Triple J

by Tim Hanson

TJ is pregnant. Appears to be a virgin conception. I was thrilled at first, until I started thinking about how having a calf around might crimp my lifestyle. I’m a freewheeling gal. I treasure my unencumbered life. In case you’re wondering, TJ’s not a problem, doesn’t hinder me at all. In fact, she’s a true pal, a rock I can lean on anytime without the obligatory reciprocity that hangs up human friendships. Yes, she takes up a lot of space and I have to feed her, drain her piss and shovel her shit, but it’s a small price to pay for such a solid chica. A calf, on the other hand, will take a bite out of my loosey goosey good times. I am reluctant to give up any of that.

The vet I consulted suggested abortion, but I nixed that idea right out of the gate. I wouldn’t dare make that decision for TJ. Her body, her choice. Feeling justifiably ashamed of himself, the vet averted his eyes, coughed nervously, and then proceeded to remind me that since this pregnancy occurred presumably without insemination, the calf would be the first instance of bovine parthenogenesis – a kind of miracle. It might, he hinted sheepishly, turn out to be a real cash cow.  Although I found the pun mildly amusing, I was appalled at the suggestion. I would never exploit my cow’s calf for money. I might be freewheeling, but my heart is good. I reminded him of his Veterinarian’s Oath and his legal obligation to vet/patient confidentiality, and sternly advised him never to divulge the mysterious provenance of the inchoate calf. I told him, in short, to keep his trap shut. He solemnly swore he would, but I didn’t trust him, so I had an attorney friend draw up an iron-clad NDA and demanded the vet sign it. He did so, reluctantly, and then informed me that neither I nor my cow were welcome at his clinic anymore. Fine, I told him. Neither I nor my cow need a man to tell us what to do.

I promptly found a female vet who, unfortunately, proved to be just as chauvinistic as the male one.  I eventually managed to locate a non-binary mid-wife who agreed to help with the delivery. Their name was ArtMX, and, although they did inquire about TJ’s triple J brand, they asked no questions about the calf’s pedigree. I decided I would decide later about what to do when the calf arrived.

While bonding with ArtMX over a few drinks, it occurred to me that I might need to curb my libationary enthusiasm for a minute to make sure TJ was made as comfortable as possible.  Aside from eating, farting, pissing and crapping more than usual, her behavior didn’t change much. She remained as steadfast a friend as ever.

When the blessed day finally arrived, ArtMX dropped what they were doing and came right over. Although they’d never delivered a calf before, they assured me they’d watched countless YouTube videos, and they were more than prepared. We situated TJ in as comfortable a position as we could, between the sofa and the easy chair, which we’d covered with plastic. ARTMX gently worked their hands into TJ’s dilated cervix, until their arms were elbow-deep in the birth canal. Suddenly ArtMX’s eyes ballooned, and their face froze like Munch’s screamer.

What’s wrong? I asked, alarmed. 

I can’t find it, replied a perplexed ArtMX.

What do you mean?

There’s nothing there.

That can’t be, she’s as big as a – I started to say cow and then checked myself.

Wait, ARTMX said, here’s something, but it’s too small.

Too Small?

For a calf, ArtMX elaborated.

Well, what is it then?  Pull it out and let’s see.

ArtMX took a deep breath and deftly extracted the mysterious object from TJ’s business. To our astonishment, it wasn’t a calf at all, but a doll-size Janis Joplin appearing nude just as she had on the pages of Rolling Stone decades ago. As we gawked in disbelief, TJ lowed impatiently, raised her tail and farted a puff of pot smoke. ARTMX and I double-took each other simultaneously as Janis urgently pointed to TJ’s gaping vulva from which the iconically Afroed head of pee-wee Jimi Hendrix was sticking. ARTMX looked befuddled, so I stepped in, grasped little Jimi by the shoulders and gently pulled him out. My cow swatted my face with her tail, mooed another impatient moo and farted another puff of pot smoke. When it cleared, confused pocket-size Jim Morrison was climbing out all on his own. Lest he drop to the floor and hurt himself, ARTMX grabbed him by a belt loop in his hip-huggers and set him down delicately next to Jimi and Janis. My cow dealt a final fart blast of smoke, lowered her tail and lowed a sigh of relief. Little Janis took a long look at ARTMX and me, shrugged and then launched into “Piece of My Heart” with so much heart that ARTMX and I teared up with joy. There they were, that tragic rock triumvirate from the end of the sixties, resurrected and together at last in my own living room. Jimi still had his guitar with him and Jim his swagger. They jumped right in without missing a beat. ARTMX and I were ecstatic. My free-wheeling life wasn’t over--the volume had just been pumped up three iconic notches.

Tim Hanson lives in Santa Monica, CA. His work has appeared in great weather for MEDIA's 2014 and 2021 anthologies, Coffin Bell Journal, Cease, Cows, Into the Void, Funicular Magazine, and On the Run Fiction. His audio drama podcasts can be found at: https://aptfprods.podbean.com/ You can check him out onscreen as Jason P. Eaves in the zany pandemic TV series “2041.” https://tubitv.com/series/300010098/2041

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