FICTION, HI-JINKS, SHENANIGANS, AND TOMFOOLERY DEPT.
The Wombats Are Praying in Maine
How Do You Get to Sao Paülo, Maine, on Wombat Eve
“Hey, buddy,” I said to the gas station attendant, “what’s the best way to get to São Paulo?”
“Where?”
“São Paulo?”
“Where?”
“São Paulo!” I said it louder. It might help. “I’m going to hear the wombats pray, and — ”
“Ohhhhhhh,” he said, suddenly making sense of it, “the wombats!” But he pronounced it womb-bats. “You mean Sao Paülo!”
“Right, São Paulo.”
“No, Sao Paülo.”
I looked blankly at him.
“See, you’re saying São Paulo. With a tilde and no umlauts.”
“ — ”
“I’m, saying — ” he chuckled, “I’m saying Sao Paülo with umlauts and no tilde. You really have to hit that umlaut. It’s a common mistake, but they sound completely different.”
I tried it, “Sao Paülo.”
“No. Paülo.”
“ Paülo.”
“No — aülo.”
“ — ülo.”
“No — ü.”
“ü”
“No — ü”
“ü”
“ü”
“ü”
“ü”
“ü. ü. ü. ü. ü. ü. ü. ü.”
“ü. ü. ü. ü. ü. ü. ü. ü.” Our voices overlapped like a Venn diagram, but there was something off.
“It’s very nasal,” he said.
“Very nasal.”
“üüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüü — ”
I took up the call, “üüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüü — argh!” The umlaut had mined up a loogie.
I was done. I said, “Okay, but how do you get there?”
“I don’t know. You confused me the way you pronounced it. Like you thought we were in Brazil or something.”
I was in a gas station an hour into Maine talking to this specimen. I had about five hours of light to get to a wombat prayer circle in Sao Paülo, Maine. I had come from New Jersey.
“Well, maybe,” I said, “you can help me with the map. I’ve got a Delorme’s map.”
“A what?
“A Delorme’s? A map.”
“Ohhhhhh,” he said, “You mean a Delorme’s.” But he pronounced it Delor-may’s.
“ — ”
I pointed to the map. “I’m here. I have to go through Augusta — ”
“AuGOOSta,” he said, “and you have to stay on it. Like AuGOOOOOSSSSSSta!”
“ — ”
I pointed again, “Then through Hĕbron — ”
“Hēbron. It’s pronounced Hēbron. Hēēēēēēēēēbron.”
“Okay! Then Bangor — ”
“Banger. It’s pronounced Banger. The old timers go back to its original name, What-Ho-A-Banger! But that’s pretty obsolete.”
“THEN!” I push through, “Orono?”
“It’s Ororororononononononnnnnnnnoooooooo.”
“And Ninety-five — ”
“Ninety-foooovve.”
“To Houlton — ” Please let me get through this.
“Flerpity-flerb. It’s spelled Houlton, but pronounced Flerpity-flerb.”
“To Sherman Falls — ”
“Sherman Phalls.”
“And finally to Sao Paülo?”
He thought about it. “Yeah. That sounds right.”
I made it to Sao Paülo a half-hour before sunset. I was deep in the woods up there. After the Hannaford I saw a sign for Wombat Temple, Golf Course, and Recycling Center. The wombats really seemed to have a good thing going.
I pulled into the parking lot. It wasn’t as packed as I thought it would be. The only wombat temple on the eastern seaboard, founded right after the wombat diaspora. Wombat veterans from Gallipoli didn’t feel welcome back home in 1918, so they carved out space for themselves around the world. One of those spaces was in northern Maine.
I’d come up because I was suffering a crisis of faith. I’d eaten a piece of cheese Danish at my favorite diner and it was so good. So good. So good. And I said, “How could such a thing of beauty exist in the world?”
When I realized I had no answer, the entirety of my theological world view — with its mixture of ad hoc and improvised — crumbled to pieces, not unlike the pieces of my cheese Danish. I explained this to the waitress and ordered a second piece.
As she brought the plate she said, “You heard about the wombats?” But she pronounced it womb-bats.
The head wombat priest steps forward. She’s mostly dark brown, with black and grey streaks in her smooth fur. She’s got a dreamy beatific look in her eyes and that cute ugly nose, like most protestant ministers and Australasian marsupials.
“Welcome, to the wombat temple,” she says to me. She pronounces it womb-bat. “Why are you here? In twenty-five words or fewer.”
“I — ,” and suddenly I’m all choked up. How to put this succinctly? I get on my knees. “I suffer doubt and ignorance. I ate a cheese Danish. I couldn’t understand! Unless I can understand I will be consigned to Hell and denied Heaven!”
She looks confused, “You will be what?”
“I will be consigned to Hell and denied Heaven!”
She’s quiet for a minute. You can see the wombat gears working in her head. Think. Think. “Ohhhhhh,” she finally says, “You mean Heel. It’s spelled Hell, but we pronounce it Heel. And you really need to lean into it. Like, ‘Heeeeeeel!’ Like, ‘Get thee back to Heeeeeel, Satan!’” Except she pronounces Satan as Steve.
“ — ”
“What was the other one?” She looks up to the left like she’s trying to find a lost word. “Heaven? Heaven? Heaven.” She’s about to give up. “Wait! Got it! You mean Hobblakrankinstovavich! It’s from the Ukrainian. The words are cognates. Commonly mistaken for each other. But, yeah. No. the verse is, ‘And all the founding wombats ascended to Hobblakrankinstovavich just prior to their deaths and live for eternity in the presence of Wom.’” She pronounces it womb.
She places her paws on my cheeks, cradling them as if to say, I’m so glad I met you.
“And about the cheese Danish thing,” she says, “don’t worry about it. Cheese Danish is obviously a gift from Wom, derived from his smegma. You’re fine.”
The flood of relief tells me I had come to the right place. For some this may be merely Sao Paülo, Maine. For me, it’s Hobblakrankinstovavich on Earth.