I hear whispers in the trees as I walk on mindlessly further into Terrific Spirit Park. I haven’t realized yet how long I’ve been wandering — I wonder why my body hasn’t tired yet, why my legs aren't aching and my stomach isn’t grumbling. It’s been 30 whole minutes since I ate my last meal. I'm about to starve to death.
The pink and purple casanova sky gradually disappears into darkness and I find myself completely alone. As if the stars have gone into hiding too — like all of my dreams that were flourishing before I discovered that as a white man, I was no longer relevant in this world. I have been wracking my mind for some sort of peace. I gave up on happiness a while ago after I was told I was “mansplaining Plato’s Allegory of the Cave” to my classmate who happens to be a woman.
“Look kid, I get it. You got caught stealing Oh-no’s bowtie. So? Setback? Yeah. We’ve all been there. Try another senior prank.”
I am jolted out of my reverie by a shrill laugh coming from somewhere in the darkness. I hear rustling in the trees, fear settling down around me like a heaviness. I reach into my pocket frantically searching for my weapon of choice — my Nokia, which had been weighing my jacket pocket down so much it reached my knees. I shivered.
“W-who was that?” I stammer, trying to sound dangerous. A sinking feeling in my gut tells me, however, that a scary man in the forest who somehow knows about my greatest failure is not going to be scared away by a frail 22-year-old philosophy major from Guelph who takes himself and his critique of Dostoevsky’s existentialism far too seriously.
The fear reminds me of the time I got kicked out of residence in first year. Back then, I did not think there could be more suffering in my life. Apparently smoking weed inside communal bathrooms is frowned upon. Fuck that. Fuck the establishment. I’m an anarchist.
“Oh, and this time, try something original.”
Original. The singular word sends shivers down my spine. I spin around towards the direction of the voice and see: a talking coyote. He reveals his name is Carter and he has two sons.
Have I done that thing again where I get high and forget that I smoked weed?
“How are you talking? Who are you?” I ask, nevertheless.
“Maybe I’m a phantasm, maybe I’m a figment of your imagination, or maybe I’m an actual talking coyote. You’ll never know,” he replies.
“Are you trying to tell me something, M-mister coyote?” I stutter.
“If you have to ask me that, then maybe you already know the answer,” he whispers back, disappearing into the shadows like a ninja coyote. I am left shivering and whimpering because I am afraid of dogs.
I stand there in silence — in the middle of the woods somewhere, taking in what has just happened. Had I just had a life-changing experience? Was Mister Coyote giving me a clue about how to connect with my identity and find purpose again? Maybe he is right — maybe I’m not a basic white boy after all. Maybe I can start a podcast.
I put on my AirPods and play "Mr. Brightside" as I continue walking in the darkness. Now, with newfound clarity.