A Lesson in Conservation Ethics

I'm laying on a cot when I come to. There's a blanket over me that is scratchy and hardly thicker than paper. Panic settles in when I realize I'm unable to recount any of the events leading to my being here. I try to open my eyes, but the glaring fluorescent lights above me send a pain through my head that can't be unlike getting shot point-blank, and I slam my eyelids shut again. My panic worsens and I'm flooded with adrenaline. There must have been a horrid accident--one that wiped my memory of the night, and landed me in the hospital. That's where I am, I think to myself. I'm in a hospital.

I'm pulled from my thoughts by a loud, whiny voice from somewhere to the right of me.

"Hey! Officer! Can I get one of those stripey costumes? It would make this, like, ten times more fun." His shrill tone makes my head smart so badly I can barely comprehend his words.

"For the last goddamn time, it's not a costume, and this isn't supposed to be fun!"

The harshness of the booming reply brings me back to my senses. Oh God, I cringe. Not the hospital. I'm in jail.

I sit up on my cot, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hands then running them through my hair. There's a sting in my knuckles, and I flex my fingers in an attempt to relieve it. I realize that a severe hangover is more than likely what's splitting my metaphorical brain in half, and not a catastrophic accident. Suddenly the photophobia and missing memories make sense. Historically, drinking has not been my friend. Being too antisocial for court-ordered AA was the primary means behind my success in sobriety--which is ironic, considering the sobriety was what was driving the social anxiety to begin with.

I take a deep breath, and stretch and groan and try to feel more human. Why had I been drinking to begin with? Probably a social event. I avoided them when I could, but sometimes, they were inevitable… It's all coming back to me. The conference. Wolves. Controversial research findings. Goddamn Colorado ranchers. One shot to help me forget my fear of public speaking. A second to help me forget the taste of the first. Then a third, fourth, and fifth, to help me forget a lot of other things. They may have helped a little too much…

I try to put myself back into the shoes of yesterday's me. I am not the kind of guy to wake up as an amnesiac criminal, so this is all a bit startling. I started the day off with a celebratory letter from the district court congratulating me on my divorce. Well. Congratulating might be a strong word, but still. Yay me. Then I got dressed in the same suit I wore to divorce court, and headed to the University. I packed up everything for my presentation, which was essentially just a thumb drive and a handful of 'Ashton Laboratory for Reintroduced Species' pens, then ducked into the basement bathroom to take the first and second of the aforementioned shots. I popped a couple breath mints on my way to the passenger seat of my associate's Dodge Grand Caravan. Honestly, though, she doesn't seem like the type to notice 7 am vodka breath. Or at least, not the type to bring it up.

We barely talk on the way to the conference. Just stupid chit chat mostly, about how the weather is good and the sunrise is lovely and how excited we are for our kids to go back to school. She asked if I was nervous about being a key speaker. She asked about my grant. Oh, shit.

"I'm going to lose my fucking grant," I groan aloud. My nausea can no longer be blamed on the hangover alone. I don't know what got me shoved in here, but I figure that the government wouldn't really like forking over free money to criminals of any nature. I prop my elbows up on my knees and bury my face in my hands, ignoring the way the motion sets my knuckles on fire.

"Who's Grant?" questions the same shrill voice from earlier. I don't even register where the voice is coming from at first. I look across the room in the voice's direction. There's a thick cement wall separating our cells. I pretend I don't hear him and hope he stops talking to me. Wishful thinking. "Is that your kid, or something?"

I sigh. "No. It's not anyone, it's money."

"Ah shit ok. Like gambling or something?"

I don't know why I'm entertaining this, but I am. "No. Not gambling. It's, um, money the government gives you to fund research. In my case, at least."

"Ohh shit, so you're like a scientist or something?" The voice is slightly louder now, so I assume my cohabitant has moved closer to his side of the wall.

"Yeah, something like that." I mutter.

"What kind of like, science do you do?"

I didn't think it was standard jail protocol to be so conversational with other inmates. I remove my face from my hands and run my fingers through my hair again. "Um. I study human-wildlife interactions." I keep waiting for the social anxiety to kick into gear. Talking to strangers isn't really my strong suit. Going into research was strategic. But right now, I feel relatively calm--maybe I'm not hungover. Maybe I'm still drunk.

"So like, you look at how many animals kill humans every year?" God, this guy's voice was annoying. I tried to imagine what he looked like.

"Um. Not really…" I clear my throat. Sure, I'm passionate about my work. My work is just somewhat inflammatory, and I don't handle confrontation well. I decide I'm going to tell him anyways, despite the way my pulse quickens at the idea of doing so. There's the anxiety. "Well, I-I'm part of the team working on reintroducing and managing gray wolves here in Colorado."

"Oh." He seems dissatisfied with that answer. I hope he'll just stop talking. Of course, he doesn't. "You're one of those bleeding hearts then, huh?" He laughs a little when he says it.

I clench my jaw. "Heh, I wouldn't exactly say that…" More of the previous night is coming back to me. The memory is fuzzy, but I vaguely remember some less-than-ideal interactions during the Q and A section after my presentation. If there's one thing ranchers hate more than wolves, it's the guys telling them that they're bringing in more wolves. Wolves that are paid for with taxpayer money, to make matters worse.

I don't know if I'm more nervous for a response or the lack of one. Finally, the silence breaks.

"I'm a rancher, y'know." He says it in a weird, low tone. Like he thinks it's a warning or something. His delivery was corny but it made me sweat nonetheless.

"O-oh. That's. Cool." My words come out meek and pathetic. "I'm sure you have… opinions, on the wolves," I trail off weakly.

"Sure do." He says. I'm jealous of the way his voice doesn't waver. "I think we should kill every last one of them. I mean--you like eating, right?"

"I actually don't eat meat," I mumble. That probably wasn't a very tough-guy thing to say.

"Of course you don't." He said it like it was the punchline to some joke, but no one was around to laugh. Except me, I guess, but any chuckle out of me was elicited as a result of nerves. "God, you probably don't know the first thing about cattle farming. But here you are, being paid off by the government to feed my stock to the wolves."

"That's… kind of a gross oversimplification." I'm starting to actually get mad. I chew the inside of my cheek and rake a hand through my hair again. Normally I can hold my tongue, but I start to lose my cool when I'm scolded by people who are clearly ignorant. "Do you understand the role played by wolves in their ecosystem? Can you define 'keystone species'? Could you even spell it?"

"Woah now, don't blow your load over some stupid pest," the man chuckled, seemingly taking joy in talking to me like I was a child. "You come from that Wildlife Conference downtown last night?"

The chewing on my cheek devolved into straight-up biting, and the taste of iron filled my mouth. At least he seemed to be changing the subject, a bit. "Yes, actually." I narrowed my eyes. "Were-were you there? At the conference?"

"Sure was," he gloated. He paused for a moment then laughed softly to himself. "I take it you got a kick out of what happened with that last presenter?"

I sucked my teeth. I don't really remember what any of the other speakers were presenting, but I can't recall seeing any other discussions regarding wolves in the conference pamphlets. I'm worried about where he's going with this. I swallow hard before replying. "Um. I don't know what you're referring to, sorry."

"You're shitting me," the man chuckled. I'm relieved he seems to be in a better mood, but I'm starting to stress over whatever he's talking about. "One of your wolf-worshiping bigwigs flipped out and decked one of the protesting ranchers during the questions section."

He laughs then goes into a long string of profanities, describing in unsettling detail what he'd do to the offending presenter if he saw him ever again. I can't even really hear what he's saying, the heartbeat bounding in my ears is drowning out his threats. I flex my fingers and shudder at the stinging in my knuckles.

"O-oh, that's-that's too bad." I look down at my hands for the first time since I woke up. The knuckles on my right hand are blotted with red, pink, and purple splotches. The sight makes me want to vomit. "D-did you know the guy?" I clear my throat in an attempt to steady my voice. "The guy who, um, got hit, I mean."

"Sure fucken' did." There is no trace of laughing in his voice now. My breathing has become manual, and I force myself to inhale. "And if I cross paths with that bastard ever fucking again-"

"Mr. Ashton—" the booming voice of the corrections officer from earlier interrupts the man's threat. "Your bail was paid. Come with me. We'll get your belongings returned and discuss your next steps."

The officer approaches my cell. He takes a key from the carabiner on his belt loop and unlocks the door. I rise to my feet. Stars flash in the corners of my vision as I battle unexpected lightheadedness. Kind of forgot about the hangover in the heat of the moment, I guess. I'm silent when I follow the officer out of the cell and towards a short hallway. Against my better judgment, I glance back to my former neighbor. A heavyset, nearly bald man sits on a cot that was identical to my own. He stares back at me through the bloodiest and most darkly bruised black eye I have ever seen.