The Myth of Wile E

A Mischief of Math

Goats were said to eat anything at all, probably even zucchini plants, so a nanny goat would be a really great zucchini-to-goat milk converter.

Unfortunately, I didn't have a goat. So, every couple of days I shook my farm stand coffee can for loose change, then left for town (with the tiny squirrels curled up in the pocket of my flannel shirt), picking up bottles along the way to make up the difference between the farm stand's profits and the price of goat milk. Each time, there were fewer and fewer bottles to be found, probably because I'd picked them up a few days before. And since my refrigerator didn't work, I also had to keep going to the filling station for ice. It wasn't easy. But we managed, the little flying squirrels and me. (Granted, I did have to dip into my savings a bit.)

At the library, I found out how to take care of the squirrels, which was good, because everything I knew about flying squirrels, I'd learned from Rocky and Bullwinkle. (Apparently, flying squirrels don't wear goggles or say "Hokey Smokes!" in real life.) As it turned out, I needed a few more supplies than goat milk, like yogurt and vitamins and a flea comb and a feeding syringe and Q-tips. Out of respect for the squirrels' privacy, I won't mention what the Q-tips were used for. Let's just say I was glad when the squirrels were big enough to do their business without prompting.

I fed the squirrels about five times a day, their little bellies going from flat to round with each meal, and they slept curled together like rolled socks in the chest pocket of my shirt. As they got bigger, they liked to climb up my shoulder and scramble up onto my head, where I guess the view was better.

And so there I was at the farm stand late one afternoon, with two flying squirrels atop my head, writing a poem-me, not the squirrels-when a huge black car with dark windows pulled up. The car was as shiny as patent leather. The squirrels and I could see our reflections in it.

A uniformed driver stepped out. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, and he was bald, the kind of bald that comes from a straight razor, not age. He looked like he drank twelve raw eggs for breakfast and never skipped Arm Day. Even his scalp was muscular.

With a gloved hand, the driver opened the rear door. Shoes appeared, as shiny as the car. Their soles touched the ground hesitantly. Then the rest of the man emerged from the car. He wore a suit so black it might have been woven from the fabric of space. You sure didn't see a lot of folks wearing that kind of suit around here, or really any kind of suit. The guy stuck out like a porcupine at a balloon drop.

I didn't realize he was the mogul at first, though I might have guessed. Then again, he didn't recognize me, either. He walked right past me and peered over the edge of the steep, rocky hill to the aluminum roof of my house way down below, then frowned at his very clean shoes and clutched his tie protectively. "You know if the person who lives in that place is home?" he said, not even looking at me.

Neither the squirrels nor the driver answered, so I said, "Yep." (Meaning: yes, I knew.)

Muttering words I thought the squirrels were too young to hear, the man turned sideways and gingerly descended the hill like a mountain goat.

Meanwhile the driver stood beside the car, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, gloved hand holding gloved wrist, almost but not quite motionless. I smiled at the driver, and got a slight face twitch in response. I thought: I have met the Living Statue, was friends with the Living Statue, and you, sir, are no Living Statue.

I went back to work on my poem. Soon, I heard the dark-suited guy knocking at my front door. Knock-knock-knock. Pause. Then: "Hello?" Pause. Knock-knock-knock. Then: "Helloooo?" Then the sound of knocking on window glass. Rap-rap-rap. And so forth. A few minutes later, he mountain-goated his way back up the hill, panting and annoyed.