Tiger Handling department and it never offered any seminars on Tiger Handling; if it had, I probably would've taken it. I took a class on vampires once. It was a huge mistake. There was no practical application of vampire theory. But I suppose I was still better prepared to handle a vampire than a tiger. Stakes, direct sunlight, that kind of thing. However I was pretty sure that if I tried to stab this tiger with a stake I wouldn't get very far -- probably I would end up dead -- and tigers don't really mind sunlight. This particular tiger was actually kind of relaxing in the morning sun that filtered through my windows. It was still licking its paws. The tiger was either oblivious to me or ignoring me with an unknowable tiger intent.

My legs were very numb. It was past the sharp pin-pricking sensations and now it just felt like there was no blood in my legs at all. Tigers are heavy. Later on I did some research and learned that the average female Bengal tiger can weigh in at a range from two hundred and fifty pounds up to about four hundred pounds, give or take a few. I didn't know that at the time, but she definitely presented an extraordinary burden on my skinny legs, and I'm sure my IKEA bed wasn't happy about that much additional weight. The only reason my legs weren't completely crushed was because the tiger wasn't trying to crush my legs. It, or she, was only relaxing. I hoped that she wouldn't relax much longer. I imagined deep purplish-blue bruises spreading across my thighs like cold fronts on the Doppler radar. But there wasn't much I could do. If I agitated her, she could snap my neck with a gentle slap. Her paws were huge. They never looked that big at the zoo or on the nature shows with the narrators with vaguely British accents.

I thought about my options. I could try, very gently and with as little sudden movement as possible, to extract my legs from underneath the tiger's massive and powerful body. I could wait it out and hope the tiger got bored of sunbathing in my room and went away to wherever she came from. I could try to reach my cell phone on the nightstand next to the bed and call 911 or whatever agency is in charge of taking care of tigers that break into people's apartments and lie on their beds.

Instead I started talking to her.

"Hello," I said, very politely. Yes, I was being inconvenienced, but there was no reason to sacrifice civility. It was the tiger's complete lack of respect that bothered me more than its actual presence, except for the whole crushing-my-legs thing, which was the number one problem. "I realize that you are a tiger, and I am a person, and you might be a little angry that we are destroying your habitats and forcing you into uncomfortable situations, but I am not one of those people. I love tigers. One of my favorite animals, right up there with lions, wolves, dolphins, and falcons. I am not entirely sure how you got here but I'm willing to help you to get wherever you want to be, because I can't see how my bed is the ideal place for a tiger, especially when I'm already in it. Also I haven't been able to feel my legs for a long time and they may be bruised."

The tiger looked at me. I looked at her. She lifted her body slightly. I moved my legs out from underneath her then pulled back my comforter to inspect the damage: surprisingly, none at all. I stretched out my legs to the side, making sure not to make any sudden movements. I looked at the tiger again.

"I suppose there's nothing to do now but thank you. That was very considerate of you. I really do appreciate it. I know you can't understand me and there was no causal relationship in me talking to you and you lifting your body enough for me to move my legs, but it's the proper thing to do, isn't it? In any case, I'm going to brush my teeth and I promise I don't have any guns hidden anywhere and I don't want to sell you on the black market for your fur or anything like that." I smiled at the tiger and went into my bathroom. I turned on the water and waited for it to become hot, then splashed several handfuls' worth on my face. I found my razor, held it under the water for a few seconds, then shaved without any cream or lather. I brushed my teeth, rinsed with mouthwash, then flossed. I washed my face again then stared into the mirror above the sink for about five minutes. Maybe the tiger was gone now. Maybe I was imagining things.

I walked back into my bedroom. The tiger was still there, reclining on my bed with a sort of tigerish austerity. There was no malevolence in her bright yellow eyes, but I didn't exactly feel any inclination to walk up and hug her, either. Instead I simply looked at her for a while. She was, all in all, a beautiful tiger. The eyes, of course, were the first thing I noticed. Her fur was layers and layers of colors and stripes, cloud white and jet black and a subdued tan-orange, and she obviously spent a lot of time on personal grooming. Eventually she yawned and I stared at her great teeth, as sharp and brutal as the daggers of ancient gods. But the gesture wasn't a threat. She just felt like yawning. At least, that was what I hoped.

"Look, tiger, you're probably enjoying yourself, I know the weather's great right now and all, but I still have to get on with my life, so I'm going to take a shower and get dressed and I promise you can lie there as long as you'd like, but there aren't any gazelles or antelopes or anything here for you to eat, so eventually I think you may have to leave. But for as long as you're here I'll treat you just like any other honored guest." I spoke in as calm and level a voice as possible. There was no reason to be angry, and no reason to make the tiger angry.

I showered. I dressed. The tiger was still there, waiting for me. I told her I was going to get some coffee from a place just down the street and come right back, as if she were a child and had no concept of distance but understood fully what it meant to lose, to feel loss. I passed by people on their way to work, on their way to the same coffee shop, or to the laundromat, or grocery store, or any of the charming little cafés in the area that served breakfast. I waited in line behind several people, then ordered my coffee from a cute girl in an apron, and flirted with her in an ambiguous sort of way that neither intimated outright desire nor civility merely for the sake of civility, and waited for my coffee next to the people who had been ahead of me, and on the way back from the coffee shop I passed by more people, everyone on their way to something, some kind of concrete destination with some kind of definite goal floating in their heads. I did not mention the tiger to anyone.

She was still lying on my bed when I returned. My apartment is small, modest, but well-kept. There is a living room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom, with no hallways, merely rooms connected to rooms. I work in the living room and sleep in the bedroom. I rarely have guests, but I keep my cabinets and refrigerator well-stocked just in case. There is no television, only the computer that I use for writing, browsing the Internet, conversing with friends, and listening to music. There are few decorations except for stacks of paper; stories waiting to be submitted, stories waiting to be read by others, stories waiting to become stories in the proper sense. I am a writer, I suppose you could say.

But when I sat at my computer and stared at the blank whiteness of my word processor program and drank my coffee, I had no words to offer it. My conscious mind, like a lazy fisherman who maybe also has a headache, refused to operate its nets properly. I leaned back in my chair and drank half of my coffee in one long series of gulps. I turned around, having decided to wash my face again, when I saw that the tiger had moved her base of operations to my living room floor.

"Hello again. You've decided my bed is no longer suitable for your purposes?" I asked cheerfully.

The tiger did not respond. Again, that tigerish austerity, like a tiger queen. The title was not inappropriate; she had a certain air of royalty to her. If a stranger happened to observe the scene, he would certainly have assumed that it was I, not the tiger, who was intruding. Although this was not a proper demesne for a tiger, and could not provide for all of a tiger's needs, she seemed completely at ease. I hoped she had not urinated on my bed.

"You'll find that my home is not a place of many entertainments. For instance there is no television where you may turn to the National Geographic Channel and watch your brothers and sisters hunt upon the savannah, or perhaps you enjoy watching cooking shows, especially when they are preparing fresh meat. But regardless there is no television. When you are bored and wish to leave, you do not need to worry about the usual formalities; just let yourself out." I smiled at the tiger then turned back to my computer screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I typed out a few sentences, then immediately deleted them. I typed out new sentences then deleted those as well. I drank the rest of my coffee. This was not going well. The general rule is that every word is valuable, but I realized this now more than ever, when every word has a monetary value assigned to it in addition to its meaning and the presence of what it signifies. Context, connotation, and definition were subsumed by a very real need for financial stability.

I left the apartment for more coffee and when I returned the tiger had not moved. She was licking her paws again. Her tongue was long, bright, and pink. She must have come from a zoo, to be in such amazing health, and also I lived in the middle of a city. Jungles and savannahs were very far away from my world of multi-national chain retail outlets and charming cafés and coffee shops. I sat down at my desk and checked my e-mail. One of the editors at a local magazine had okayed a proposal for a story about a recent upsurge in graffiti artists in the area. I started to write the introduction to the story. Names, phone numbers, and locations formed hazily in my head as I typed. The story would not be a difficult one; it was a generic profile piece. The difficulty would lie in getting the interviews, as the artists were known to be secretive, and demanded anonymity beyond their assumed personas. But the lack of legality lent an air of controversy to the topic, and magazine readers loved controversy. Any inconvenience in dealing with the police would become part of the story. Graffiti held no special place in my heart but I was more than capable of writing about it.

I finished typing the introduction. I picked up my digital camera with the intention of leaving my apartment to take preliminary on-site photographs, but when I stood up from my chair the tiger was sitting on her haunches in front of me as if to say, "You are not leaving here right now because I will not permit it." I knew this because when I took a step forward she began to growl a low, menacing growl that reverberated in the living room of my small apartment. I wondered if the neighbors could hear it, but probably they would assume that I was listening to music with a lot of bass. I was surprised at myself when my initial reaction to this threatening growl was not fear, but indignant and barely-restrained anger.

"Tiger, I have been very kind and respectful to you thus far even though you are the intruder here, you have invaded my home. You have not harmed me but neither have I harmed you. If you are hungry you are welcome to leave and find food, because I have no food suitable for a tiger here. In fact I mostly only have condiments, oils, herbs, and sauces. Hardly the sturdy fare that a tiger demands to fuel her tiger exertions. But if you are not hungry and instead think that simply because I have allowed you to stay here, that you now have some say in the running of this meager home, then you are sorely mistaken. You are a tiger and I am a person and I will not tolerate disrespect from you. You may threaten me with your powerful teeth and claws but I have work to do, and in the end it is you who is a stranger in a strange land." The words came out in a rush. When I finished speaking, I wanted nothing more than to reach for my coffee cup, but I had to stand my ground.

The tiger regarded me with a cool expression. I took a step forward. She moved onto all four of her legs and roared at me. I blinked, and sat down in my chair facing her, admitting defeat for the moment. I almost took my cell phone out of my pocket and called 911, but for a reason I am not entirely sure of, I stopped myself. Despite the fact that the minor inconvenience of having a tiger in my apartment had now escalated into a very major inconvenience of being trapped in my apartment by that tiger, I did not really want to see her shot full of tranquilizer and netted and shipped to a zoo, her delinquency and defeat apparent to all of the other tigers. They would make fun of her. They would tear her down, this queen, they would trample upon her pride and they would enjoy every second of it. I could not allow that to happen.

"If only you could speak, then we could reach a mutual understanding," I said. What did the tiger want from me? I had no idea; how could I have any idea of what went on inside a tiger's head? I barely knew what was going on inside of my head at any given moment. I wanted to consult a friend, or an acquaintance, anyone would have sufficed, really, but I did not want to reveal to anyone that there was a tiger in my apartment, that this tiger was holding me under house arrest by tooth and claw. If I could not consult a friend or an acquaintance, then there was only myself, and a very uncommunicative tiger. I resorted to my last defense.

I started to write. Not about graffiti; that would have to wait. I wrote about a tiger in my room and the story began like this:

"I woke up with a tiger lying on top of my legs. It was licking its paws and paying no attention to me at all."

I wrote a hundred words, then two hundred, then five hundred, then a thousand. I turned to look at the tiger. She looked back at me, and I was sure that she was smiling a very tigerish smile. I continued to write.

"The tiger did not respond. Again, that tigerish austerity, like a tiger queen. The title was not inappropriate; she had a certain air of royalty to her."

As I wrote the uncertainty of the morning vanished and I forgot about the moment when I had stared at my computer and could summon no words, no meaning from the various corners of my mind. In a tiger appearing apropos of nothing in my apartment there was some kind of meaning, some kind of truth. As I wrote I became more and more sure of it.

"The tiger regarded me with a cool expression. I took a step forward. She moved onto all four of her legs and roared at me."

There was certainly something there. The truth in a tiger. I paused for a moment and rubbed my fingers, then turned in my chair to look at the tiger, to thank her for the inspiration. But she had disappeared. The front door was wide-open; the breeze of the early afternoon floated in, carrying with it the end of the morning.

I stood up and walked over to the front door. I looked outside, almost expecting the tiger to be there, waiting for me on her haunches. But she was not there. She was well and truly vanished, as suddenly as she had appeared. Like the girl in a Beach Boys song, she was here one moment and gone the next. The only proof of her existence was in my words.

The truth in a tiger, a tiger queen.

There is always a tiger in my room if I look for her, even though she was never there in the first place.