My magic squirrels

Sorry about the disturbing image; I tried out a whole variety of arrangements of materials, and this was the only one that worked. What happened is that I took the last tissue out of a tissue box; then I flattened the box, so that the clear plastic opening where the tissues normally come out was like a window in the center, and I could put other images behind it and photograph the result so that it looked like various things were peeking in from behind the clear drapes. But everything that I tried just appeared bog-standard or fair-to-middling. But then I grabbed a VHS copy of a Hitchcock movie that I don’t like much — FRENZY (1972) — and it looked as if it belonged here, because the woman is being strangled behind the plastic opening now, and only the last three letters in the film’s title are visible: “NZY”, which I wish were a real word (maybe I should make it one, someday). Incidentally — and I swear that this was unplanned — at one point in yesterday’s entry I referred to this same movie by Hitchcock (which I really DISLIKE; I just think this detail from the back of its case works for today’s obligatory image; also I enjoy stealing its main idea for diary posts) — I say, at one point in my previous entry I sorta referred to this film, when I mentioned the “necktie murderers” and how, in my amended dimension, they no longer cause anyone any harm.

Dear diary,

What a nice day it is today! Everything’s sweet and edible. Is it a dream? You can snap a leaf off a branch and take a bite and it’s glazed like a pastry. Even poison ivy tastes good.

The squirrels, rather than zipping and zagging haphazardly in a frenetic dither to find good deals on nuts, instead scamper together into a group and follow behind me, like fish in a school. So wherever I walk in my neighborhood, I’m accompanied by this arrowhead shape of furry friends like the train of a wedding dress in my wake; and they respond to my mental whims, I know not how.

For instance, as I walk past a neighbor’s mailbox, I think to myself: “I wonder if there’s anything interesting in there,” and immediately several of the squirrels, as if they were privy to my wishes, sprint right over and climb the pole up to the box: one stands on the shoulders of his comrades, tugs open the door with his weight by hanging on it, and a few others dash inside, mouth up all the letters that are in there, and bring them back to me so that I can see them. They use their warm mammal-breath to steam open the letters’ seals, so that I can peruse the contents. Then I say “Hmm, OK; nothing too interesting here. You can put them back, mes chers,” and my rodent pals replace the mail in the box. No one will ever suspect that it’s been tampered with.

And the same thing happens when I wonder about an automobile or any other movable object nearby. As I saunter past each residence, the squirrels respond to my fancies by stampeding towards whatever vehicle I’m eyeing: they bypass its security alarm and unlock its door, start its engine (usually by hot-wiring it, but sometimes its keys were left in the ignition); then they drive it over and position it before me, so that I can have a closer look. I like to inspect the dashboard, mostly — I like the look of the glowing display. So, since it’s usually pretty sunny out when I go for my strolls, and thus it’s hard to see the illuminated features — as they’re like candles in daylight — the squirrels routinely arrange themselves bodily to form a type of pavilion, surrounding the car’s windshield, while I am checking out the interior, so that underneath their cover, all is dark as night, and each dashboard appears flashy and futuristic, because of the artificial shade that my team has offered me. – I glance over all the neat, bright-blinking controls; sometimes I press the horn to see how it sounds, or turn the hazard lights on; then I look up and say “Alright; thanks, guys,” and they return the car to its home. Usually it was sitting in a driveway; tho sometimes it needs to be put back inside a garage — but my squirrels are adept at guessing the correct password to tap into the keypad that operates the automatic garage-door opener. They’ll even parallel park, if they have to.

Also if folks perchance have left a casket outside of their house, in the front lawn; and it’s mounted upon a wheeled podium, or a cart of some sort; then my squirrels will go get it and bring it before me and open the panel so that I can view the deceased and solemnly pretend to pay my respects. A couple of times they’ve even written me into the will — yes, posthumously! I don’t even know if this is legal, but they’ve nabbed whole teams of lawyers and interrogated them duly, and no one’s ever advised me to return all my inheritances.

I wanted to talk a lot more about the tastiness of my evirons, and to describe the type of sweetness that they offer. I didn’t mean to get hung up on this one part of my walk — my squirrel entourage — but it truly is an important aspect of life, which makes each day totally bonny and salubrious.

Also stores always have what I want. Since this economic system that I’ve lived in all my life is based on the buying and selling of unwanted items, and my squirrel gang hasn’t yet found a way to change the government (they are strictly nonviolent), I lack the experience to imagine anything holier than convenient consumption; but that’s still a pleasant thing — being able to find what you want, really easily, every time.

So I go into a shop that sells circular saws. And the guy at the cash register sez:

“Hi, I’m Tom, the owner. Anything I can help you with?”

And I say: “Do you allow service animals on your sales floor?”

And Tom sez, “Of course!”

So I wave my hand at the glass doors, and my multitude of furry friends crashes inside and starts hefting and displaying all the things I’m curious about.

“I’ll take this item here, and also this item here,” I say, and the squirrels place the items on the countertop, next to the register.

“Alright, that’s two circular saws,” announces Tom. “Your total cost is just one caesar and ninety-nine christs.”

So my squirrel team dashes outside momentarily and then returns with crinkled bills and a big heap of coins. Some of the coins are half-eaten cuz they’re chocolate; but that’s OK cuz they had retrieved much more than enough to pay for the saws.

“Here’s your change,” sez Tom, as he opens up the cash register.

Some of my squirrels mouth the bills that Tom hands forth, while other squirrels scramble into the drawer of the register and retrieve all the banknotes and coins that are in there — they act so fast that it appears as tho the money is cascading out of the register of its own accord and being sucked into the street by some sort of intelligible whirlwind of squirrel-pelts.

Tom can’t help but chuckle; and he sez, while raising up his hands to remain out of the way of the furry workers: “Jeez, you’re robbing me blind!”

After our laugh, I say, “Thanks, Tom. Nice to meet you! I’ll have my people restore your door.”

Then we go to the movies, me and my legion of squirrels, and raptly absorb the feature film from start to finish. Playing tonight is The Lives of Others (2006), a German drama (original title: Das Leben der Anderen). When it concludes, we visit a café and discuss the production with our friends, the Official Surrealists. We all agree that this picture we’ve just screened (the other Surrealists watched it in the theaters of Paris; then they traveled over here to Minnesota in a boat, to converse with me, as is their wont) — I say, as we sit sipping our absinthe, we all agree this film is a masterpiece.

The squirrels are not at our table. The squirrels are phalanxed in the shadows at the back of the room, eavesdropping attentively upon our human discussion. There is an open invitation for the squirrels to participate in our talks, but they still choose to stay away from our group and only to watch us from a distance, apparently out of deference to our intellect. For they have a healthy understanding of their worth in this world: they know that they possess a knack for intercepting mail and hotwiring motorcars, whereas parleying with cinephiles is not their strong point; but we Official Surrealists are good at waxing eloquent. So this is like church for the squirrels, to hear men talk about art. And the owner of the café, Don Fanucci, does not mind that the squirrels have overtaken the entire back row of tables in his establishment, without even paying for refreshments; because he saw what happened to the café’s former owner, who once reprimanded the squirrels.