Sleepwalk With Me_ And Other Painfully True Stories - Mike Birbiglia [28]
These conversations could go for hours.
A few years ago Patti and I decided to meet the bears from our dreams in real life. We went to a place called Katmai National Park in Alaska, a remote park that can only be reached by small four-seat MacGyver-style bush planes that land on the water.
When you arrive you’re taken to what’s called “Bear Orientation.” They teach you that if you encounter a bear, you’re supposed to clap and make the bear aware of your presence. You’re supposed to shout, while clapping, “I’m right here, bear! I’m Mike and you’re a bear and we’re cool with each other.” When they told me this, I thought, Oh . . . I’m going to be murdered by a bear because that sounds like basting yourself with barbecue sauce. Like, I’m right here, bear! I’m right here, and I taste fantastic.
Later that week Patti and I went fly-fishing with a guide. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried fly-fishing, but it’s much more difficult than it looks in A River Runs Through It. There were salmon jumping out of the water—literally jumping out of the water—which is exactly what I would do if I were a fish because that seems like a great field trip. You’re in the boring water all day and then all of a sudden you’re flying in the air and you’re like, Whoa! I wanna stay here and grow legs and become a human!—which is what happened . . . over time (sorry, home-schoolers).
So, these salmon are jumping out of the water but I can’t get one with the rod because there’s this whole technique where you’re waving your arms around like an orchestra conductor. If you don’t catch one you feel like an idiot because they’re jumping in front of you and you’re conducting them but not catching them, and thinking, I should have brought a net.
I’m not catching anything and the fishing guide feels bad for me. So he catches one himself and then places the rod in my hand and shouts, “Ya got one!” And that hurt my pride, because I knew that I hadn’t.
I’m with the guide and Patti is about seventy-five yards behind us and I hear her say, “Miiike.”
Her voice had a very distinct pitch. It was the voice of a person about to be mauled.
I turn around and see an eight-foot brown bear walking toward her in the water. The whole thing was very surreal because the bear wasn’t running toward her like in a horror movie, like I will murder you! He was simply walking toward her in that laid-back bear fashion as if to say, I’m a bear, etc.
I was proud of myself because I built up the courage to say, “Guide . . . do something!” The guide snapped into action. He ran at the bear and screamed at the top of his lungs, “HEE-AHHH! HEE-AHHH!” And the bear walked away—calmly. He was like, All right . . . I’m a bear, etc.
Now, I was very relieved that my sister hadn’t been mauled, but I was a little bit mad at the guide. I thought, You didn’t tell me about the “HEE-AHHH!” plan. You just told us to say, “I’m right here, bear!” It’s like he gave me the bad parachute. Like I jumped out of a plane and everyone’s chute went off and I had been given the multicolored gym-class-parachute. And I’m flapping this rainbow chute as I fall to my death thinking, This doesn’t do anything! Except build team skills!
Watching Patti almost get eaten by a bear changed something for me. In that moment, she was no longer the older, intimidating sibling whom I feared as a child. Nor was she the distant rebel who shunned our family. She was bear food. And so was I. It turns out we had a lot in common.
GOING PLACES
My earliest aspiration in life was to sit in the front seat. The youngest of four, I spent most of my days as a kid in the way back of my mom’s station wagon as she ferried my siblings to and from school, hit the Worcester Center Galleria Mall, and sometimes stopped by her Gloria Stevens exercise classes. In a station wagon, you’ve got “the front,” “the back,” and the “way back.” Nowadays the way back is an illegal way to transport children. You’re only allowed to transport dogs, groceries, and illegal aliens in the way back, but in the eighties they were like, “The kid’ll be fine.