How to Date a Mole Girl

by T. S. McAdams

First of all, they don’t call themselves mole people. Contrary to urban legend, they are not related to moles; nor do they much identify with them. Badgers, shrews, rabbits, and ants are all more common than moles in their folklore. Their word for themselves translates as “hidden” or “private.” Just call her by her name. It may be Catherine.

#

You don’t find her in New York. True, there’s a colony under New York. Most of what you see online is not true. Those are not mole girls, any more than furry sites show actual foxes and cats. Pipe tobacco doesn’t make them horny, either. They’re not hobbits. But yes, there are colonies in the Northeast and Upper Midwest. That doesn’t mean you’ll meet one on the street in New York or Minneapolis. If you did, she wouldn’t talk to you. They can be insular.

Stay in Los Angeles. Go to Gil and Naomi’s Hanukkah party. They’ve got a big house on a street where lots are doubled and facades well-tended, but you still know it’s Van Nuys. Something about the faded asphalt, the shadows willow and acacia trees cast on it even at night. Gil’s mom actually owns the place, and she’s doing great in assisted living, but it’s no big secret how that ends. Go in and take a glass of whatever Naomi’s pouring, but keep your jacket on. You’re going to the backyard.

Raise your glass to people talking football on the patio, and go all the way back, where it’s too dark to know whether you’re standing in weeds or tended ivy. Don’t interrupt the girl holding up the spiked stick, the kind prisoners use to pick up trash along the highway. She holds it like she’s spearfishing in the ivy, but she lowers it in disappointment when the rustling moves away. Now you can talk.

Too bad you refused Gil’s rustic toast points with cream cheese and smoked salmon. You don’t like cream cheese, but she might. Never mind. There’s a jerky stick in your jacket pocket. She doesn’t thank you, and that’s fine. If you stood calf deep in a forest and a wild doe let you feed her chorizo-flavored meat, you wouldn’t expect thanks. If she goes home with you, she will chirp and twitter during foreplay and grunt fiercely during sex. These sounds are disconcerting at first. After she leaves you, it will be difficult to achieve orgasm without them.

#

Don’t overreact when she crawls into a storm drain with her stick and burlap sack. There is nothing nasty about this. Sewage and drainage are different systems. Obviously, you can’t go with her. It’s an eight-inch opening, maybe less. And she’ll be a while, so don’t stand there waiting. Go to work. If it’s the weekend, go home and read a book. You didn’t read all the classics in college. Rediscover the life of the mind.

Or you could look at a drain system map online, color coded by the Department of Public Works. Drains and channels in blue are maintained by County Flood Control, violet by the city, tan by Parks and Recreation, different shades of yellow by Caltrans or private entities. Gray means “unknown,” which is odd but not code for lizard people. The Shufelt dig of the 1930s debunked any theory of reptile civilization underneath Los Angeles. Catherine, who hates reptiles, comes home tired and happy with something in her sack. She probably won’t mind if you look in the sack, and you should. If you don’t, you’ll always wonder.

#

Kissing her leaves you flushed and disoriented. Catherine’s people have toxic saliva.

#

Don’t pretend you’re quitting your job for her. You’re just sick of processing loans and sick of that underwriter, Megan, who signs off too late and blames you when the rate goes up, lying that you didn’t get conditions in on time. You hate that beige and aluminum office with windows that don’t open and Freon-flavored air that hurts your throat. You can tell her about it, but don’t think you’re kindred spirits escaping her burrow and your cubicle for adventures in the wide world. She was as free in the tunnels as on a prairie, and to be honest, she’s barely listening. Her shiny little eyes are locked on Mr. Riley’s cat, Butterscotch, parading himself on your apartment balcony. When the cat disappears, you should set aside any nosiness about that sack.

#

She leaves you without drama or rancor, and it feels like being dumped in high school. Sure, you knew the adults were right, and this wasn’t real or serious, but what have you got now? Anime Club? She leaves a drawer full of t-shirts and leggings. What little she takes is mostly yours. Your grandparents gave you those silver dollars over four or five childhood birthdays. It’s not like you ever would have spent them. Leave the box you kept them in at the back of your sock drawer, and nothing has really changed.

You find another job, as a loan processor again. What did you expect, O Lit Major? And what happened to that passion for D. H. Lawrence and Virginia Woolf, anyway? Your new office is part of a bank, so the dress code is stricter. And a loan officer here tries to use deposit statements when real bank statements disqualify prospects for stated-income loans. Pay is a little better, though. You didn’t think pay was the issue, but maybe it was.

The blond in the cubicle next to yours says her favorite movie is Orlando. Catherine didn’t watch movies with you. The girl is conventionally attractive, as are you to a lesser extent, so go ahead and marry her. Give each other anniversary presents. Have dogs and children and love them. Leave storm drains alone. This is not a tragedy.

T. S. McAdams lives with his wife and son and dogs in the San Fernando Valley. His fiction has appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Madcap Review, Santa Monica Review, Pembroke, Jersey Devil Press, Exposition Review, Sierra Nevada Review, Faultline, and Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet.