Lucky
I woke to a banging at the door, a hammering really, the sound a
SWAT team might generate preparing to serve a warrant. When I
got to the door it was only Lyle, from two farms down who raises
cows for a living. “You look terrible” I told him, “you better come in
and sit down.” “I had a wreck with my truck” Lyle said. “Are you
hurt?” was all I could think to ask, but he didn’t have a scratch and
he was wearing his best bib overalls. “Nah” he said, stuffing his
hands into his pockets, staring intently at the floor. “Then you
were lucky” I said. “I guess so” he said. “Did you total your
truck?” I asked. “Nah, nothing, not a scratch” he said. “Then what
seems to be the problem?” I asked. “My wife, my mother-in-law,
both my kids, my insurance agent, and the dog, they’re all dead”
Lyle said. “Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “How in the world did that
happen?” “I told you, I had a wreck” Lyle said. I glanced out the
window and saw Lyle’s truck parked and idling in my driveway. I
could see a stack of bodies in the bed of the truck, one bloody
arm dangling over the tailgate. “Do you want me to call 911?” I
asked. “Nah” Lyle said, “I’ll drive them into town just as soon as I
feel calm. A wreck can sure shake a person up.” “You sure were
lucky” I said again, “to have survived such devastation.” “I guess
so” was all Lyle could say, never taking his eyes off the floor. I
could tell he was upset, so I left him alone for a minute and
stepped out to the porch. Two of the accident victims at the top of
the heap had distinct bullet holes in their foreheads and I could
see a rope still tied around the dog’s neck. The insurance agent’s
briefcase must have sprung open during impact; a few forms were
scattered on the lawn. I went back inside. Lyle hadn’t budged an
inch. “Are you sure you hit something with your truck, or was this
some kind of psychological wreck?” I asked. Lyle finally looked up
at me. “I’ve got full coverage – collision and liability” Lyle said. He
reached for his wallet to produce his driver’s license and
registration and handed them to me. “Yes” I said, “I can see your
expiration date is still a ways off and everything is in order. I
guess I can let you off with just a warning this time, but you’ll have
to be more careful in the future, especially when it comes to
pounding on neighbors’ doors.” Lyle smiled for the first time. “I’m
sorry about that” Lyle said, “the wreck and all, you know.” I
listened to Lyle gun the engine and back down the driveway as I
climbed back into bed. Lyle was usually a careful driver. I hoped
he’d learned his lesson.
The Tunnel
Traffic moved unusually slow, probably an accident in the tunnel
up ahead, but because I had time to look around I spotted the
sign half hidden among the trees: Mole Problems? Call 4U2–
MOLE. Normally I ignore advertisers, so what got me interested is
still a mystery. I dialed the number. “Hello, Mr. Mole
speaking.” “That can’t be your real name” I said. “Yes, yes, the
business has been destiny since the day I was born. How can I
help you?” For an instant I was speechless. I didn’t have any
moles. “Can you tell me what time it is?” “I’m sorry, it’s too dark to
see a clock” Mr. Mole replied. “So you’re at the job site, very
industrious of you” I said. “No, No, I live here. Is there anything
else you need?” “You live underground?” I asked. “Did you
expect me to live in a tree?” I could hear the sarcasm in his
voice. Perhaps this signaled the beginning of my mole
problems. “I’m sorry to have bothered you” I apologized, believing
he’d hang up, but the line stayed open, a musky panting coming
from the other end. “Are you still there?” I asked. “You don’t get
rid of moles by just hanging up.” “I don’t actually have any moles”
I said, “I just called because I’m stuck in traffic and didn’t have
anything better to do until I saw your sign.” “Do moles attract
you?” Mr. Mole asked. “I have no feelings whatsoever
for moles!” I snapped back, but I was immediately sorry for my
temper. I pictured the dirty burrow where moles live, the wife
clearing a cavern under someone’s garden, preparing a cold
kettle to mix a meal of pale roots. My problems with traffic were
trivial compared to the struggles moles face, so I pulled over to
the shoulder and settled back. “Go ahead” I encouraged, “I’m
listening” and Mr. Mole started talking, all his dark secrets coming
to the surface, passions that made my cell phone blush though I’d
had it set to vibrate.
Before Breakfast
All night the cows next door bellowed. By dawn I opened the
bedroom window and called to the nearest cow. “What’s all the
bellowing about?” I asked. “You should ask?” the cow replied,
“You who sleep all night in a comfortable bed while we stand in the
field?” “That’s not an answer, and besides, it’s only Orwellian
cynicism about the human condition” I said. “Have you no depth,
no inner cow resources to plumb so as to describe what’s innately
wrong?” I didn’t want to sound overly philosophical, but I hadn’t
slept well and the opportunity to talk with a talking cow was
unprecedented. I decided on another approach. “Maybe it’s
health, one of your stomachs is upset from ingesting too much
fiber” I proposed. The cow stared at me with disdain, as if I’d just
made a tasteless joke about hamburgers. “Don’t look at me like
that” I said. “An upset stomach is the cause of much discomfort
among our kind. Your kind has twice as much risk for suffering
with a condition that’s easily treatable.” The cow continued to
stare. I knew I’d gone too far, that this cow had nothing else to
say to me, that never again would I be taken seriously by any cow,
that I might not even be taken seriously by my neighbors once
word got out about me talking to cows. “Moo” I shouted and
slammed the window closed. I had more important things to do
than try to understand cows, and all this before a bowl of cereal.
I woke to a banging at the door, a hammering really, the sound a
SWAT team might generate preparing to serve a warrant. When I
got to the door it was only Lyle, from two farms down who raises
cows for a living. “You look terrible” I told him, “you better come in
and sit down.” “I had a wreck with my truck” Lyle said. “Are you
hurt?” was all I could think to ask, but he didn’t have a scratch and
he was wearing his best bib overalls. “Nah” he said, stuffing his
hands into his pockets, staring intently at the floor. “Then you
were lucky” I said. “I guess so” he said. “Did you total your
truck?” I asked. “Nah, nothing, not a scratch” he said. “Then what
seems to be the problem?” I asked. “My wife, my mother-in-law,
both my kids, my insurance agent, and the dog, they’re all dead”
Lyle said. “Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “How in the world did that
happen?” “I told you, I had a wreck” Lyle said. I glanced out the
window and saw Lyle’s truck parked and idling in my driveway. I
could see a stack of bodies in the bed of the truck, one bloody
arm dangling over the tailgate. “Do you want me to call 911?” I
asked. “Nah” Lyle said, “I’ll drive them into town just as soon as I
feel calm. A wreck can sure shake a person up.” “You sure were
lucky” I said again, “to have survived such devastation.” “I guess
so” was all Lyle could say, never taking his eyes off the floor. I
could tell he was upset, so I left him alone for a minute and
stepped out to the porch. Two of the accident victims at the top of
the heap had distinct bullet holes in their foreheads and I could
see a rope still tied around the dog’s neck. The insurance agent’s
briefcase must have sprung open during impact; a few forms were
scattered on the lawn. I went back inside. Lyle hadn’t budged an
inch. “Are you sure you hit something with your truck, or was this
some kind of psychological wreck?” I asked. Lyle finally looked up
at me. “I’ve got full coverage – collision and liability” Lyle said. He
reached for his wallet to produce his driver’s license and
registration and handed them to me. “Yes” I said, “I can see your
expiration date is still a ways off and everything is in order. I
guess I can let you off with just a warning this time, but you’ll have
to be more careful in the future, especially when it comes to
pounding on neighbors’ doors.” Lyle smiled for the first time. “I’m
sorry about that” Lyle said, “the wreck and all, you know.” I
listened to Lyle gun the engine and back down the driveway as I
climbed back into bed. Lyle was usually a careful driver. I hoped
he’d learned his lesson.
The Tunnel
Traffic moved unusually slow, probably an accident in the tunnel
up ahead, but because I had time to look around I spotted the
sign half hidden among the trees: Mole Problems? Call 4U2–
MOLE. Normally I ignore advertisers, so what got me interested is
still a mystery. I dialed the number. “Hello, Mr. Mole
speaking.” “That can’t be your real name” I said. “Yes, yes, the
business has been destiny since the day I was born. How can I
help you?” For an instant I was speechless. I didn’t have any
moles. “Can you tell me what time it is?” “I’m sorry, it’s too dark to
see a clock” Mr. Mole replied. “So you’re at the job site, very
industrious of you” I said. “No, No, I live here. Is there anything
else you need?” “You live underground?” I asked. “Did you
expect me to live in a tree?” I could hear the sarcasm in his
voice. Perhaps this signaled the beginning of my mole
problems. “I’m sorry to have bothered you” I apologized, believing
he’d hang up, but the line stayed open, a musky panting coming
from the other end. “Are you still there?” I asked. “You don’t get
rid of moles by just hanging up.” “I don’t actually have any moles”
I said, “I just called because I’m stuck in traffic and didn’t have
anything better to do until I saw your sign.” “Do moles attract
you?” Mr. Mole asked. “I have no feelings whatsoever
for moles!” I snapped back, but I was immediately sorry for my
temper. I pictured the dirty burrow where moles live, the wife
clearing a cavern under someone’s garden, preparing a cold
kettle to mix a meal of pale roots. My problems with traffic were
trivial compared to the struggles moles face, so I pulled over to
the shoulder and settled back. “Go ahead” I encouraged, “I’m
listening” and Mr. Mole started talking, all his dark secrets coming
to the surface, passions that made my cell phone blush though I’d
had it set to vibrate.
Before Breakfast
All night the cows next door bellowed. By dawn I opened the
bedroom window and called to the nearest cow. “What’s all the
bellowing about?” I asked. “You should ask?” the cow replied,
“You who sleep all night in a comfortable bed while we stand in the
field?” “That’s not an answer, and besides, it’s only Orwellian
cynicism about the human condition” I said. “Have you no depth,
no inner cow resources to plumb so as to describe what’s innately
wrong?” I didn’t want to sound overly philosophical, but I hadn’t
slept well and the opportunity to talk with a talking cow was
unprecedented. I decided on another approach. “Maybe it’s
health, one of your stomachs is upset from ingesting too much
fiber” I proposed. The cow stared at me with disdain, as if I’d just
made a tasteless joke about hamburgers. “Don’t look at me like
that” I said. “An upset stomach is the cause of much discomfort
among our kind. Your kind has twice as much risk for suffering
with a condition that’s easily treatable.” The cow continued to
stare. I knew I’d gone too far, that this cow had nothing else to
say to me, that never again would I be taken seriously by any cow,
that I might not even be taken seriously by my neighbors once
word got out about me talking to cows. “Moo” I shouted and
slammed the window closed. I had more important things to do
than try to understand cows, and all this before a bowl of cereal.
