Pig
by MJ Huang

Owen, a flabby middle-aged man in black crew socks, white boxers and tank top undershirt, stands on the hardwood floor of his apartment's bedroom and contemplates the shiny surface, only his back visible. Today is the day. His day. All eyes will be fixed on him. Like the glare of the savage light shrinking his pupils into pinholes, the radiance of that thought obliterates the reality in the full-length closet door mirror and baits him into sudden physical exertion. He flops down on the ground.

He does a push-up.

Two.

Two... and a half.

He splays on the floor, face flushing from humiliation rather than bodily effort. He imagines how foolish he must have looked.

"To hell with it." His urge to show off evaporates. He pads into the bathroom and studies his face in the oval mirror above the sink. Perhaps his mother had been an old-fashioned Valentine's Day cherub and his father a sad basset hound. He combs his unruly hair until it surrenders, then puts on his glasses, little gold wire spectacles.

Owen takes a hit of breath spray and clears his throat. He raises a miniature tube to eye level and addresses his reflection in the mirror, "Help heal dry, chapped, or sunburned lips." Removing the little white cap, he turns the Chapstick until a half-inch appears. He gives his mouth a dainty dab before donning a crisp white shirt and dark trousers. A forceful, if odd, noise escapes his crinkled rosebud lips. Puh. Puh. Puh.

A battle song roars from somewhere--maybe his own mind?--a chorus he affectionately refers to as "Owen's Theme." The tempo matches his confident gait. He strides out the front door of his apartment building and heads down the sidewalk. Sunlight glints off his spectacles. The music swells.

A crappy Toyota that has never seen a good day squats by the curb. Owen's crappy Toyota. He notices a parking ticket tucked under the windshield wiper.

"Owen's Theme" grinds to a halt.

He grabs the ticket then opens the passenger door. He crams the ticket into the glove compartment, already full with the same.

"Owen's Theme" resumes.

He marches down the block with purpose. A lanky traffic cop stands before a VW van older than Woodstock. Though partially obstructed from view by the fender of a parked lime-green Ford pickup in the foreground, the cop unmistakably scratches his buttocks with glee. He flips open a ticket pad and clicks his ballpoint pen.

Owen struts toward him.

The cop slaps a ticket on the van's windshield.

The music fades.

Owen pokes him in the shoulder and the cop turns around.

"Pig," says Owen.

The other man appears startled. "What did you say?"

"Did I stutter? Puh-puh-puh-Pig!" says Owen, dipping his chin to his chest, then turns and flees with the cop trotting after him.

Several blocks away he spies a woman bent like a brittle question mark. Exasperated, she scowls at a box elder tree. Another policeman stands beside her, following her line of vision.

"Chuck Yeager, please come down," she pleads.

Chuck Yeager, a blue angora, meows.

Owen scoots into view, trailed by the first cop. The policeman grumbles to the woman, "You should have called the fire department, ma'am."

She makes an expression sour enough to curdle milk and demands he assist Chuck Yeager since he, the policeman, does not have nine lives.

Whap! Owen smacks the policeman on the back of the head, deliberately knocking off his hat. The woman looks satisfied.

"Shit!" the policeman yells.

"Pig!" says Owen. Again, his chin sags toward his chest. His expression suggests remorsefulness, if only for a split second.

Owen bolts. The traffic cop almost collides into the policeman. The policeman watches the traffic cop trail Owen, then joins in the pursuit.

Several scenes of Owen: running. Then, through a blur of traffic in the foreground, two off-duty cops can be seen leaving a coffee shop. Both happily gobble chocolate-dipped crullers. Owen charges around the corner and runs past them--but doubles back, grabs one man's cruller and shoves it in his dumbstruck face.

"Pigs." he says triumphantly.

Now all four officers take up the chase.

Owen runs faster than he has ever run in his life, which isn't very fast. He darts into a dead-end alley.

He backpedals…

straight into the cops.

They drag him out onto the sidewalk, their profanities drowned out by the thunder of nearby jackhammers. Owen, however, can be heard loud and clear as he addresses each officer of the law personally: "Pig! Pig! Pig! Pig!"

He hangs his head down on his chest in a mockery of remorse. One cop clobbers him. Again and again.

A siren yowls. A squad car squeals up to the curb. The four officers move away. A chubby cop leaps from the squad car. "Hold on, sir. I'll radio you an ambulance."

Owen groans.

The cop leans closer and touches Owen's shoulder reassuringly, "Don't try to talk, sir. It'll be all right."

Owen stares him right in the eye and manages to whisper...

"Pig."

The policeman seems stunned. A handsome man suddenly pops into view. If he were a city, he would be Las Vegas.

"Ladies and gentlemen, looks like we have another winner!" The handsome host croons.

"Owen Hunt has just won the car of his dreams! A spanking new Ferrari!"

"Owen's Theme" surges.

A shiny red Ferrari rotating on a pedestal in a spotlight appears, then disappears, on the sleek television screen.

"Congratulations, Owen Hunt!" the host cries.

A crescendo of trumpets shrieks on the soundtrack. Two ten-year-old kids, a glassy-eyed girl and an awed-looking boy wait with the endurance of Tibetan monks until Owen returns on the screen.

Paramedics shuttle Owen's stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Savage artificial light douses his face, reducing his pupils to pinholes. A Sennheiser lavalier microphone clings like a great cockroach inside his torn shirt. His chin drops down on his chest toward the mike as he blusters to the viewers at home, "I'm okay, everybody."

The title of the show superimposes on Owen's forehead: THE PRIZE IS MY PRICE.

The program credits roll.

"Tune in next week when Ethel Johnson goes for her dream home in Tahiti!" The host flashes his perfect caps and chuckles. "Hey, America, is there a doctor in the house?"

The glassy-eyed girl zaps the remote.

MJ Huang has written prize-winning films and fiction. Pig is her reaction to being bombarded by the incessant glut of reality television commercials. She lives in New York and Los Angeles.