Life of Pi

Prologue
This was written in an effort to vent some pent up frustration caused from work. It was not intended to be a blog- but, when my mom found it, read it, and then read it to my dad, I figured what the heck. ( At least he got a kick out of it)

Inspired by Life of Pi

Today I was attacked by a Bengal tiger. Not a deadly blow, but the sheer volume of his throaty roar turned my bones to liquid. My defiance flared, my blood simmered, and I stood. The stare returned by the beast made me balk. He was mad. I was no match against a tiger. He broke his hypnotic eyes from mine, distracted for a moment by a flying fish that had clumsily found itself caught in the crossfire between two seething creatures. I took what precious moments had been granted to me and fled to my safety raft. 25 feet of rope allowed for a 25 foot distance between me and the cat, with a double twisted knot tethering the two worlds together. Feeling the bruise where he had struck, right around my heart, I briefly considered slashing the life line that kept us uncomfortably close. The message being sent across the gap was made clear by the fixed stare and low growl of the tiger. This. Is. My. Territory. You. Listen. To. Me.

Today I was Pi Patel. Today my boss turned into a Bengal Tiger. Today was a hard day for a boss’s daughter. Tethered to the loading dock, amidst the hustle and bustle of rolling carts, surrounded by a sea of green, and always under the watchful eye of management- AKA- Bengal Tiger, the time was bound to come when territorial claims must be made, rights must be given, a voice must be heard.
The attack came unprovoked. Carts were properly assembled, we were on schedule, garbage did not abound in the work space, it was smooth sailing to 7:00. But of course, when do the big cats begin to stir? At dawn and dusk. We were pushing dusk, and the boss emerged from his lair. For the untrained eye, a quick scan of the dock’s activity would cry out chaos. Tractors buzzing in, trailers flying out, carts- endless amounts seeking safe haven through the gaping jaws of the ever hungry transport trucks- and the people. People everywhere. But to the trained eye the sight brought a surge of pride and relief- the peak of the days work was about to be reached, the winding down process was around the corner, the last stretch was beckoning…
THIS IS ALL WRONG! but the.. LISTEN! I DON’T CARE WHAT THE PAPERWORK SAYS!! Oh. why do I use it.. SHHHH!!! …..the time had come. Between my overtired, stressed, and intensity driven father I had overstepped my territory due to sheer personality. I am a smart ass. When attacked, I do not immediately step down in a reconciliatory manner. ( If I may just add, not in any means of self- praise, but as pure fact- my father WAS wrong) Accused of screwing up an entire order- and knowing the accusations to be false and unfounded, I was in no uncertain terms Pissed Off. But what can one do in the face of Richard Parker? Scream back? Certain death. Turn my back? Sudden death. Ignore his ominous presence? Against my nature. The only viable option was to stay rooted in position, clamp my mouth shut, and deal as much damage with my glare that was within my capacity. To think an ice storm on the 15th of May. I was chilled to the bone by the returned gaze. Option two would have been a bit warmer. Within seconds the ice spell was broken by the slam of the door. Parker had returned to his lair.
Small victory for Pi Patel.

Day 2.
The ice storm was proceeded by a crisp wintry gale- hardly the ideal weather for spring shipping- due undoubtedly to the spat that occurred the previous night between boss and boss’s daughter. All further encounters decidedly dropped the temperature, so they were either avoided, or kept to a bare minimum. To sum up the day in a word- Silent.

Day 3.
Pi has been reservedly perched on his life raft for 48 hours. Ample time to brew things over, sufficient time for an angry cat to calm himself. I unconsciously decided to grab ahold of the metaphorical rope that kept us distant, and over the course of 9 hours, managed to pull myself within a distance that at least allowed for communication. The breeching point came unexpededly, and I owe it all to a pigeon. He came a few days ago, a stranger in a foreign barn, and he amused me. I named him Bert. He is a steady companion. My father thus entered the barn while I was cooing at my new friend. He thought I was nuts- and absurdly I mumbled ‘ his name is Bert…’ That was it. The ice was broken. I smiled. I don’t know what made me do it. I was bent on being pissed off for at least another full day, or until said apology was made…but who has that kind of will power? Who coos at a pigeon? Case closed- we are back to being Ted and Rebecca. Undoubtedly Richard Parker will rear his terrible head again, and Pi Patel will inevitably resurrect, but for today- I’m content to just be Ree.