A STORY by BILLY IRVING
Bull in Chinatown
All of this true:
— 1 —
Kensington, November, 2016. A cold day. There is a chalkiness to things. There is a white grittiness that sticks to the soles of shoes, a lumpiness where you step.
Shallow coldnesses cut through and send dust swirls and eddies aurora-like over asphalt and cement. Cold that severs and enters between zippers, between seams, between molecules of polyethylene terephthalate. And though the river still flows opaque grey, the small creeks in the pocket forests are frozen solid black. Deposits of onyx in the seams of the Earth. Fifty helicopters could tie off and pull them free from their beds, erect black serpentines vertical, like trees.
Enter bull.
Standing weary, packed with the others in a trailer that has finally stopped. A vast interior space, a loading bay, all of them bellowing half-heartedly. Steam clouds flushed through massive, wet nostrils in the way of nic-sick teenagers. An air that is thick with the cortisol-reek and the stench of blood, of waste, of man-sweat, the sweat of men who are clad in black rubber aprons and periwinkle hairnets and particulate-filtering masks, all of it blood-soaked. Of men who prepare to unlatch the trailer gate, an impending process that is characterized by much corralling and jabbing, by hard metal and loud machinery.
And here is the bull, first behind the gate. It will be his turn first.
The gate releases, and he throws his entirety against it. A musculature that ripples beneath lustrous black coat. A gate flying open hard into the bodies of men who somersault and tumble backwards, a rear guard that swarms with hard jabs of jolting prongs. It is not enough. The bull endures it and charges into it and breaks through it. He slips out of the loading bay through a space left between truck and wall.
The bull has escaped the abattoir.
They will blame the teamster.
— 2 —
Outside now.
Here is the sun.
Here is the cold thin air and the wind and outside.
Here is the overcast sky with ripples of grey and the sun behind it all—a dull yellow disk so dim you can stare—but here. But outside.
Gallop down the streets of North Philadelphia, turn left here, then right, then right, then straight.
Then here,
Which is outside,
Which is so unlike any landscape ever experienced.
Sheet of unending black stone beneath hoof.
Geometric canyon walls that reflect in dark iris and rectangular pupil.
— 3 —
The bull dodges automobiles which crawl everywhere, which bellow and moan in their own way, which were never so many before. He narrowly avoids a head-on and swerves towards a school.
Neighbors notice the bull through the windows of their subdivisions and watch with disbelief as he stops suddenly, then approaches the school, then stares into its dark glass doors. Into his reflection.
Bystanders scream in terror. Bystanders who anticipate so much shattering and goring, but it doesn’t come. The bull only stares. The bull only approaches his reflection slowly.
Who are you? You, who has no odor. You, who is dark and translucent. Strange bull, you.
Mandlebrots of fog wax and wane on the surface of the glass. Bystanders shriek. The bull snorts and springs away. He sprints back into the city.
— 4 —
Here is the bull run.
The offramp from Girard to I-95: the gentle slope of it.
For what reason does he climb? The impulse to climb, the biological imperative to seek high ground. A preference for elevation, for sightlines over and above the valley-and-ridge geography of the innercity.
For what reason does he climb? Or else, there is something about ramps. A primal mammalian sensibility to move uphill. A sensibility to which we are also subject.
For what reason does he climb? And, for whatever reason, he sprints up the asphalt hill and enters the highway against the flow of traffic.
Here cars roar past loudly and screech and blare horns and swerve and brake hard to avoid the formidable thing made of sinew and bone and keratin. Immediately, an intense bottleneck. Standstill. The bull weaves through the way dirt bikers do.
Passengers in cars open mouths and point incredulously at the animal. Arms are outstretched through windows with offerings of water, potato chips, smoldering blunts, but he charges past as if unnoticing.
Others do not find him so cute. They envision the bull charging at them and impaling the door with his horns, tearing it away and killing in one motion. They dial three numbers and receive busy signals.
Then there are some, few, who years later will solemnly recall their encounter. How he stopped beside their window and seemed to gaze through tint and salt spray. Dark eyes that absorb the world and seem to ask for nothing. Pupils that reflect some heavy guilt kept secret. This image recurs: the eyes of the bull. The bull’s contemplative and sad eyes. The eyes that looked through glass and into mind and judged. The bull described in reverent terms. Allusions to ancient cattle deities.
He trots down the road for one mile and a half, trailed by choppers. Officers swarm but can do nothing for now, save mitigate traffic and stand with hands on hips. There is much bickering and gazing into telephone screens. Officers who wish to kill, to shoot high-caliber bullets or drop bombs, to send plumes of poison gas, but the interstate is too crowded. To many casualties.
If he wanted, the bull could run straight to Florida. Could provoke unprecedented jurisdictional battles. Pennsylvania Game Commission. Pennsylvania State Police. Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Could become a nationwide celebrity, or at least a regional mascot. A safety that is secured and funded through viral kickstarters. A rural zoo or nature preserve.
If you would only keep going.
— 5 —
He exits the interstate.
Like every visitor to Philadelphia, he becomes disoriented and hopelessly lost in the spaghettified junction where I-95 meets the Vine Street Expressway.
Here is end of bull.
He wanders into Chinatown. Streets empty. Police have plotted trajectories, redirected traffic, planned ambushes. Green-clad conservation officers have arrived in decaled pickups. Uniformed men emerge from so many vehicles. They shake hands and present arms.
Bull backs wearily against a pathetic earthwork knoll, a rare un-zoned island of dirt nestled against the highway retaining wall. Sparse trees and shrubs. Grass, yellow and sad.
Uniformed men assemble in formation, an arcing flank. They kettle and approach. Think terms like phalanx and shield wall.
Bull retreats into the shadows of leafless branches, exhausted but full of fight. He prepares to charge. He well knows charging. Charging seems to work in these situations. He is heavy and can gore muscle, crush bone. He takes the posture.
There is an explosion.
It is the loudest thing he has ever heard.
Here is pain and stunned.
Blood drips from head.
What is this? What is this?
A rival bull, must be. Must have charged hard and wounded.
Stumble out of the brush, and here is a green uniform approaching fast.
Another explosion.
Front knees strike frozen ground and sink in. Blood pools in the crabgrass. Look. Where is the challenger? Hardly can see anything at all now. A redness and a stinging in the eyes and a green uniform standing over you. A man so much smaller. Where is the bull? Invisible and odorless, but corporeal. Must be a bull, massive and mean. You can still charge him.
There is a bridging of neural pathways. Synapses fire across already-established routes. Chemical and electrical signals interact. This bull, odorless and invisible. The bull in the dark glass of the school, translucent and with no smell. The bull in the tint of car windows. The bull who stared back at you with dark eyes. Your eyes, so dark, so dark. Your own eyes.
The bull who stared.
There is an explosion.
— 6 —
The story will run in tomorrow’s cycle.
The anchors, amused.
We’ve heard of a bull in a China shop,
But Chinatown?
Witnesses will be interviewed. They will recount stories from every corner of the city. Sightings that occur simultaneously but miles apart.
Where is this bull who can exist in two places at once?
Uniformed men will be interviewed too.
Eyes, dull and lascivious:
Normally, lethal force isn’t used.
There was no choice, in this case, however,
Dangerous. Dangerous.
Thank God no one has been harmed.
Billy Irving (he/him) is a writer from Delaware County, Pennsylvania. His work has appeared in the Penn Review, X-R-A-Y, and Troublemaker Firestarter. You can find him on Twitter @oneshoeistoobig or on Bluesky @bilgorod.bsky.social.