The Tiger At The Truck Stop

The Tiger At The Truck Stop


By Sarah Heyward

“It was then that I saw the sign for Grosse Tête — a billboard with a cartoon of a smiling tiger’s face. Tiger Truck Stop! See Live Tigers! Because of my name, tigers have always been my favorite animals. Back in Maryland, I slept with a ratty old stuffed tiger I’ve had my whole life, probably since before my mom died, not that I can remember back that far. I must have tortured that thing when I was little, dropped it in the tub or stuck its whole face in my mouth, because both its eyes and one ear are missing. But I’ve always loved tigers, the way they move, the way they look: my namesake. Until this summer, I’d never seen one up close.

I reached over and nudged Lucas awake. He’s used to me waking him up for no reason, and he just turned and blinked at me, not saying anything. I told him we were going to see a real tiger at a truck stop. He said it had to be a scam, like Dinosaur World back in Kentucky. We paid ten dollars to get in and see the Second Largest Dinosaur Attraction in the World! It was a bunch of pathetic papier-mâché things and a postcard shop. We took some funny pictures and in a moment of warmth I bought a stuffed dinosaur for Charlotte, but even I had to admit the whole thing was a waste of money. Still, there was no way that I could see that a live tiger could be disappointing.



Exit 139 off the highway and we were in Grosse Tête, Louisiana. I pulled the car onto a pebbly clearing with two ancient gas pumps, a concrete building that said ICE in the window, and a cage off to the side with peeling white bars. As soon as I had parked, I hopped out of the car, leaving Lucas to deal with the gas. There were people gathered around the cage, a couple with their kid and two other boys who were maybe thirteen. I skipped over to where they were standing, but they were so crowded together I couldn’t get a good look. I used my shoulder to nudge one of the boys out of the way so I could press my face against the bars. Peering in, I saw that the floor of the cage was covered in sand. In one corner, there was a structure shaped like a doghouse. In the other was a plastic palm tree. There was no tiger that I could see. When I took a breath, my mouth filled with the smell of wet hay.



The two boys walked away and I stood where they had been standing, and then, finally, there she was: a solid-looking lump pushed up against the back corner of the cage. I was instantly relieved that this wasn’t another scam I had dragged Lucas into, that I had been right, there really was a tiger at a gas station in the middle of Louisiana. But then something in me tightened; I felt carsick, or dizzy from the heat. The tiger was there, but she also wasn’t there. She was so dirty it was like a cloud of dust was emanating out of her. I couldn’t see her stripes at all, couldn’t tell what was sand and what was her body. There were chunks of fur missing around her neck and head so that her skin showed through in sad little patches. She wasn’t moving, didn’t even look like she was breathing, ignoring the flies that stung at her face, her tail not even twitching but just coiled behind her like a dead snake. The sun was scorching hot that day, and I wondered why she didn’t sleep in her little house where it had to be cooler. I put both my hands on the bars and shook them so that my bracelets jingled against the cage. She just lay there in her soiled patch of sand, her body worn, sagging, defeated.



The little kid standing next to me started wailing, and the two teenage boys were gone, and Lucas was filling the gas tank, so it was practically just me and her, this wild beast, this thing, this tiger, live in Louisiana! Dust and sand were everywhere and I could hear people shouting over at the gas pumps. They sounded very far away. The air had that hot shimmer to it, like you could see the air itself, the way you can only at gas stations or on highways, and only in the summer. I swatted away the flies that whined in my ears and wondered how the tiger had gotten all the way to Grosse Tête and whether she was going to live and die there in her cage like everything else in this town and like my grandmother had, just one state over in Texas.”





“I thought of the matted fur of the gas station tiger and felt like I was going to throw up. “

http://www.fivechapters.com/2010/the-tiger-at-the-truck-stop/