The Manticore

Manticore (n) - /man(t)iˌkôr/ - A legendary creature having the face of a man, the body of a lion, and the tail of a scorpion.

“Hi. My name is Manti,” I say in a friendly tone of voice while slowly extending my hoof so as not to alarm you. We shake, firmly but not too firmly, while maintaining strong eye contact. You tell me your name, and I immediately repeat it back to you, and then offer up an innocuous comment about the weather, or the venue decor, or perhaps even a positive compliment about your attire, just to get the conversation rolling. I ask you questions about yourself and make sure to repeat your name three times. The repetition aids memory retention. As we talk, I face directly towards you with my shoulders square and hooves firmly planted in a wide, open stance - confident but not aggressive - making sure to smile and maintain continuous eye contact, at least until I notice your eyes darting about the room, as you take a half step backwards, your hips angling for escape. I recognize that you’re ready to leave the conversation, but I don’t take it personally. This is a party so I stay positive and graciously allow you to exit the conversation.

Even in my imagination nobody wants to talk to me. Let’s try this again.

“Hi. My name is Manti,” I say in a friendly tone of voice. Except I speak with a deep husky lisp, my words slurring together in a fuzzy growl so that you have trouble understanding me. Have you ever tried speaking with three rows of teeth? It’s not easy, which is why nobody ever invites a shark to join a high school debate team. I slowly extend my hoof so as not to alarm you, except as I do so, my tail naturally swings out and up to one side, an automatic balancing act that seems wholly unnecessary for a four-footed creature like myself. Resembling a scorpion about to strike, you get a frightening view of my curved needle-like stinger, a hypodermic syringe protruding from the final bulbous segment of my scaly tail. If you resist your natural fight or flight response, you’re likely to notice that I’m offering up my left hoof, a violation of the customary right-handed greeting, and an unfortunate quirk due to a nasty wound on my front right leg, a token of my brief stint working construction.

You tell me your name and I immediately repeat it back to you and then promptly forget it. Despite my human shaped head, mostly covered by a large unruly main of stiff hair, my brain is quite small and my memory, among other things, suffers mightily for it. Which is why I must constantly remind myself to smile, even as my toothy grin - remember I have three rows of teeth - seems to scare people off more than anything. But I do maintain excellent eye contact, like an apex predator zeroing in on its helpless prey. It’s my best quality.

I wonder why I ever get invited to things, until I remember that I don’t actually get invited to things. But somehow an invitation was extended my way for the party tonight, hosted by Sassy the Sasquatch - we were passing acquaintances back when we were both homeless and living in the woods - in her fancy 34th floor penthouse apartment unit in the heart of Midtown. Quite a step up, even for a bigfoot. I heard she hit it big as an Instagram influencer, though I’ve never bothered to look her up. The building is one of those new mixed-use high rises that seem to pop up every other day, advertising luxurious living while delivering thin walls, shoddy finishes, and a whole host of amenity spaces that nobody actually uses.

I arrived at the building an hour early. I’m not usually the punctual type due to my documented memory issues, but I’ve been mentally preparing myself for the last week, and if I had waited any longer, my nerves just might have exploded. I circle the block 27 times - I counted - until the proper hour arrives, and then continue to circle the block 43 more times, for a grand total of 60 blocks worth of wasted gas. I’m aiming for fashionably late, but overshoot the landing by about 30 blocks.

By the time I made it to Sassy’s apartment door, the last unit down a long impossibly overlit corridor, I’m now 3 hours late, which only serves to compound my anxiety. The fluorescent pendant fixtures are blinding, the light endlessly bouncing off the eggshell white walls, reminding me of the proverbial tunnel of light you pass through before you die. Too bad I can’t die. “We manticore’s are immortal beings,” my mother used to tell me before she passed away from breast cancer. Anxiety must run in our family because she was always too scared to get a mammogram and I can’t once recall her going to the dentist. That third back row of molars really requires professional cleaning.

I stood at the threshold, listening to the muffled sounds of the festivities inside, leaking out through the doorway. Is that a unicorn? You can always tell by their deep baritone laugh - ladies love the laugh almost as much as the horn. And if I’m not mistaken, that high-pitched chattering sounds like a bunch of leprechauns - stories of their drunken debauchery is stuff of legend. And I couldn’t help but notice small pools of water tracing a trail from the elevator to the foot of the door, soaking the purple shag ‘It’s Getting Squatchy in Here!’ welcome mat - the tell-tale sign of merpeople.

But now I need to focus on the onerous task before me - knocking on the door. It’s a difficult equation for my tiny man-head. On the one hoof, I could knock and be let into the party which is a good thing. On the other hoof, I could knock and be let into the party, which is not such a good thing. On the third and forth hooves, I could just turn around and leave and no one would be the wiser. Except for that ridiculous welcome mat.

“Hi. My name is Manti,” I say to myself, in the friendliest tone of voice I can muster, trying to psych myself up. “Hi. My name is Manti. Hi. My name is Manti,” I repeat over and over again, until the words bleed into a single guttural growl. “Rrrww my raarrw is rwhrhr rawwrh.” Repetition aids memory retention. If I can just remember to be friendly and positive, maybe I can suffer through tonight without any cataclysmic blows to my already fragile mental state. I raise my hoof to knock on the door and commit to my fate, only I accidentally raise my right hoof and now my old construction wound is staring me in the face, the thick lumpy scar tissue seeming to expand and contract across my leg, until it is all I can see.

I turn around and start back down the hallway, my spiked tail held low in disgrace. I can’t do it. It’s just too difficult. As insecurity and self-loathing play games in my head, I barely notice the corridor in front of me visibly darkening, a shadow looming, obstructing the light. I look up and see a large creature, far larger than myself, lumbering towards me, it’s long neck and tail sweeping side to side in a graceful serpentine motion like a gently snaking stream, while it’s mammoth torso advances slowly like a tank on the battlefield, it’s short thick legs shuffling steadily underneath. It could only be one thing - a sea monster - something I had only heard rumors about in passing.

“Hi. I’m Nessie,” the sea monster called out in a friendly tone of voice, her voice melodic as if she was singing me a lullaby with each word.

“I’m Manti,” I mumbled-growled as we approached each other.

“Pleasure to meet you Manti!” Nessie sung, compressing herself against one side of the hallway, leaving a thin corridor for me to squeeze through. “Bet you can’t guess what I am? It’s a little game I like to play with new friends.” Are we friends, I thought to myself. Was it that easy?

“A sea monster?” I ventured as I took a deep breath and plunged forward into the narrow void space she had left me. 

“Sea creature,” she quickly corrected, her broad smile never dimming. I slipped easily past her long swaying neck until we were shoulder to shoulder, our broad frames wedged against each other. “Monster is an offensive word. We prefer the term ‘creature’. But you’re correct. I’m the one and only Nessie of the Loch Ness. What are you?”

“I’m a manticore,” I replied meekly. “The one and only as well. At least as far as I know.” Our combined girth had pinned us both. We were now a corridor traffic jam struggling to break free.

“Well isn’t that something!” Nessie laughed, her giant belly expanding to further pin me against the wall. I began frantically wiggling my body back and forth, trying to worm my way forward inch by inch, taking advantage of each of Nessie’s exhaled breaths. She didn’t seem to notice my discomfort, that smile seemingly plastered across her face.

“So what’d you bring to eat?” Nessie asked, holding up a large crockpot proudly. “This is ole’ Nessie’s patented chili con carne with my own secret ingredient. Do you know what the secret ingredient is?” I gave a grunt as I squirmed forward, my shoulders now inline with her hips. Nobody told me we were supposed to bring food. “Love. The secret ingredient is love with a capital 'L'. Not my love of course. But I found a couple down at the VA married for 65 years, through multiple affairs, domestic spats, a couple brief stints in prison, some hard drugs, and raging all-night shouting matches that were the stuff of legend. Stay married through all that and tell me it’s not true Love. Anywhoooo, they both ground up quite nicely with the beef. It makes the chili extra spicy you know.” Nessie held up the crockpot again like a prized possession.

I nodded, half paying attention. Nessie didn’t seem to have much control over her tail, much like myself, and as I worked my way past her broad hips, her tail snaked back and forth, smacking me in the face. I tried to flatten myself and duck under it, but couldn’t shimmy my way down low enough, each tail swipe like a hammer beating me backwards.

“Where you headed?” Nessie asked, oblivious to my struggles. “The party’s this way.”

“Down to my car,” I said, struggling to think of an excuse less embarrassing than the truth. “To get...my own dish. I forgot it in the car. It’s a casserole.” I waited for her tail to swing wide and then made one colossal final push, squeezing free of her considerable frame, tripping and flailing forward into a heap on the floor.

“Dang it. I was hoping it was shredded cheese. It’d make a great topping to my chili.” Even her disappointment sounded like a songbird welcoming the spring, I thought as I regained my bearings. “Cheddah makes it bettah you know,” she continued. “I forgot to bring any and we all know Sassy is lactose intolerant. Or at least she pretends to be.” Free from Nessie’s embrace, I barrelled away as fast as I could toward the elevator. Nessie’s head craned around to watch me leave. “Well, hurry back up,” she called after me, “I heard that the Leprechauns were putting on a raffle with some lucrative payouts.” I rounded the hallway corner to find an empty elevator cab waiting for me, and as I squeezed myself into the cab and the doors began to close, I heard Nessie mumbling happily to herself, “Of course they only trade in bitcoin these days, cashed out that pot of gold years ago.” 

I make it down to my car and collapse in the front seat, an odd mixture of relief and self-loathing immobilizing my thoughts. I sit there for a long time, staring blankly ahead, thinking of everything and nothing all at once, racking my tiny brain to try to figure out where I went wrong. Maybe I just wasn’t ready to get ‘squatchy’ and maybe I’ll never be. Finally, just as I’m about to start the car, a face materializes next to my window, coming out of nowhere. It’s Nessie again, her long neck curving down, her broad smile once again staring me in the face. I roll down the window hesitantly.  

“I couldn’t help but see you sitting out here, like you were about to leave, which would be quite a shame. I have excellent eyesight, you know. Saw you up there from the balcony.” I looked up in the direction Nessie was pointing and could just barely make out what appeared to be a dragon and some fairies congregating on one of the penthouse balconies. “They’re about to put on the light show. Wouldn’t want to miss that.”

“I’m sorry. I think I need to leave,” I mumbled in defeat, too dispirited to even offer up an excuse this time. 

Nessie smiled and shoved a plastic container at me through the car window. “Here. If you’re leaving I packed you a to-go cup of my famous chili. If you come across some shredded cheese, it makes a great topper.” Nessie paused, what was surely a rare occurrence for her, and I felt her eyes boring into me. “Everybody needs a little taste of love now and then. Even monsters like us.” 

I looked up and we locked eyes. Her smile seemed even bigger than before. “It was lovely meeting you, Manti. Always a delight to meet a new friend,” she crooned as she turned and lumbered away, disappearing into the building. I sat there motionless for another long moment, wondering how it came to pass that the famed Loch Ness Monster had just personally hand delivered me her very own homemade chili. 

“Hi. My name is Manti,” I whispered to myself as I got back out of the car.