The sweet, sickly smell of formaldehyde filled the biology
laboratory of the small college campus. It was the first day
of dissection and three old plastic buckets were sitting in
the middle of the room. Their content was the source of the
acrid stench. Two by two, the students approached the
buckets; the braver soul of each couple slid his or her hand
into the swampy liquid to pull out an individual, embalmed
specimen of species Rana catesbeiana, or in other words, a
preserved American bullfrog.
"This is amazing," I said to my lab partner Cynthia, holding
the slippery dead frog from its hind leg. "Please... just
put that on the table," Cynthia replied with a disgusted
look on her face. I guess it was hard for her, at that
moment, not to feel a tinge of regret for taking general
biology as her science class.
Drops of chemical water trickled gently on the floor from
the inverted amphibian's dead lips, reminding me for some
reason of the old Grimm's tale about Hansel and Gretel: the
droplets created small splashes of reflected neon light on
the dirty lab floor, creating the illusion of an illuminated
pathway home. I don't know why I associated this with the
fairytale siblings' breadcrumbs at that very moment. I told
Cynthia about this odd association and she laughed at me.
"You are such a dork, Van. Do you know how many years it's
been since I last read old fairytales?" she asked.
Noticing how it made her less uncomfortable, I decided to
pursue this odd topic of conversation.
"No," I said. "I don't have a clue. How long has it been
since you last stepped into the realm of witches and
wolves?" I asked, while putting on a pair of latex gloves. I
already figured that I will be the one to be more intimate
with the frog. Cynthia made an odd cynical sound, somewhere
between an ironic snicker and a patronizing sigh. "Seven
years... no, eight years... perhaps nine," she said.
The lab instructor stood up with a bored look upon her face.
"Remember class," She spoke, a hint of annoyance in her
nasal voice, "first thing's first. Today we just skin the
frog. Don't cut into the muscle or anything else. You don't
even need to use the scalpel at all, just cut the skin with
the small scissors you have in your dissection kit." The
Instructor was about to leave the room, then paused and
talked again. "Oh, and before I forget, due to the pathetic
class average on the last lecture exam, the professor
decided to give each couple that comes up with a good name
for their frog an extra credit. I personally believe he's
spoiling you guys, but it's not my call... When you are done
with the skinning, put your frog in a plastic bag. Use a
sharpie to write down your names and your frog's name." Each
student reacted differently to this statement, yet their
various individual responses merged to a gestalt of what I
can only describe as an aura of exhilarated gloom.
I knew she wasn't referring to me. I think most of the
students despised me for having the highest grade in class.
And I'm not even majoring in biology.
I picked up the small scissors and looked at Cynthia. "Go
ahead," she said, seeming as if willpower alone held her
from gagging.
"Has it really been that long since your last encounter with
children's stories?" I asked. I squeezed a piece of skin
from the frog's abdomen between finger and thumb.
"Well, to be honest," said Cynthia, looking out the window,
perhaps for the sake of her sanity. "I have a niece and
sometimes I tell her fairytales... but they are usually
stories that I make up, you know from bits and pieces of
half remembered childhood tales..."
I noticed from the periphery of my vision that her mind
drifted as her vision focused on a nearby pine tree. As I
poked a hole in the protruding amphibian skin, Cynthia was
mesmerized by something outside the window. I looked for an
instant, noticing the way the greenish brown needles surfed
in semicircles as the thin branches of the pine tree twirled
in the weak autumn winds. I don't think she belongs here.
She is too intelligent for these parts, though I don't think
she realizes her potential.
With a steady hand, I made a perfectly straight slit through
the deceased anuran's ventral side. "Skinning the frog...
skinning the frog..." I started repeating these words to the
tune of the first movement of Beethoven's Fifth. I was
ignored by the rest of the class, which was perfectly
normal. I'm normally ignored by most people on campus. I
think it's because my GPA exceeds the standards of the Cult
of Mediocrity that seemed to be the predominant religion of
the university.
"What shall we call our frog?" Cynthia asked, with an
annoyed tinge to her voice. At the moment I was cutting the
perimeter around the frog's left forearm, starting from the
deltoid and cutting surgically around the limb, feeling as
if I'm designing a miniature sleeveless jacket for a macabre
puppet show.
"How about Sir Hops-A-lot?" I replied. Finishing the
sinistral side, I mirrored this technique on the dextral
side. Cynthia seemed to have adapted to the smell of
formaldehyde. She wasn't squinting with her whole face any
more.
"That is a very stupid name, Van. How about Frodo?" She
glimpsed at the workbench and averted her gaze after
grabbing an eyeful of muscle and torn amphibian skin. I
reckon her brain took its time with processing the sinewy,
fleshy image that has been burnt into her retina. At this
moment, every time I blinked, I had a negative image of the
frog in front of me, almost purple in color. I imagined
myself desecrating the corpse of a small Barney the
Dinosaur.
"Did you know that there are some people who believe that
you can gain an animal's form by wearing its skin?" she
said.
"I heard of the Norse berserkers," I said. I was almost done
with my little frog-skin suit. "But I'm pretty sure they
took psychosis inducing mushrooms after wearing the bear
skin." The still nameless carrion was now lying on its
stomach. With my left hand on the frog's head I pulled the
skin off in one piece by inserting my right hand's fingers
underneath a slit between the head and the trunk. Small
blood vessels, connecting the dark greenish skin to the main
circulatory system, snapped gently one by one, letting go of
the useless membranous crust. I could feel the soft wet
tissue through the thin latex gloves. As I pulled the skin
apart, it sounded like I was pealing an orange.
''Well, I was referring to Indian skin changers,'' said
Cynthia. ''There are some legends of people that take the
forms of animals, and animals that take the forms of humans.
Or so I heard.''
At this point I took a glimpse around the room, noticing the
biology lab was completely empty. I guess we were so caught
up in our own small world of self importance and delicate
skinning that we didn't notice that the rest of the class
slowly trickled out of the room, with only a pile of skinned
frogs in plastic bags as evidence of their existence.
''So shall we call it Coyote?'' I asked, spewing out the
first association to Native American mythology I could think
about. I took the frog-skin suit and put it near its
previous owner.
''No... That's like having a pet dog and naming it platypus.
It doesn't make any sense. We shall call it Jesus, because
it died for our benefit'' said Cynthia with a sort of
smugness all about her.
''But the frog didn't die for our sins,'' I replied. My
little project was the only complete frog-skin in the lab.
The other skins were completely and tastelessly shredded.
I smiled to myself and gently folded the greenish pelt into
slimy little folds. ''He died so we could get knowledge,
like Odin, the Norse All-father - he sacrificed himself on
the mythic Tree of Creation, Yggdrasill, to get the
knowledge of the runes.''
''Odin is no name for a dead frog, Van. I mean, if you want
to give him a good divine name why not name him Gabriel? You
know, like the archangel,''
I started rolling the little skin fold with my finger.
Cynthia was captivated by the repetitive motion. My next
class was two hours away, I was in no hurry, and I enjoyed
her company.
''I have a cousin named Gabrielle. I don't think it is right
to name the frog after a member of my family,'' I lied.
''Well my father's name is Michael and I don't remember the
other two... Isn't it... Raphael and... what's the fourth
one's name?''
''Uriel,'' I guessed. I stopped rolling my finger. The skin
now resembled an unusually rotten Cuban cigar. Cynthia
sighed.
''The only other angels I know are Loki and Bartleby from
the movie Dogma.''
''Loki... another Norse God,'' I murmured, trying to
disguise my ignorance of the movie with intellectual
subterfuge. I confess that at this point I was just trying
to keep the conversation going so I tried to remember why
the name Bartleby rang a bell. I knew it was from a short
story I'd read before, and it took me several seconds to
remember. It was the scrivener's name in Melville's story!
He was an odd fellow who gradually released himself from
responsibility by sheer awkwardness.
''Bartleby is a character from one of Melville's stories.''
I said. I picked up the elongated skin-roll in one hand and
the wobbly dead distant relative in the other. I looked into
Cynthia's eyes for the first time since the class period
started. Our eyes met and I could feel my heart pounding
roughly in my chest as I swallowed hard. She smiled at me,
and I returned her smile. I had to look away.
''Will you tell me about Melville's Bartleby?'' she asked,
though I had the feeling that she already knew all about the
story.
I took off the latex gloves after putting the frog and its
skin into a plastic bag. ''I prefer not to'' I said, to
which Cynthia laughed giddily. She took out a purple
sharpie. Smiling, she wrote three names on the bag while I
carried on with my regular awkwardness - Van, Cynthia,
Bartleby.