Moving Day

Shelby sat on the floor, hugging her bent knees, staring blankly at the boxes when she should have been packing. Moving again—new house, new friends, new school. Her features hardened as she thought about it, mouth tightening and eyes narrowing in an effort not to cry. Standing weakly, Shelby tripped through the cardboard maze, barking her shins on the loose flaps of the unsealed cartons. She reached a pile of stuffed animals and scooped up a furry armload, ignoring the bite from the scrapes on her legs.

Unable to see the way back over Snowy and Frisky, Hephzibah and Elton, Shelby charged heedlessly into the maze. She stumbled and tumbled hard into stiff corners and rough edges, adding a bruised hip and elbow to her catalogue of injuries. She lay motionless in a heap on the floor, listening for footsteps. No one came.

Shelby started to cry, angry at the boxes, angry at herself, angry at her toys. She sat up and hurled them across the room at the waiting box. Onetwothreefour. Elton hit with a kunk and slid down the wall. Hephzibah and Snowy pmphed into the animals already packed away. And Frisky made a small groaning noise as he umphed to the floor beside the box.

Stricken with guilt, Shelby stared over the cardboard battlements at her loyal friends. Her tears renewed and redoubled as she crashed back to the box. Blinded, she reached down and picked up the nearest toy. She was still wrapped around Frisky, the black bear’s fur matted and wet, when her mother came into the room.

Smarter Than Your Average Squirrel

An Englishman sips his tea in the dappled sunlight, his body arranged on the bench in a close approximate of relaxation. He tips his head toward his watch, face obscured by a canvas gardening hat. He studies his phone, his watch, his phone, but time does not move any faster. He glances around, stares at his watch again, looks up. He stills, smiling slightly, wrapping both hands around the paper to-go cup, to keep warm or in prayer. His eyes follow the zigzag path of a squirrel as it makes its cautious way across the park, tree to tree. “Secret agent squirrel,” he thinks, slipping the phone into his pocket. He adjusts his hat, rises from the bench, casually checking for a tail. He sets off after the squirrel. “Gotcha.”

* * *

The tree rustles, close to the top at first. Slowly the movements migrate lower, circling the tree in fits and starts until they stop, and a gray squirrel emerges from the undergrowth. He sits up on his hindquarters and glares at me accusingly. His tail twitches and I grow roots, unable to move for fear I’ll scare him away or inspire him to charge. He tilts his head to the left, so I do, too. We stand facing each other, the squirrel and I, heads cocked toward the sun. He never blinks, and I feel certain he will be able to read my thoughts if I continue to meet his stare. He begins to slowly rub his tiny front paws together, and I struggle not to do the same. He seems diabolical, holding me in his thrall. I am about to break away when he speaks. “Are you going to eat that?” he asks, inclining his head toward my half-finished sandwich.

Those Meddling Kids, With Apologies to Scooby Doo

“Did you hear that?”

“What?” “No.”

“Shh! I’m listening…” Claudia hissed, louder than she intended. They all froze. The air conditioning hummed. There was a faint buzz from the overhead lighting.

After a few minutes of squinty-eyed, purse-lipped concentration, Adam shrugged. “Nope. I must have imagined it.”

Claudia glared at him. Jane looked thoughtful. “What did it sound like? Or, well, what do you imagine it sounded like?”

“I don’t know… it was like a scrapey-thud. Or a jingle-smack. Or maybe a whiffle-whomp?”

“Dude,” said Mitchell. “I hear that all the time.”

The others turned to Mitchell, expectant. He smiled back and blinked at them blankly. Jane stared at him as if she might see the answer through his skull. When this proved unsuccessful, she prompted, “And…”

“Huh? Oh! It’s the sound my bike makes when I take a dive on the Boardwalk.” Mitchell spoke with absolute certainty.

“And did you fall off your bicycle a few minutes ago?” asked Claudia.

“Uh, no. I mean, I don’t have—”

“And do you think someone else might—”

Adam cut in. “Claud, stop it.”

“What? I’m just trying to establ—”

“Enough. Leave him alone.”

“It’s okay, man. She’s right. If there is someone riding a bike in here, they’re in loads more trouble than we are.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Shh! Did you hear that?”

“Oh, no. Not you, too, Jane.”

“I heard the whiffle-whump.” Jane’s voice rose to a barely audible squeak as she spoke. “Like Marley’s Ghost is walking around wrapped in chains, only… if Marley were made of books.”

“Yes! That’s it exactly.”

Whiffle-whump. The sound caught Claudia mid eye-roll. “No way…”

“Way.”

“Um, dudes? Ya know that mummy’s curse thing? The one I told you about? The one you all laughed at?”

“Mitchell, you saw that in a cartoon! It wasn’t even this library. That one was in Alexandria—in Egypt!”

“Yeah, but you said the Alexandria library was destroyed a while ago, and that sign back there said this one has lots of scrolls and stuff, just like in the cartoon.”

Whiffle-whump. It was getting closer. They looked wide-eyed at each other for a moment, before simultaneously screaming and taking off in search of the nearest exit, each in a different direction.

What struck me most was George II’s deep pain at being called racist. (Well, West actually said he “doesn’t care about black people,” which, I suppose, is about the same thing.) Yes, looking back on one of the most devastating disasters in our history, the president is most concerned about his image and fragile feelings. Mr. Lauer was also concerned about this, so he checked in with West, emphasizing that this was the only time in the entire 3-hour interview when G-II became emotional. Not, it would seem, about the tragic loss of life and cataclysmic damage to personal property and an historic city. Nope, he was crying because mean Mr. West said he didn’t care about black people. Poor President Bush: he’s so sensitive. (Lauer went back to Bush after speaking with West to get a response to his response–way to make the news, Matt.)

Which, of course, has nothing to do with me. Except…

I was a party a few weeks ago, at a friend’s house, let’s call her V. I didn’t know anyone there, except V’s immediate family. It was a big party, so I got a drink and milled about. I met new people, sat with some of them at dinner, exchanged contact information. A good evening all around. In the car on the way home, I got to thinking. Most of the people at V’s party were African-American. Most of the people I talked with were white. Not all, but most.

Did I do that? Not on purpose, of course, but still… Or did we all do it, black and white alike. I told this story to another friend, M, who had a similar experience. M has gone a number of unintentionally segregated parties. She attributes the chromatic separation to the fact that the host’s white friends and black friends are from different parts of her life, and don’t know each other. Each group hangs out with the people they know, who all happen to be the same color. I don’t have this excuse, since I didn’t know the black people or the white people. But it could be part and parcel of the same impulse. Right? I’m not racist.

A few days later, I was at a restaurant, trying to flag down our server–a slim, young, Asian woman. It took only moments for me to discover that all the servers were slim, young, Asian women. Not in a uniform, but all in variations of black and white: stripes, solids, plaid even. I had no idea which one was ours. My companion was equally flummoxed. We shared a slightly embarrassed they-all-look-alike moment, and enjoyed a good belly-laugh before I caught the first server passing by to make my request.

I’m not a racist.

So why do I feel vaguely icky about these two events? I feel guilty, even. But, really… should I make a greater effort to talk to everyone at a party? If I pay attention to the color of their skin for a more balanced party-going experience, is that affirmative action socializing? Racial profiling? Would that be even worse? What if we have nothing to talk about, should I soldier on, just to be balanced? And would I have recognized my server any better if she had been white? Probably not. Maybe I’m not a racist, but a classist?!

No, I don’t actually think I’m racist. But I’m not color blind either. And I sort of expect myself to be. I think I should probably lower the bar on this one. I can admit that I am more comfortable around people like me. And, really, that’s not unreasonable–we all are, based on any number of factors, not just skin color. They call them affinity groups, and affinity groups are good too, as long as you’re not friends with Bernie Madoff, that is.