Lynn Abbey - It's About Squirrels

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2024-12-23 0 0 122.66KB 13 页 5.9玖币

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IT'S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . .

Lynn Abbey

"SQUIRRELS?" Nic repeated.

"Yes, ma'am," the utility company spokeswoman replied, unaware of, or

completely ignoring, Nic's sarcasm.

Nic abandoned subtlety. "I lost power at nine a.m. this morning, at nine

a.m. yesterday, at the same time the day before yesterday, and the day before

that, too. After four days, my computer's dead as a doornail. I'm wondering if

it's safe to replace my hardware, and you're telling me that my problem is

squirrels?"

"Yes, ma'am. From what you've said, your problem is squirrels."

"Florida squirrels read clocks?"

"No, ma'am," the utility representative replied, steadfastly polite.

Like so many others, Nic was a transplant to the Sunshine State, and a

recent one at that. Six months ago, Thursday mornings would have found her

in an urban office, sipping coffee while she dreamed up new ways to seduce

consumers onto the Internet. Now she was just another dot-bomb survivor with

a stagnant resume and an endangered checking account. She'd sold most of

her furniture, put the rest into storage, and retreated to a one-bedroom

trailer at the end of an unpaved road somewhere between the middle of

nowhere and the warmer levels of Dante's Hell. Worse than that, her

parents—comfortably ensconced in a nearby retirement community—were

footing her rent. But worst of all, Nic's computer—her lifeline to

civilization—had fallen victim to squirrels.

"All right, I don't understand. What makes you so certain I've got a squirrel

problem?"

"You've lost power four days in a row, each time at the same time, ma'am.

That sounds like squirrels. Squirrels aren't loners. They do the same

things—together—day after day. They take turns chasing and following, but if

the squirrel that's leading makes a mistake and falls in a pole transformer—"

"It gets fried and I lose power?" Nic cut to the chase.

"Yes, ma'am, except you didn't really lose power; your voltage fell. I'd be

surprised if the drop even affected your microwave clock—"

The spokeswoman was right: Nic's microwave clock, the canary among

household appliances, hadn't faltered.

"When it happens, there's a little hiccup as the transformer drops off the

grid just long enough to reset itself," she continued. "The whole process takes a

lot less than a second. You wouldn't have noticed at all, if you weren't close to

the transformer."

"And then the follower-squirrels come back the next day to make the same

mistake?"

"Yes, ma'am—that's exactly what happens. They keep doing what the dead

squirrel did until another squirrel takes over ... or until the whole group's

dead. It's like their needle's stuck. Our engineers even have a name for them:

pallbearer squirrels. It's a real problem here in Florida."

Only in Florida, Nic thought before asking: "How serious a problem? My

computer's already lost its hard drive to these hiccups. How long will squirrels

be committing serial suicide in my vicinity?"

"Usually it stops after three or four days, ma'am, but they had one up near

Tallahassee that went on for nineteen days. If you've got one of those fancy

batteries, you shouldn't have any problems. Those stick surge protectors they

sell in Wal*mart won't help you against squirrels and ospreys—"

Without knowing the cause of her problem, Nic had anticipated its solution.

Along with a replacement hard drive, UPS had just delivered fifteen pounds of

continuously recharged, uninterruptible battery power. She could safely

resurrect her computer—assuming there wasn't something Floridian that

went after batteries the way squirrels went after hard drives. Determined not to

be caught blind again, Nic asked—

"Ospreys?"

"Birds, ma'am. Some call them fish-eagles. They're endangered because

people've cut down all the snag trees around the lakes. Sushine Power built

nesting platforms on top of our poles near the lakes. The ospreys think our

poles are as good as pine trees. Around this time of year, they bring fish back to

the nests for their babies. They carry the fish in their claws and have to drop

them in the nest before they can land. But sometimes they miss and the fish

fall into the pole transformers. They don't usually miss twice, though, so when

a transformer hiccups two days running, and at the same time, we think

squirrels."

Nic wondered why Sunshine Power didn't put lids on their transformers but

didn't ask the question, and the conversation died a natural death. She had her

day's work cut out for her. Even with the best backups—which Nic didn't

have—resurrecting a computer took hours. It was well past midnight before she

left the kitchen table that had replaced her ergonomic desk. Since her hard

drive's manufacturer replaced its warrantied products, no questions asked, in

exchange for the defunct hardware, Nic's last acts of a long day were wrapping

the hard drive in antistatic plastic and boxing it for the post office.

Her eyes were closed before her head hit the pillow. For a few moments, she

cursed the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that had her sleeping in a

secondhand bed, but the wounds were too familiar to keep her awake.

Florida wasn't called the Sunshine State by accident. The dawning sky

brightened quickly and even if it hadn't, there was a Chevrolet dealership at the

other end of the dirt road which opened, noisily, at seven. Nic made coffee and

stuck close to her resurrected computer, waiting for the witching—squirreling—

hour. At 9:08 the battery's LEDs flickered from green to red and back again

while somewhere in its heavy depths a switch clicked twice.

Another squirrel was transformer bouillabaisse, but Nic's computer had

survived. She collected the sealed box, headed for her car and the post office.

Her neighbor—one RJ Walker, according to the letters shakily painted

across his mailbox—had done a worse-than-usual job of parking his pickup

truck last night. Nic couldn't get her Honda around its bright-red rear end

without running through mud. Though the Honda could probably handle the

risk, Nic couldn't. She considered tucking a nasty note under RJ's wipers, but

his truck was plastered with Deep-South decals in praise of guns, NASCAR,

and the University of Florida Gators; prudent Yankee that she was, Nic knew

better than to roil those waters.

Other than the Chevy dealership, there weren't many buildings within

walking distance of Nic's trailer, but one of them, barely, was a post office.

There were no sidewalks, of course, and traffic was surprisingly thick for a road

in the middle of nowhere. Nic treated it with respect, paying more attention to

what was hurtling along the asphalt than what else might be walking beside it.

She didn't realize she wasn't alone until a man warned:

"Don't do it!"

The dead center of Florida wasn't the state's most prosperous region. As

near as Nic could tell, it rated near the wrong end of just about every county

standard, but full-blown derelicts weren't common, even along a road once

known as the Hobo's Highway.

The man wasn't criminally scary. He didn't look strong or steady enough to

wield a weapon. Nic didn't doubt she could outrun him—and she wasn't a

runner. His clothes were long, loose, layered, and literally ragged. Whatever

their original colors, they'd faded in the sun and seemed covered by grayish

dust. His hair matched his clothes: faded, dusted with gray, limp, and

shoulder-length. Nic lowered her eyes as the distance between them shrank.

"Don't send it away. Don't! Take it home. Get him out of the box!"

Nic stretched her eyes and wished she hadn't. The man's stare was dark,

wild, and riveted to the box she carried. She clutched it tight and held her

breath as they passed.

"Keep it! Keep it. He belongs here!"

He—the derelict had definitely muttered the word he.

She dared a backward glance: grass, sand, the usual roadside debris, and

the Chevrolet dealership in the background, but no derelict, not even a shadow

of one. No screeching brakes or battered bodies in the road, either, or footprints

in the sand. The faded man had simply vanished.

Heaven knew the Florida sun got brutal enough to fry human brains, but

not in the season the natives called winter, so Nic called the derelict a waking

dream, a brain-cramp—the sort of mistake anyone could make and no reason

not to finish her trek to the post office. But she returned to the trailer instead.

RJ Walker had removed his pickup; Nic could have driven her Honda. There

was a squirrel sitting on the hood, twitching its tail, the way squirrels did.

Another squirrel perched above the trailer's door while a third raced along an

overhead wire, headed for a transformer pole. Her heart skipped when the

squirrel leaped safely for thicker wires where it paused, twitching and scolding.

Nic climbed the aluminum steps to her front door. The drive's manufacturer

gave her a whole month to return the hard drive before it debited her

hemorrhaging credit card. She poured cold coffee into a rinsed cup and sent an

e-mail to a close, yet distant, friend who lived not far from her stored

furniture—

Hi, Sara. Sorry I've been out of touch. This places gets weirder all the time.

Monday I lost a hard drive to suicidal squirrels— pallbearer squirrels, according

to Sunshine Power, and they should know, I guess. Today I thought a saw a

hobo's ghost out on the highway. I'm still sending out resumes by the score and

hearing nothing back. Unless it's my folks, I'm lucky if I say two words to another

human being in a day—I wound up complaining to Sunshine Power just to have

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摘要：

IT'SABOUTSQUIRRELS...LynnAbbey"SQUIRRELS?"Nicrepeated."Yes,ma'am,"theutilitycompanyspokeswomanreplied,unawareof,orcompletelyignoring,Nic'ssarcasm.Nicabandonedsubtlety."Ilostpoweratninea.m.thismorning,atninea.m.yesterday,atthesametimethedaybeforeyesterday,andthedaybeforethat,too.Afterfourdays,mycompu...

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