Townsend Walker

Due Storie

 

 

I Swallowed a Squirrel

 

While sitting on a bench in Central Park eating peanuts.  Found a half-eaten bag in the trash bin.  Down to my last nut, I flipped it in the air, tilted my head back to catch it and this squirrel leapt from nowhere, followed the peanut into my mouth.  Not sure who got the peanut, me or him.

 

You can bet I tried to get him out, but the damned thing stuck in my throat.  Tried and tried.  Cough, hock, spit, cough, hock, spit.  Plain stuck, wouldn’t come up.

 

I needed to get to an ER.  The one I use is downtown so I went up to Fifth for a bus.  People stared at me like they’d never seen anyone with something caught in her throat.  That wasn’t it, really.  They’d all heard the same thing I did about the conspiracy.  Not sure if Russians or Australians were behind it.  The scheme was to leave half-eaten bags of peanuts in the parks.  Not regular peanuts; ones with radio signals so when someone holds them, warms them up a bit, the signal is picked up by trained squirrels.  They get dropped in at night, these squirrels.

 

Nobody’s been able to explain what happens after the squirrels get inside people.  My theory is that they’re hiding out, massing for an attack.  Like immobilizing New York by taking over the subway system.  Can you imagine one hundred thousand grey furry rodents bouncing around the 4 Line?

 

Finally, the M1 bus arrived.  I felt the squirrel move.  This was my chance.  So I went through my expulsion routine: cough, hock, spit, cough, hock, spit.  No luck.  The bus was crowded, people squeezed in.  I kept talking to the squirrel.  He wouldn’t budge.  Cough, hock, spit.  People moved away like I was spewing plague germs. 

 

A lady, couple of seats back, had been sitting quietly huddled up in two or three grey and brown coats, shopping bags around her feet.  She looked at me with her soft mother-face and started singing the purest gospel I’d ever heard. 

 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee!

E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me,

 

The words cut clear through the air.  Everyone hushed and turned to look.  And know what?  My squirrel heard the hymn, relaxed and slid right down my throat.  He’s sleeping down there in my stomach now, all curled up and quiet.

 

Don’t know, but next week, next month maybe, headlines in the Post—Takeover of 4 Line thwarted by Abyssinian Baptist Choir.

 

* * *

 

The Lord Sent Me

 

Down onto the bus to do his work.  To comfort the poor souls who’ve been marked for death.  You can spot ‘em because they’re hacking up a storm, like they’d swallowed a squirrel.  They had.

 

The big boys launched a secret mission to eliminate the homeless and reduce the explosion of furry rodents. It’s a cruel plot; weighs heavy on my shoulders.

 

One night each week they net up about fifty squirrels and don’t feed ‘em for ten days.  Poor critters.  Next they leave these half-eaten bags of peanuts in a trash bin next to a comfy park bench.  Some wretched child of god sits down, sees the nuts, grabs the bag, tosses a peanut in their mouth and wham--that poor bundle of rags has a starving squirrel scrambling down his gullet going for the nut.

 

This ain’t no caramel melting down the throat, this is a wild-with-hunger, fast-as-a-bullet rodent.  People got a fur ball in their pipes.  Start hacking and hocking trying to get it out.

 

I see them in their last days, riding the bus, slumped down all smelly and raggedy. They keep on with the hocking and spitting, getting saliva all over the back of some lady’s legs or some man’s coat.  People look at one another mouthing Oh My God and ewwwww. 

 

We’re talking here about the wretched of the earth and small furry creatures the city wants to get rid of.  Who’s gonna demand an autopsy once this abandoned child of our Lord keels over.  No one.  Big boys’ mission will always be a secret.

 

So here I am watching.  I move a little closer when I hear that awful cough.  That’s when I start singing.  Quiets everybody down.  Even works on the squirrel.  Makes him less agitated.  My mama gave me these lungs and taught me to reach out with my music, calming the frazzled, soothing the dying.

 

 

 

Townsend Walker lives in San Francisco. He draws inspiration from cemeteries, foreign places, violence and strong women. A novella in noir, La Ronde, was published by Truth Serum Press in August 2015. Some seventy short stories have been published in literary journals and are included in eight anthologies. Awards: first place in the SLO NightWriters contest, second place in Our Stories contest, two nominations for the PEN/O.Henry Award. Four stories were performed at the New Short Fiction Series in Hollywood. Educated at Stanford (economics and creative writing), New York University (economics and anthropology) and Georgetown (foreign service).