Where the Coyotes Were Coming From
Then Tuesday I found out where the coyotes were coming from. Our neighbor Amina trapped me on Hillhurst and whispered it—the guy on the corner was feeding them cut-up hot dogs.
“He sits there at night and tosses them out over the yard,” Amina said, keeping her corgi tight on the leash.
“Like feeding pigeons,” I said.
“Pigeons, I wish.” Amina’s dog hid behind her legs. “I wish pigeons, Ben.”
Pacing the Albertsons deli, I wondered why Mr. Carter cut up the hot dogs. All that consideration for maniacs that eat rabbit guts. I could see it—Carter bringing out a carving board, unwrapping the filmy pack, measuring the cuts, not too big or small. Was he worried they’d stop coming? That they’d choke? Wanted them to stay longer? Poor guy. It was pathetic. I walked the frozen food aisles and tried to find a turkey dinner with less than twelve grams of fat. Lane hadn’t been interested in sex recently, or touching me at all.
When the coyotes started coming out, I thought someone’s German Shepherds had gotten loose. They were yawning and lounging around on Finley, hanging out four in a yard. But then I got close to look for a collar and my shoulders tightened. The patchy fur. The thin faces. The poking at dog doors. It was every night now, trotting heel-to-heel past the Spanish-style rentals and the Sikh Temple. My wife and I had rescued a long-haired dachshund whose ears were always infected. I didn’t want Winnie stalked down no matter how much we’d save on antibiotics.
“Don’t call the cops,” Lane said, taking a mint edible and kicking off her work pants.
“Not the cops. Animal control.”
“These sheriffs are criminals. I listened to a report at lunch.” It sounded like she was going to get into it, but she didn’t.
“Our neighbor is luring wild animals next door.”
“Just talk to him. Reach out.” Lane said. “What else are you doing?”
My being out of work made our house tense. I was in “teacher jail” and had to email into an office twice a day while they assessed the case against me (I’d touched a student’s shoulder or something). I left the bedroom and got Winnie two scoops of her no-grain ground chicken. She looked up like, Hey, thanks man! I knocked the metal measuring cup around her bowl to get the last flecks and to let Lane know I was actually doing things.
The next morning I got a cortado at Bru and checked out the new beach photographs they’d mounted. The light was so gentle on the sand. Softer than real life. “Beaches are so beautiful,” I said. The barista smiled and steamed oat milk.
Then I went by Carter’s. I would get a quick acknowledgement and that would be that. I knew a few things about him: he had a 1958 Bonneville he never drove, got two Amazon deliveries a day but didn’t take them in until sunset (didn’t work that we could tell), and during city council elections he put up lawn signs for candidates no one had heard of. I did a friendly hop up the stairs and knocked gently to put him at ease. Carter opened the door in plaid shorts that were maybe briefs.
“Hey there!” I said, like I was about to take his coffee order. “I’m just next door.”
“Right,” he said. “From next door.”
“We’re concerned about the coyote situation in the neighborhood.”
He looked at me like it was the first he was hearing about it.
“Yeah,” I went on, “We rescued a little dachshund, so we’re worried about having those guys around. We’re asking neighbors to be careful about leaving food out.”
“Coyotes won’t hurt dogs,” Mr. Carter said and scratched his left thigh.
“Well, they’re predators and do sometimes attack pets.”
“Not really,” he said.
Not really. I’d save that for Lane.
“Just to be safe, if you could not leave any food out. We’re asking everyone.”
“Alright,” he said. “That’s okay.”
Amina was impressed I’d gone over. Someone needed to do something before a pet got hurt, or even worse, killed. “You know who I really blame?” she said, sipping a nearly white latte. “The park rangers.” I kept looking at her. She thought the city should be feeding coyotes so they didn’t have to come down from Griffith Park. If they gave them dog food up there we wouldn’t have the problem down here. She felt bad for the coyotes. “They’re just hungry and feeding their cubs—oh god!” Amina startled and I turned over my shoulder. Her corgi stood still while Winnie smelled her legs. “Our doggies are friends!” Amina grabbed my elbow and shook. They’d been working on socializing.
Lane’s Honda pulled into the driveway. I was excited to let her know it was handled and about how Carter had said not really. I had the feeling she was waiting until the investigation was done to end things, but if I could only make her laugh again things might change between us. I started up before she was all the way in the door.
“Carter was saying about how coyotes—I talked to him today, he said he’ll stop by the way—they don’t go after them, the coyotes, the pets.” I was laughing like she had laughed too.
“Liz is having birthday drinks tonight in the Valley,” Lane said, half in her phone.
“Is it an English department party? Should I go?”
“You don’t have to,” she said.
“I heard the sub they got for me is like seven feet tall.”
“They don’t tell me that kind of thing.”
I woke up on the living room chair to coyotes screaming on the street. It was that pained yipping they do, frantic, like they’re biting themselves with joy. Mr. Carter was out there, flinging hot dog chunks into his yard. Coyotes scattered around, hopping and running their Hebrew National bits back into the dark. Carter was really letting them rip. Putting on a show.
Winnie and I ran into Amina the next morning in the coffee line. She couldn’t believe Carter would keep going with the goddamn hot dogs. When people get that bent there’s no bringing them back. “It’s like turning into an alien.”
“It’s exactly like that,” I said. I looked over the shoulders of everyone by the counter to see how long it would be, even though I had nothing on my calendar for the next three days (haircut Friday).
“I can make us pour over in my backyard,” Amina said. “We just had it redone.”
The entire back lawn was dead or weeds. In the far right corner, by a patch of crabgrass, was a contemporary ceramic planter with nothing in it. I made some room on the wicker couch so Amina could wedge next to me. She put down a water bowl for Winnie and handed me the coffee. Just from looking at it I could tell the bean grounds were too fine, but I was polite.
“Chris is out on a comic book shoot.” Amina said. “He runs the cameras.”
“Wait. Chris is a cinematographer?”
She took a sip. “Marvel.”
“You told me he was a photographer. I thought he did school portraits.”
“Don’t you teach?” she asked. “You’re always home.”
“I do, but I’m taking some time off. I need space to write a feature.” For some reason I felt her husband working on movies might lead to something. I’d never written a script or anything close.
“What’s it about?”
“A hunter meets his match,” I said. It didn’t sound bad.
“That’s amazing,” Amina put her arm around my back, but I tensed. She pulled her hand off and rubbed her knee.
“I’m trying to make things work with my wife.”
“I get it.”
“You’re beautiful, Amina. Hey. Look at me.” I wanted to say more, but didn’t know much about her. “You’re beautiful and you’ve done an amazing job socializing your corgi.”
On the walk home I scrolled my phone to check the status of my teacher investigation. It was hard to navigate on the mobile version of the teacher union site. The text was too tiny and the search boxes were too close together. Status: PENDING. What was being said about me? Were my teacher friends being interviewed? Did they believe anything students said? Corey. He’d been about to attack me. I touched his shoulder to keep him in his seat. Would the other kids corroborate? Winnie’s paw clatter doubled behind me. Like she had six legs. I turned back—a coyote came low at her tail on the sidewalk. “Hey!” I pulled Winnie to me and kicked at the coyote with my right Croc a couple times. It trotted to the other side of the street. Didn’t even run. I pointed at it and screamed something frightening: “No way, buddy! No! Way!”
At home I drafted a few aggressive notes to Carter on my LAUSD laptop. (I’d briefly considered cutting out magazine letters, but I didn’t want to go to Skylight and ask which poetry chapbook had the scariest print.)
KEEP COYOTES THE FUCK OUT OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD.
I DON’T CARE HOW LONELY OR FUCKED UP YOU ARE WE HAVE CHILDREN IN THIS NEIGHBORHOOD AND WE WILL SEEK PENALTIES!
(This one was good because it would throw him off my track. I didn’t have children at all.)
FEED COYOTES ANOTHER HOT DOG AND I’LL KILL YOU.
I printed the last one in 60 Arial and folded it in an envelope. Winnie jumped on my lap and gave me a look like, What’s goin’ on up here? I pushed her off and went next door.
I trotted up to the mailbox with the note. I’d slip it in his box and walk off. He’d get the message and cut this shit out or, worst case, just feel scared for a little bit. My hand was right at the mail slot when—“Hey!” Mr. Carter was on his patio, grabbing an Amazon package. A flood of caffeine hit the back of my head. I sized up who would kill who. I had a few inches on him, but my back was fucked and I was bad with pain. Carter shaded his face. “You want to see my DVD collection?”
His living room had thousands. Stacked on tables and custom shelving units and an unplugged microwave on the couch. The DVDs looked like they were mostly from the ‘90s. The other thing I noticed was a baseball bat by his coat rack. I kept the note in my hand. I didn’t want to draw attention to it by crinkling it in my pants pocket.
“You must think I’m crazy,” Carter said, peeling an orange. “All these DVDs.”
“It’s an amazing collection.”
He straightened and smiled.
“I get these for just a few bucks each. People thought streaming would make them obsolete. Now what? They’re all cutting back on titles and the movies are disappearing.”
“In ten years you might be the only person in America who can watch Entrapment,” I said. I was joking but it sounded mean.
He looked at me harshly, fingered the baseball bat, then laughed. “Might be!”
He talked about some of his favorite movies for a bit. I let him go. He missed the mid-budget dramas, before everything was just superhero everything.
“I can’t stand superhero stuff,” I said. It was a lie but felt as true as anything.
“That’s what it is—stuff! Just stuff!”
“Carter, why don’t you just get a dog?”
He thought about it for a bit. “I guess I don’t respect them.”
I picked up a DVD of Apollo 13. There was something admirable about the coyotes. Los Angeles went up around their dens. People shot them. Rabbits gone. Rivers cut off. They were so skinny and defeated but there they were, generations later, trotting in the middle of the street under stars.
“You can borrow it,” Carter said.
“Oh, thanks!” I didn’t have any possible way to play it, but he looked so gracious.
“I’ll take the letter,” he said.
I had to relax my fingers a bit on the envelope. I looked at him like it was the first time I was hearing about it.
“Isn’t that why you were at my mailbox?” he said.
“Oh, this was left just outside your place. Don’t know what it is.” He looked at me with bright small eyes as I handed it over.
That evening a mug crashed through our bedroom window. Lane jumped on the bed and bunched against the headboard. She grabbed her phone from under a few library books on the side table.
“Jesus, don’t call the police,” I said, but she pushed me off.
“Our window!” She was in tears. “Our fucking window!”
We stood outside and watched as police crept over Carter’s house. Neighbors came out and circled his yard. Some paced behind the cop cars. They were smiling. Delighted. Folks had been having their fights with Carter for years. “Fucking creep,” someone west of us said. “Stole oranges.” It looked like Carter wasn’t coming out. Police split up, some snuck behind his house and some out front. Lane put her arm around my waist and rubbed my ribs, then walked further up to watch. Touching me was a show for the neighbors, but it felt amazing.
“Is Lane okay?” Amina sidled next to me and handed me an envelope.
I opened the lip, terrified it was an apology letter, but there was cash inside.
“What’s this for?”
“The mug,” she said. “The window.”
“Jesus, you could have hurt Winnie.”
“My husband’s fucking an alien,” she said. “An actor playing an alien.”
I nodded, like I, too, had been there.
“Can I get the mug back?” she asked right as the cops knocked down Carter’s door.
When I got in I had an email from the school district. They’d ruled in my favor. The student wasn’t credible. Lane was still talking to the neighbors. I thought of how I’d tell her. With a soft voice or with conviction or anger. I lay back on the living room chair. I’d go back to school and finish the semester. I’d stop roving Los Feliz for coffee in the early afternoons. Lane would forgive me. We’d have kids. The kids would go to our school. They would become teachers themselves. They would get birthday drinks with coworkers in the Valley. It would all keep happening. When Lane finally got inside, I turned to her from the chair.
“I’m fired,” I said. “They sided with Corey. I attacked him.”
Lane threw her keys on the bookshelf and slammed the bedroom door. The gestures were meant to be angry, but she looked relieved.
I laid back down and heard a little scratching by my feet. In all the excitement we never fed Winnie. I got her bag of food out from the refrigerator, opened the resealable pouch, and scooped her chicken twice. Her look was dumb and empty. It didn’t say anything. I went to put her bowl down for her, then took it from under her nose and put it outside the front door.
Nick Mandernach (@mandernick) is a fiction and TV writer. He lives in Los Angeles.