How A Cow Eats

Devi Sherman

Shadow covered half a puddle, the other half reflecting the few stars visible through the late winter fog. A dim alleyway in an already sparsely lit city was lonesome trodden by a man, choking on steps down the street. With each increase in pace, his shadow grew taller, swallowing trash cans, hungry mice—everything.

A small flame flickered from a Zippo lighter, pulled out of a damp jacket pocket by a pair of shivering hands. Three flicks, and then a puff of smoke finally rose to a relieved sigh. Breaking onto the sidewalk of an eerily quiet main road, the man met another absence of light, sitting where the buses used to run in the daytime. Furrowing his brow, he imagined who this other night traveler might be—a sorrowful man like himself, a vagabond in search of some solace in the night, or perhaps someone with simply nothing better to do.

His train of thought was interrupted by the croaking of a voice, “I had thought I was the only one out here tonight.”

The man coughed, “I should say the same.”

Walking closer to present himself as a friendly figure, the man rubbed his eyes; whoever emitted this deep resonance became no larger with proximity. Instead, upon reaching this stranger, the shadows hiding his features lifted, unveiling the demeanor of a humble frog.

“What are you waiting for?” beckoned the frog.

“I'm not sure,” he answered, “nor have I ever been.”

“Is a cow sure why she grazes, or does she simply do so until the farmer calls?”

The man didn't grasp the question; no one had asked him much of anything before, anyway.

He took a seat next to the frog, slumped forward, as his cigarette spat out its last few smoke signals—SOS.

“She isn't,” the frog said plainly.

The man straightened his posture and turned towards the conversation fully.

“Neither am I, though you didn't ask,” the frog continued.

The man locked eyes with the pavement briefly before looking up, “So many dark, curtained windows; sleep comes so easily to others.” Pointing at the bus stop signage now, he added, “It's silly waiting for something we know won't come.”

The frog chuckled heartily, finally looking the man in his eyes. “There are open windows, too.”

The frog gazed into the night, “It could come.” The two paused.

“It could. Or it could not,” the man pushed back. Noticing the awkward silence, he said,

“The night is relatively young.”

“It is.”

“Would you walk with me until something does come?” he asked, “beats waiting for the wind chill to kill us both…” though someone out here could just as well.

The frog simply nodded again—with a slight smile this time—and stood up on his back two webbed feet, with an arm extended outward.

The man stepped forward, driven by what little confidence he could muster. They made their way down the streets: the squeaking of boots, followed closely by tiny plaps echoing out.

Trotting on, the man and the frog spotted an arch in the distance, encompassing the entirety of the road they walked on, creating an underpass. Despite being adorned with ornate detailing on every bit of railing and bolstering, the bridge had become a warm enclave for less savory creatures of the night to recluse. The man and the frog met eyes, finally reaching cover, like soldiers retreating from battle. They found themselves in a new world, safe from the cold despite the scent of burning trash and a haze of smoked herb.

The man felt the allure of his surroundings, his eyes dotted with reflections. He and the frog were quickly caught off guard by a scuttling and squeaking in the drains: below them slept a cat, paws wrapped around a chunk of deli meat. To its right, a mouse crept slowly and scantily to claim the food for itself. The man thought to himself how foolish such a risk was.

Sections of walls in the overpass were lined with rodents and other miscreants, huddled together. In breaks between groups, scribbles marked the place like a museum for the homeless and powerless, only viewed by passersby and others of the same sort. The images were pretty, though crudely rendered, almost resembling cave paintings. The man scoffed and motioned towards the walls, “These people are starving, but still have time to draw a picture.”

The frog closed his eyes, “How fortunate are the unfortunate.”

The man ignored that thought, spotting the end of the tunnel. They sallied forth into the elements while bumping music grew louder and louder. The two reached a swarm of strobing lights and booming drums—an empty niche where a party must have ended, though the speakers were still left going. The man thought of how it might feel to dance.

“Care to?” asked the frog.

The man, intrigued, ventured into the lights with the frog. They began to dance and spin until they could no longer tell where they had danced or spun—until freezing limbs became well-oiled machines. Finding their way out of the haze once more, the man felt winded. Coming down from a laugh, he realized he could no longer recognize his surroundings. He looked to the frog, who shrugged slyly.

He wondered why he’d trusted the frog to begin with. Then again, he hadn’t much to lose. What’s a frog to do with his limited belongings, anyway? Parade around as a disheveled man? Unlikely.

Walking down an unfamiliar road, he surveyed the open windows, though most led only to dark rooms, circulating fresh air. A few, though, opened into lit rooms: cracked views into the lives of others: a lover’s song, a radio station broadcasting news, a late-night shower.

The man slowed as he began to wonder who these people were; he had been another open window before. The sides of these apartment buildings were scattered with hundreds of windows—hundreds of lives.

“What satisfaction is there to be found in the pursuit of mundanity?” asked the man.

“Maybe it’s not a pursuit at all,” answered the frog, “or maybe it's just the chase they crave.”

Crave, he thought, what a nasty word.

“The only absolutes in life are: birth and death,” he barked before muttering, “the in between is all murky.”

“Semantics,” the frog suggested, and the man nodded.

With bits of steam blowing from his ears, he began to pick up the pace down a slight decline in the road. Looking back, with shoelaces flopping about like wet spaghetti, he fell forward as if he had hit a trip wire. The world tumbled around him as a dryer spins around a brick. He finally came to a halt on flat ground: the coarse, unforgiving asphalt beneath his bare hands, while he stared up at the sky. He used to know the names of constellations as a boy, but had since forgotten—the light pollution didn’t help matters either.

The frog popped into his peripheral, peering down. He didn’t want this moment to last any longer than it had to and sat up to brush the loose gravel from his chest. He felt his way out of the street and back onto the sidewalk. Stumbling to his feet, he glanced forward: a dead animal. Was this the conclusion to their night? He tiptoed forward for a closer look. Nothing left, nowhere to go, and unrecognizable, the carcass lay rotten behind a street sign. Despite whatever struggles the animal had taken to make it all the way here, it had wound up the same way every living thing does: alone—except for the flies swarming its body for the putrid scent of rotten meat.

The man turned to see what the frog had made of this—if this was what had awaited them. Before he could make another sound, the frog—on all fours now—hopped away with a ribbit, into the night’s now unending darkness.

From the other side of the street, the man was blinded by headlights. Flushed by the hiss of pistons decompressing and the whoosh of a folding door’s open, he found his way onto the city bus. He settled into a seat, and the bus chugged along, its destination unclear—the illuminated display had gone dark with no next stop to read.

So it was night, and with no place to go, the man decided finally never to decide again.