Checking In On The Kid

I just checked in on the kid.  The kid is a baby squirrel who I don't want to name because he's probably dying.   

I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure the kid's in bad shape.  I found him stretched out helplessly in the middle of the road, baking in the sun.  Some crows circled near him as he was squealing, and that got my attention.  I thought if I played my ukulele, he would follow the sound of my strumming into the shade.  That didn't happen.

Normally, I'm not too interested in touching animals with my bare hands, not even domesticated animals.  Luckily for the kid, a Spanish-speaking father and son team passing by had no problem picking up the kid, and placing him underneath the shade of a tree in my front yard.

"Que necesita la fruta," says the father.  I run inside and bring back a small slice of apple.  "Y agua," he adds.  I run inside and bring back a cup of water and pour it into a paper plate.  I put the plate right in front of the kid's face.

He looks much more comfortable in the shade, but he's having some kind of trouble.  He has a piece of apple in his mouth.  He wants to eat it, but he can't.  It just rests in his mouth like a toothpick.  

I try feeding him water.  I finagle the paper plate underneath his chin, but he does not drink.  I lie down in the shade beside him with my ukulele in hand.  He is shaking and alternating between having his eyes opened and closed.  I want him to understand English so I can say, "Drink the water, kid.  You'll feel better."

"Beber el agua, muchacho.  Te sentirås mejor," I would say if he understood Spanish.  But, no.  He just lays his head on the end of that paper plate, shaking away.

I start singing the song "Days" by The Kinks.  This song incites an unusually animated reaction from a baby squirrel who is dying:  He raises his head.  The kid has good taste.  He especially likes the D chord.  I play the song on loop for his enjoyment.  Not only does he raise his head, but he also starts drinking the water.  "I've done it," I thought.  "I've nursed this squirrel back to life!"  

He drank a few more sips of water, and began crawling towards me slowly and diagonally.  I figure I've cured him of his ills, so I go inside, wash my hands, and make lunch.

I've just checked in on the kid again.  He doesn't look so good.  He hasn't moved far, and he's no longer resting under the shade of the tree because the sun has moved to its afternoon position.  His eyes are closed.  He's shaking.  I don't know what else I can do for him.

She Gave Me The Eye

She gave me the eye.  

I walked down Alexander Street to give a lecture on Women and Popular Music in Mongolia at the local brewhouse.  No one wanted to listen to me, but that was my fault, for I knew nothing about popular music in Mongolia.  Had I known what I was talking about, I'm sure the three guys watching the Sabres game at the end of the bar would have been absolutely riveted. 

In the opposite corner, eating a grilled cheese sandwich, was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen that day.  Her hair blonde and thin, her posture formal and upright, her nose small and pointy.

She gave me the eye.

She watched me as I fiddled nervously with my index cards.  They were out of order.  If the overhead fan wasn't there to cool me off, I would've been a sweaty, sweaty man.  Usually, I don't give lectures.  What was I thinking?  But she was giving me the eye.  Why was she sitting alone in a bar at five thirty in the afternoon?  I was too intrigued not to try sleeping with her.

I began shifting the focus of my lecture.  I dropped the Mongolia jargon, and continued only about the women parts.  My oratory grew stronger as my confidence in my own knowledge of the subject became more apparent.  

"How much longer are you gonna be?" the bartender asked.  

"Until I'm finished, thank you!" I answered, rolling my eyes.

Stupid bartender.  I was on a roll.  I continued as best I could.  The woman was giggling.

She gave me the eye.

I wrapped up my lecture.  It wasn't very good anyway.  Besides, Miss-Grilled-Cheese-Sandwich-For-Dinner was down to her crusts.  I put down my index cards, and walked over to her.

"May I have this seat?" I asked, knowing full well she was going to let me sit there.

"No," she replied, dashing my dreams.

"But you've been giving me the eye this whole time."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do.  Come on."

"No."

"Come on."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"..."

"No."

"..."

"..."

"Did you at least like my lecture?"

"It was okay, I guess.  I wasn't really paying attention."

"You were looking right at me.  You were giving me the eye."

"No, I wasn't.

"Come on."

"No."

***

Epilogue: 

I quit the lecture circuit after that day.  I later got hired as the president of Syracuse University.  After all this time, I'm still pretty sure that woman gave me the eye.

Wherever

Wherever you are, you're too far away.

The Bubble Diversion

I was born with a bubble in my mouth.  The doctors timed how long the bubble would last.  It kept going.  They took off their wristwatches before the birth, and needed to look back and forth between the clock on the wall and my mouth.

I knew what I was doing.  If they keep their focus on the bubble, I thought, they won't notice my slipping back inside the womb.  It worked until they noticed the bubble was gone.  

"Come back here, you," said the doctor sternly.

It might've worked if I wasn't a C-section baby.