I feed squirrels everyday in a park. I started feeding them walnuts because I was told they were the best thing for them. The hard shell was great for their teeth as opposed to peanuts and the soft shell. I was spending about $14/week on feeding them walnuts, but it was worth it. They were so damned grateful, and I learned how to feed them without getting my fingers scratched or bitten.
They came to expect me, and when I would arrive, I heard the clacking of their joy as they were most likely saying, "He’s here, the goddamn messiah is here! Rejoice!" They would come swarming, and I would put the nuts in the crook of the arm of one of their trees, or I would toss the nuts to others who were scampering quickly toward me from other areas of the park.
All was beautiful with me and the squirrels. For the magical hour or so that I would be out there, I was unconcerned with the dissolution of ALL THAT WAS GOOD in the world. I knew in the back of my mind there was evil flourishing in the country, but when the squirrels took a walnut from me, it had to wait to occupy my mind.
The turning point came on a scorching Wednesday in the San Fernando Valley in July. The wildfires were burning out of control, and the pandemic was in its fourth month. To breathe was a challenge. I was disoriented from the lack of oxygen, and my mood was foul. I don’t know how I did it, but I was able to communicate with one of the squirrels on a level that went beyond the cuteness of feeding it. I distinctly heard the squirrel say to me:
"Just tell us what you want done."
Just tell us what you want done. I stared at this alpha squirrel for a minute before I realized we were indeed communicating. I know some of you, maybe all of you, reading this are thinking "oh cute, let’s see where this story goes, nice jump of imagination," or "how trite." No, no, no and no. I was communicating with these incredibly soulful brown beasts, and it wasn’t because I was micro-dosing or had started on Ketamine therapy, or I had come from a broken, shattered home that would have made Charlie Dickens proud (all of which were true: I was doing small amounts of LSD as prescribed by a friend of mine, who has since gone on to become a Hedgefund Manager for Melvin Capital, I was on Ketamine therapy for severe depression because of an accident at a shooting range involving an ex and her tennis instructor that was still in the courts, and my broken home that I came from bedeviled my every step).
I was able to guide and coordinate a gang of squirrels with my thoughts. Just tell us what you want. I first had them do benign, positive things. I asked if they would show me that this was indeed real by doing a choreographed dance of some sort. Immediately, I was treated to an incredible version of the Broadway hit Chicago. The play was never crisper or tighter or more brazen. It also had a sense of humor that was delightful. I have seen many versions of Chicago, and not once was it done with this light a touch, this kind of whimsy.
The game was afoot. If these squirrels could do Chicago (and soon after that Hamilton and Carousel, followed by Rent and A Walk in the Woods), then they could do anything. I instructed them to bring me a schematic of the local Chase Bank. I was peeved at Chase for their investment in the Keystone Pipeline and other horrific projects that were resulting in the destruction of the ecosystem, so I sought vengeance in the name of the common man (by the way, dear reader: the total number of words at the end of the last sentence was 666 hahahahahaaha).
Sure enough, within an hour and a half, the squirrels had brought me the original architectural blueprints of said financial institution at Lankershim and Riverside Drive. They laid it out before me, and I studied it and realized that there was a fatal flaw in the design. The vents that pumped air conditioning into the vault were accessible through the donut shop next door. Dig this: The vat that made the cream for the Boston cream donuts blocked an entrance to the duct work vents to the vault. All I would have to do was get a job in the donut store, and when making the donuts, which was always done at some ungodly hour in the middle of the night, I could move the vat and scamper into the vault!
I pressed a suit and sprayed cologne on my neck and put together a resume. I lied on the resume saying I had worked in a non-existent donut store in New Hampshire called Glazed and Confused. I walked into the donut store (which was called The Powdered Keg) and asked if there was an opening, and I slid my resume onto the counter with a flair and a confidence. Oh! I forgot to mention: in my fashionable briefcase, I had two squirrels who agreed to come with me as backup.
The owner of the shop said I was in luck, as an employee had taken their life and the life of another employee in a love triangle that involved gasoline, a lack of money, and a cache of drugs that would make Sean Penn blanche. I was in, as were the squirrels in my bag, and I immediately was given a donut smock and the keys to the shop. The owner walked me through the basics of opening and closing the store, and he jumped into his car saying he would be back in an hour. I never saw him again.
The rest of this tale is so shocking and so horrible and so squirrel-centric that you will have to tune in next week for the finish. If I were to finish this story now, you would be rendered incapable of continuing with your life.
Let’s just leave it at that.