Oola: the Great Bear Scare of Littleton

Each year, there are 3 ½ fatal bear attacks in North America. No fatalities have occurred in metropolitan areas, but could it be just a matter of time before one does? More bears are coming into cities excited, as they easily are, by the smell of garbage, the sight of jars marked “honey”, the sound of pickle-ball boink! and the touch of double-ply toilet paper. When semi-meat-eating beasts descend upon human population centers, there is no telling what carnage might occur. There’s no telling, but we can hazard a guess. 

When one such semi-meat-eating beast began menacing the Littleton suburbs outside of Denver, concerned village people gathered at the gambling emporium known as the Mirage to share their horrors. Share their horrors and haphazardly guess at what dangers their furry future held. 

The fortune teller arrived thirteen minutes later than expected.

Exactly as she predicted. 

Yvonne Neverman-Ragusa, our fortune teller, had not frequented the Mirage of late. Her sneakers have not snuck or stuck upon the sticky foyer since last football season when she read Long Island Iced Tea leaves to forecast game outcomes. Win or lose (mostly the latter), her prognostications were not appreciated by the local bookie who sent the booger-eating mouth-breather of a bouncer to escort Yvonne outside. Don’t come back. Yeah, yeah, well now she’s back. Bookie & bouncer were nowhere to be seen on this night, much to her relief. Tonight’s return was not as a tarot reader or a quarterback whisper or even as a bottom-shelf bon vivant, but as one of many concerned residents of nearby Hidden Alley Ranch who were alarmed at the increasingly maniacal activity of the bear rampaging the local suburbs. A bear whose tales had become myth. A bear whose elusiveness hinted at something supernatural, or, dare we say?, an illusion. 

This meeting at the Mirage gambling emporium was not officially sanctioned by the HOA. The Hidden Alley Ranch Homeowners Association was commonly referred to on the street as “a bureaucratic ouroboros; a serpent sucking its own dick to spin endlessly to no one’s benefit but it’s own eternal meaninglessness”. No. Fuck the HOA was the collective sentiment. If anyone was going to protect the community, it was going to be the leaf-blower & pitchfork & torch-bearing country-clubbing village people themselves! Huzzah.

Yvonne ordered a glass of cheap wine at the bar. Your hardest chard, please. Put it on ice, she added. 

The Mirage had an open setting, allowing voyeurs from the central bar to have 360 degree line of sight to the pool tables on the east end and the wall of darts on the west end. Near the south exit is a dance floor where Boomer grandmothers dance to a live band covering forgotten country songs. One young lumberjack at the bar departed his friends with the words “time to churn the butter” before walking out onto the dance floor. The young lumberjack made space amongst the boomers and began his dance, churning imaginary butter. Someone lost a bet, the fortune teller presumed. 

Freshly wined, Yvonne turned towards her neighbors and traded subtle gestures of acknowledgement with little further interaction. Then Lena arrived. At the sight of her friend, Yvonne’s charm lit-up. They traded mock barbs of varying vulgarness and embraced in a hug. Their speech was loud & rapturous, comfortable in each other’s presence. When’s the last time you shampooed your hair?, was asked & responded to with a, fuck you. And so on. Lena, in her slightly-accented English, mentioned the craziness of it all. Yvonne, having sat on a pun all day like a hen waiting to crack a joke, responded, I know!, I can barely bear it! 

(Groans all around.)

Unconsciously untying & retying the cashmere noose around her neck, Lena inquired after Yvonne’s brother. Is he in Colorado? Yvonne admitted her brother, Victor, was here. On the premises, no less. In the pisser, as a matter of fact. They discussed his private life, which we shall omit here as it is inconsequential to the story, but nothing to see anyway, only the tragic demise of his late wife due to mysterious causes: “officially” an “accident” when the late wife decided to make toast in a jacuzzi. I know!, Yvonne said to Lena’s gasp, it’s shocking!

And the house wine? How does it taste? Okay. Oaky. Splintery, Yvonne clarified, you should to chew it a while before swallowing. Lena ordered a vodka/soda. 

Family & alcohol queries resolved, the conversation naturally switched to the bear. Lena had seen the animal, but she disappeared so quickly. She?, Yvonne asked, the bear has boobs? Yes, Lena said, I have named her “Oola”. In Poland, we do not call the animal by its common name. It is bad luck to say B-E-A-R. Instead, we call them “honey-gatherers”. Our honey-gatherer is a she, I believe, Lena said, Oola. 

Yvonne then told her bear story. OMG. She had returned home from the grocery store with her trusted sidekick, the goofy-looking canine called “David BowWowie”. As soon as she opened the car door, David BowWowie ran out of the garage into the front yard. Very atypical of the dog who rarely strays out of Yvonne’s sight. Startled, Yvonne pursued her dog only to find David BowWowie in pursuit of a bear. Seeking help, Yvonne went inside the house where she cried, bear! Yvonne’s brother & her eldest daughter were in the living room. They opened the front door and went to the porch where they saw David BowWowie chase the bear across the street. Vic, without putting on his shoes, ran after the animals in his lucky fox socks, following them across the street to where David BowWowie treed a creature many times his size. Quite the intimidating yippie bark on that one. Victor reached the tree where Oola had climbed out of reach of David BowWowie’s chirps and yelled at his nephew dog. BowWowie! Go! Home! The dog had already come to the realization he was out of his depth and with Uncle Vic’s advice, David BowWowie gladly hurried home. Vic did not dare make eye-contact with the treed honey-gatherer over his shoulder and instead fled after the dog into the house. 

Yvonne & Lena agreed they did not think Oola was the lethal threat popular opinion made her out to be. Nevertheless, Vic Neverman was fortunate to not be disemboweled. Lucky fox socks or no. 

Having your guts hanging out would be a drag, Yvonne said.  

Another suburbanite, Elizabeth, materialized beside the two women. Adequately enough perfumed to override the generational smoke-stained ecosystem of the Mirage, Elizabeth made her entrance with a cat-like pounce upon Yvonne & Lena’s conversation. Yvonne had to ask, how many cheetahs had to die to make that vest? Oh this little thing?, Elizabeth spoke about her apparel, I believe it to be faux ocelot. Ahh, Yvonne & Lena ahhed. The three women spoke in a high-pitched surface-level language: guarded chatter of feigned pleasure, obligatory compliments, only lowering their voices when turning to neighborhood gossip.

Did I hear correctly?, Elizabeth inquired, your brother is in town? He is, Yvonne confirmed, who snitched? Elizabeth told her it was Yvonne’s youngest daughter. Elizabeth had been driving a gaggle of local girls home from ballet when she told them all of the excitement in the neighborhood. There’s a bear! All of the girls went wide-eyed with concern. Except for Yvonne’s youngest daughter. Instead, the 12 year old brushed it off. No, she said, my uncle is visiting. It isn’t a bear, probably just my uncle running around in a mask. He’s kinda weird like that. 

Elizabeth inquired after Yvonne’s brother’s romantic prospects post jacuzzi tragedy. In flux, Yvonne said with a shrug. You never know with him. Vic likes his women like he likes his pocket change. Loose and tasting vaguely of copper. Ha!, she laughed at the joke she had been crafting for weeks, ha. Oh fuck you guys and your rolling eyes. I am hilarious.

After recovering from her self-induced hilarity, Yvonne made mental note to warn her brother to stay clear of Elizabeth. Called “Back-Strap Betty” by the Hidden Alley Ranch moms, Elizabeth is known for discovering a plumbing leak or requiring a jump-start as soon as her husband, Eduardo, left town to go big buck hunting. In distress, Back-Strap Betty will begin phoning neighborhood dads, requesting rescue. Please come!, she’d beg, knock twice at the backdoor. She’d offer back-strap venison in return for their assistance. Just as soon as Wardo returns from the hunt. 

Hey folks!, the frosty haired realtor wearing the douchy TopGun bomber jacket and drinking RedBull & Vodka with a splash of Pepsi called for the attention of the gathered neighbors. This was Chad. Or “Twad” as he was unaffectionately called when his back was turned. Because Chad’s a twat. A twat with a cocaine habit and a pickle-ball addiction. Hey folks!, now that we’re all properly inebriated, I thought we might begin the meeting!

Having harnessed the collective attention, Twad explained everything currently known about the bear. Latest sightings. CCTV security footage. The break-in and robbery of honey from King Soopers. Was the bear responsible for stealing the honey from the grocery store? Or was it a vigilante trapper who required a lure for the bear? Police were investigating…

Yvonne ordered another hard chard. She paid in cash and the change returned triggered her fortune teller intuition. A nickel. Head up. Shit, she groaned. Jefferson. Smug motherfucker. Symbolizing liberty, freedom, sex slaves. & shit. This nickel was a bad sign. Of course, Vic would scoff at her. You have the intuition of a cue-ball, he once rudely remarked. What an asshole? Yvonne replied, oh yeah?, if by cue-ball you mean 8-ball and by 8-ball you mean magic 8-ball, you’d be right! I have intuition up to my armpits!, she insisted. She believed herself to be a human fortune cookie. And particularly gifted at tarot card reading. Yvonne didn’t even require tarot cards. Anything shuffle-able will do. Sugar packets. Soup crackers. Crackers, alright, Vic agreed. Yvonne’s brother once attempted an intervention, ambushing her when she visited him back east. Unfortunately, his exorcist had to cancel last minute. Which… fine, the exorcist was a defrocked priest anyway. Vic instead hired a yoga instructor he dated for a minute to perform a reiki healing on Yvonne. That was a mistake. You can fight fire with fire, sure; there’s only so much oxygen to go around. But you can’t fight woo-woo with woo-woo. Patchouli is infinite. At best, the reiki only managed to flare-up Yvonne’s IBS.  

Twad told the crowd he was naming the bear menace, “Tyranursine Rex.” Yvonne asked if that meant “king of piss”? No!, Twad responded with a flushed face. He really despised Yvonne. He despised outspoken women in general, but especially Yvonne. Twad explained the name meant “tyrant king of the bears”. Yvonne’s friend Lena argued against Twad’s name choice. Lena suggested the honey-gatherer was a playful juvenile female. Twad put the naming up to a vote: “Oola” defeated “Tyranursine Rex” 16 votes to 7. Oola it shall be.

What about the ephemeral nature of the beast?, one Hidden Alley Rancher asked. It is here one moment, gone the next. Could it exist on a spiritual plane?, slipping in from another dimension before slipping back out?, like Bigfoot? Or…, another Hidden Alley Rancher suggested, could it be the were-bear from Nordic mythology?, able to shape-shift from man to bear back to man again. Yes!, Yvonne liked this idea, what if Oola could shape-shift into a lady?, Yvonne wondered, one with probably very hairy legs? Could it be?, Yvonne asked, Oola is standing here among us? Ooooooh, the crowd oohed. Yvonne then mean-mug stared at Elizabeth. Bitch, please…, Elizabeth politely laughed at the implication she was a were-bear, you know you’d never catch me leaving home without shaving my legs.

How many people has Oola mauled so far?, was asked. None that we know of, was the response. But has anyone seen Steve? I haven’t seen Steve in days. Could Oola have ripped the jugular out of Steve and stuffed his corpse into a cave somewhere to feast on him? What if Steve is alive and Oola ate his tongue to keep him from calling for help? Oh no. Poor Steve. No, no, my wife just texted to remind me Steve left for Boulder on business. But do we know if he ever arrived in Boulder? No, we don’t. What about pets? Are any pets missing? Yes, of course, but coyotes take half a dozen domestic animals a week at Hidden Alley Ranch. We can’t necessarily attribute missing pets to Oola. True, true. But we can’t say without a doubt Oola is not not killing our animals. No, that much we can agree on. 

What should we do about this menace? First, everyone needs to protect their garbage to ensure Oola doesn’t get into it. What about recyclables?, what would Oola do with my garbage?, would she resell my trash on the internet?, another man’s treasure, right? And lock your car doors if you park in the street. Especially if there are loose french fries under the seat. Oh, I hear in Saskatchewan they keep their car doors unlocked. That way, if a polar bear is chasing a human, the human has a place to hide within. Interesting point! Okay, change in strategy. Everyone be sure to keep your car doors unlocked. That way if Oola is stalking one of us, we might be able to get inside a neighbor’s car for safety. Does playing dead actually work with bears? Yes, but play dead on your belly to protect your abdomen and boob job. What about my ass implants? Screw your ass – what about my hair plugs?, I’m not allowed back in Turkey! Bears are good climbers, right?, but can they outrun a bicycle?, rollerblades?

Et merda.

When Yvonne’s brother Victor finally returned from the restroom (he was waylaid when challenged to a butter-churn dance-off), the share of ideas was no less nonsensical. Introduced as an international expert of crocodiles, Vic had little to offer on the subject of man-eaters in general or bears in particular except for a history lesson on cartography. The Greeks, he had read, called the North Pole “Arctic” which means there are a lot of bears there. “Antarctica” then means nope, no bears. But how did the Greeks know there are no bears in Antarctica? Unless…

But no one was interested in Vic’s alternative history theories. No one except Back-Strap Betty who asked if he knew his way around a dip-stick. Her car, she feared, could use an oil change. And what with Wardo out of town…

The residents of Hidden Alley Ranch dispersed into the night. Few would ever see the Mirage again. Their lack of return wasn’t because they were eaten by bears, but rather, the Rocky Mountain crab-cakes did not sit well. 

Oola continued to evade capture, avoiding the honey-traps and sleeping in unlocked cars at night. She is still at large to this day. 

BOLO

Have you seen this bear?