The Myth of Wile E

The Cymbal Crash

Well. I was removing the hallway door, the one in the middle of ersatz New Mexico, when catastrophe struck my house—or, at least, some kind of big cat struck, in a manner of speaking.

All day I had heard the rising drumroll of the rain, as I'd heard it for days, but all of a sudden the snare drum was accompanied by the big thumpa-thumpa-thumpa of tom-toms, which was soon joined by the boom-boom-boom of a bass drum. It sounded like the orchestra was leading up to its big finish, and oh boy, I couldn't have been more right about that.

I went outside to find out what was going on, and saw that the hill above my house was melting into dozens of muddy rivers that were plopping their muck all over my roof. Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa went the balls of mud, followed by the occasional boom-boom-boom of rocks hitting the roof. With all the rain we'd had, the weight of the bulldozer perched at the top of the hill was causing the hill to crumble beneath it like a cliff under Wile E. Coyote. The big yellow scoop was tilting toward my house like a raptor homing in on its prey.

"Hey! Get out of the truck!" I shouted up the hill, cupping my hands to throw my voice farther. "GET OUT OF THE TRUUUCK!" But maybe I couldn't throw my voice any better than I could throw the Tupperware, because no one got out of the bulldozer. I started to climb the fence.

But it was already too late. As an avalanche of mud gave way above me, I jumped off the fence and took off running the other way, turning back to see the big scoop hit the hill first, and bounce, vaulting the bulldozer up into the air, and then the bulldozer tumbled onto its back, and the whole thing smashed down onto the roof of my house with one great cymbal crash.

Ta-da.

From somewhere I could hear frantic shouting. I stood in horror for a few long seconds, then I ran toward the upturned bulldozer. It sat on the roof of my squashed bedroom, which was now a mere few feet high, and I easily climbed up onto the creaking roof. I stuck my head inside the cab of the bulldozer, fearing the worst. But there was no one inside. It took me a moment to realize the shouting was not coming from the bulldozer at all, but from the top of the hill. The security guard was shouting at me to get away from the accident, that it wasn't safe, and asking if I was okay.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Stay back from it," he yelled. "Sit tight. I'm calling it in. You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," I said again, though I didn't feel so fine.

He disappeared from sight and I could hear him up there dialing his phone. I had a knot in my stomach as I realized the squirrels had probably been sleeping in my sock drawer, like they did most days. Despite what the security guard had said, I decided to enter my house.

Unfortunately, when I tugged on the front door, it wouldn't open. The rhombus was now more of a rhombus/saltbox shape that I don't think even Euclid would have a name for, and apparently the door frame had gotten bent.

The front window was shattered but too small to climb through, so I went around to the kitchen and climbed over the zucchini and through the open window (which was also shattered). I made my way down my hallway, which got gradually shorter and shorter like some kind of funhouse optical illusion. I wondered what the insurance adjusters were going to have to say about this. And then I realized: they wouldn't have anything to say about it, because I was pretty sure my policy had long been canceled.

My bedroom had taken the worst of it. My bed was covered with mud and rocks where a piece of the bulldozer had punctured the ceiling. There was a creaking, groaning noise and the roof seemed to inch a little lower. I rushed to the dresser, which was also covered with mud but mostly undamaged. The squirrels were not in their drawer, but after looking everywhere I finally found them trembling under the bed. I put out my hand to them, acutely aware of the metal roof straining above my head. I couldn't quite reach them, but finally they latched on to the cuff of my flannel shirt and belly-crawled along my sleeve. As they crawled into the safety of my shirt pocket I got out of the bedroom as fast as I could. It seemed the ceiling had at last stopped caving in, but it was hard to be sure.