Big Len's Raccoon

-
Big Len, our rotund neighbor to the west, found a raccoon nestled in his garbage bin yesterday morning. As he looked down at it, it looked up at him. (In fairness, it is possible that, as Big Len approached, said raccoon was already looking up at the inside of the bin’s lid. I couldn’t say for certain; I wasn’t there. You’d have to ask the raccoon—presuming it would offer a honest answer, that is; and presuming you could hire a competent translator of Raccoon-nese or Raccoon-ish; that is, presuming you aren’t such a translator yourself.) Big Len tossed his bulging Hefty bag into the bin anyways and slammed the lid down. He fixed the lid with a heavy shovel to thwart the raccoon’s escape. 

Then, yesterday afternoon, whilst strolling to and from the train station, Big Len told Pops that the raccoon was “too stuffed to move.” Sure, Big Len could’ve called up the animal control folks, but he figured they’d be off for the holiday. Fair enough. 

Why Big Len had to “secure” the raccoon within the bin in the first place, I didn’t ask. 

So anyways last night Pops gives me a holler from downstairs. He tells me Big Len wants my help to set the raccoon free. “Because they’re nocturnal,” says Pops. Never mind I’m already in my PJs and settled in. Never mind that, if they’re nocturnal, wouldn’t it be safer to set it free in the morning? Or maybe tomorrow afternoon? Pops tells me Big Len wants it out of his trash bin right now, this minute. I grumble and throw on a t-shirt and pair of jeans. Walking out the door, I say, “I want a million dollars if I get bit by a raccoon.” Pops shakes his newspaper flat. He says, “I got nothing to do with it.” 

I find Big Len in his brightly lit backyard holding the business end of a metal shovel over the unlidded trash bin. He doesn’t hear me walk up his driveway. This means I startle him when I say, “What’s up?” Since I’m a little quicker on my feet, I tell him to let me take care of it. He hands me the shovel and goes back into his house. He doesn’t say why or mention whether he’s coming back. 

Minutes later, he returns with a large, ragged sweater and a flashlight. I tell him it’s a bad idea. But his mind is set. He briefly shines the flashlight down into the trash bin. The raccoon is still in there, but Big Len figures it for dead. He wants me to take a look. No thanks. I know what raccoons look like. Has Big Len thought this through? Nope. But he’s gonna manage it anyways. In fairness, it’s his garbage can, his backyard, his “captive.” So, yeah, his problem. So: Plan A? Run. Ok but see if Big Len could run, he’d be Thin Len. Right? So, Plan B? Well. Say the racoon lunges at him. Big Len’ll catch and wrap it up in his old sweater. Maybe think of Big Len as some low-rent bullfighter. 

He hands me the flashlight and grabs one side of the garbage bin. I tell him roll it out to the far corner of his backyard. But no, Big Len dumps it right there, at the end of his patio. The tied end of the Hefty flops out. Big Len takes the flashlight and beams it into the bottom of the bin. As far as he can tell, the raccoon is buried in the rest of the trash at the bottom. Big Len figures if it isn’t dead, it’s dying. (If so, how thoughtful of the racoon. Right?) Big Len yanks the bin back up onto its wheels and rolls it down to the street-end of his driveway. After he “secures” the shovel to the lid again, he tells me he’ll leave a note on it for the trash collectors. 

Ok, so, what was I there for? Bait? 

Early this morning, when I plod out to grab Pops’s newspaper, I look across the lawn, over to the street-end of Big Len’s driveway. His garbage bin is knocked over onto its side, with trash spilled out of it. I’m guessing the raccoon was playing dead for us, but I don’t get close enough to investigate. I walk over and grab Big Len’s newspaper and drop it on his front stoop. I do this every day. I didn’t want to feel the need to clean up the mess. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t see it. 

Yeah, so, anyways, that’s how Pops got to keep his million. 

25 November 2006

Popular posts from this blog

SHUSH

-
Along with the stomping freak who uses the flipside of my ceiling as a floor, the folks with whom I share walls cannot tolerate silence. No, they must blast on repeat any of Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 singles of 2000 through their respective stereo’s speakers. This, in turn, forces me to blast all of my much less popular music to drown theirs out. It becomes a vicious circle of escalating sound. And perhaps the very point of loud music is to drown out all thought, fear, and pain. These days, who can bear to sit quietly and ponder life—let alone read a book? Indeed, the folks in this city—and perhaps the folks in every city—seemingly do whatever they can to stifle the natural inclination to think. At least, that is my impression. After all, the act of thought —the very act of reflection —necessarily slows production and consumption. And we mustn’t have that, no, no. Besides, we need not contemplate our lack of fulfillment or our actual worthlessness if we are too busy playing video ...
Read more

Ginny

-
10/24/2001 : Would you believe I was standing beneath the lit marquee of the Music Box Theater this evening, reading an Emily Dickinson chapbook? I was, but I was doing a poor job of it. And, no, I wasn’t there specifically to read poetry. But I might’ve been the first dude to read Dickinson at that particular location. And, no, I wasn’t reading it aloud. * In fairness (to me), I hadn’t thought to read it aloud. I bring a book or a magazine along wherever I go, just in case it rains. Gotta have something to hold open over my head. Can’t have a sudden shower muck up my carefully sculpted helmet of hair. And if I want something to read, I’ll take an umbrella. But seriously, it’s all about the waiting. If city life doesn’t cultivate patience, then it definitely cultivates insanity. If I find myself waiting (anywhere) beyond the walls of my apartment without something to read, I’ll end up gazing at the passersby, instead. They might gaze back. They won’t smile, though. Never mind if ...
Read more

S T R E A M # 3 0

-
Start: The dog did not enjoy the tuna casserole, and by “dog” I do not mean Sally’s pet collie, I means Sally’s husband, Al. When we stop to think about the things that do not matter – which is something we often do – then, when the time comes, we check our watches and eat our respective tuna casseroles. We eat the tuna casseroles because we know Grandma would be sad if we did not. Thus, or hence, or hence-thus, the problem becomes one of consumption. Finally, the problem is ALWAYS one of consumption. What do you think about Al’s dilemma with the tuna casserole? Beets are enjoyed by cats in the winter when strawberries are not in bloom. DO strawberries bloom? No. Yes? No. I wouldn’t know. I am not a strawberry farmer. Who told you otherwise? Who led you astray? And why would you believe his or hers or their words over mine? What I feel the next time we meet when you are not sad with happiness in the tuna casserole. I haven’t – I couldn’t tell you about the last time I ate apple sauce i...
Read more