presents the spellbounding sequel to the masterwork, "My Preoccupation With Squirrels"
Conversations With a Squirrel:
A Day in the Life of Me
by Michael D. Quadrozzi
©1999 by Michael D. Quadrozzi and Matthew Atanian
Boy Scouts ½ created by Matthew Atanian
Conversations With a Squirrel:
A Day in the Life of Me
by Michael D. Quadrozzi
©1999 by Michael D. Quadrozzi and Matthew Atanian
Boy Scouts ½ created by Matthew Atanian
It was ten minutes to ten in the morning. The kitchen would stop serving breakfast before long and begin preparing for the midday meal. At this time of the day, as the sun slid through the large, double-paned wire mesh windows, a mere dozen or so people were still to be found in the hospital cafeteria. Many of them were just finishing eating, others had struck up conversations with other patients, if they were allowed to, and still others simply sat alone, content to chatter away with themselves for hours on end.
Yes, life as an institutionalized individual at the Happy Happy Institute for the Not-At-All Terribly Well did have its moments of calm serenity, brief and isolated as they might be. There would be plenty of time later for fits and seizures and schizophrenic double talk. Right now, it was time for a cup of coffee or a newspaper.
Mike Quadrozzi liked to call these morning oases 'Squirrel Time.' No one quite knew why, except him, and he didn't feel like sharing. Right now, he felt like finishing his game of chess. He played a game of chess every morning at nine o'clock with another patient of the hospital.
This morning, he wasn't having an easy time of it. The first reason for this was that his opponent was very good. The other reason was that Dr. Witherspoon was pestering him again.
"Yes, all right, Mr. Quadrozzi," the doctor was saying, "I'll just sit right here and wait for you to finish your match, but I really must speak with you."
"Thank you," Mike said, hoping that Witherspoon was done talking. He tugged at the collar of his hospital smock (they still made him where the damn things, even though he'd been there for months) and informed his opponent that it was his turn to move.
"Frankly, I believe it's important that we speak."
"You're doing enough for both of us."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing." Mike regarded the black and white checkered board. His army was getting blocked in and he'd already lost both knights and a bishop. He didn't like the way the game was progressing at all. On the upside, he thought he knew exactly what his opponent was planning. He had little time left to mount a counteroffensive. It was time for an experiment.
Tentatively, Mike placed a thumb and forefinger on his remaining bishop, looking casually over the table at his opponent as he did so. The other didn't flinch, not a bit. Mike tried a few other pieces in the same manner. His opponent had an absolute poker face, damn him. He gave up on the tactic, it was a stupid trick anyway.
Opting for a simple pawn, Mike said, "Your move."
"Yes, Mr. Quadrozzi," Witherspoon was talking again in his clipped British, "There's something I've rather been meaning to speak with you about."
"Oh?"
"Yes, it's quite--"
"Checkmate," Mike's opponent informed him. The man sat back in his chair, wringing his hands through his unkempt long hair. "Bon jeu," he said.
"Yes," Mike said, looking the board over. His king was indeed mated. He knocked him over with a finger flick. "I'm in awe, General, your skill is unparalleled. It's just as you did at Austerlitz." He looked up and offered his opponent a hand. "You've definitely secured yourself an important position when the time comes."
The man got up to leave and shook Mike's hand, obviously pleased. "Au revoir," he said.
"Au revoir."
Mike glanced at Dr. Witherspoon. "He's a swell guy."
The doctor blinked. "Yes. Now, I trust you won't mind talking, Mr. Quadrozzi?"
"Not at all, have a seat."
Dr. Ian Witherspoon occupied the seat recently vacated by Mike's opponent. His hands were folded neatly in front of him. His unlit pipe was askew, casually clenched in his jaws. From time to time he would fiddle with it or use it as a sort of visual aid to accent a particular point.
"Now, Mr. Quadrozzi, first things first--"
"Would you like a nut?"
"What?"
"Nut?" Mike held out the small ceramic bowl of mixed nuts -- pecans, cashews, peanuts, brazils, filberts, almonds. "They're quite good, and an excellent source of protein." He took one himself. "I like the cashews, especially."
"No, thank you."
"Sure?"
"Yes, I've just eaten."
"I hope it wasn't here."
"Pardon?"
"It didn't look very good today. Powdered eggs, again. Why can't they get the real kind? They can't be that much more expensive."
"Mr. Quadrozzi, please," the doctor said.
"Please what?"
"Please follow my train of thought."
"Where's it going?"
Dr. Witherspoon folded his fingers into a steeple and rested his chin. "Now, I'd like to know what you mean when you talk about 'the time.'"
"The time?"
"The time. It's been showing up more frequently in your speech patterns lately."
"I'm sorry, doctor, that was a little too psychiatric for my tastes."
"What's 'the time,' Mr. Quadrozzi?"
"Well, it's coming up," Mike said simply.
"Soon?"
"I don't know. I expect not."
"Why?"
"Well, it'll take some planning, is all."
"What will?"
"The initial invasion."
Dr. Witherspoon gestured with his pipe. "Ah, now you see, Mr. Quadrozzi, it's that sort of talk that worries us sometimes. Now, what do you mean by that?"
Mike didn't answer. He was looking outside at the fenced-in hospital courtyard. There was a sizable grove of ancient oak trees on the grounds, home to dozens of squirrels.
The doctor followed his gaze. "Ah," he said, "I see."
"Do you?"
"Yes, now, what brought these . . . plans of yours about?"
Mike thought for a moment. "Well, I've run into a number of people who seem willing to help. Not to mention them."
"Them?"
Mike pointed out the window.
"Ah, yes, of course. Now, who else do you mean?"
"Mean what?"
"Who else have you run into?"
"Well, the General seems genuinely interested," Mike said, "and I've been corresponding online with a nice young woman in Idaho."
"Idaho?"
"Idaho. She also likes squirrels very much."
"I see," Dr. Witherspoon said thoughtfully, fiddling with his pipe. In his other hand he held a pen. He clicked it and wrote in his little spiral notepad, Monitor all e-mail correspondence.
"Yes, communicating with others is very important, Mr. Quadrozzi," the doctor said.
"I think so."
"Good."
"And how is Mr. Teagle, doctor?"
Witherspoon looked up. "Pardon?"
"S. Gordon Teagle," Mike repeated, "my attorney."
The doctor coughed. "Well, yes, you see Mr. Teagle is kind of in five-point restraints right now. It seems he got a little excited last time the two of you spoke."
"Oh my."
"Yes."
"He always was a little excitable."
"Why do you suppose that is?"
"Is what?"
"Why do you suppose Mr. Teagle is so excitable?"
"Well, he worked in the family business for a good many years, as legal advisor."
"Ah."
"Yes, he had a little bit of a nervous breakdown."
"Little?"
"Very big."
Witherspoon nodded. "Yes, that's what we psychiatrists call it."
"And you'd know."
"Yes. Now, Mr. Quadrozzi, about these plans of yours. You say they're a long way off?"
Mike nodded absentmindedly. He wasn't that interested in the conversation anymore. "Yes, I don't see how we could get started anytime soon."
"Ah, good, well that's what I wanted to hear, Mr. Quadrozzi. You know, we've only got yours and ours and everybody else's safety in mind, you understand."
"Uh huh. Can I go now?"
Dr. Witherspoon got up. "Yes, I don't see why not."
"I've got some reading I'd like to do," Mike said.
"Of course."
"Schematics and things."
"Yes. Do you feel all right, Mr. Quadrozzi, or--?"
Mike smiled. "No, no. I've had my happy shots for today. I'm fine," he said, and his smile broke into a wide grin, "perfectly happy."
Yes, life as an institutionalized individual at the Happy Happy Institute for the Not-At-All Terribly Well did have its moments of calm serenity, brief and isolated as they might be. There would be plenty of time later for fits and seizures and schizophrenic double talk. Right now, it was time for a cup of coffee or a newspaper.
Mike Quadrozzi liked to call these morning oases 'Squirrel Time.' No one quite knew why, except him, and he didn't feel like sharing. Right now, he felt like finishing his game of chess. He played a game of chess every morning at nine o'clock with another patient of the hospital.
This morning, he wasn't having an easy time of it. The first reason for this was that his opponent was very good. The other reason was that Dr. Witherspoon was pestering him again.
"Yes, all right, Mr. Quadrozzi," the doctor was saying, "I'll just sit right here and wait for you to finish your match, but I really must speak with you."
"Thank you," Mike said, hoping that Witherspoon was done talking. He tugged at the collar of his hospital smock (they still made him where the damn things, even though he'd been there for months) and informed his opponent that it was his turn to move.
"Frankly, I believe it's important that we speak."
"You're doing enough for both of us."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing." Mike regarded the black and white checkered board. His army was getting blocked in and he'd already lost both knights and a bishop. He didn't like the way the game was progressing at all. On the upside, he thought he knew exactly what his opponent was planning. He had little time left to mount a counteroffensive. It was time for an experiment.
Tentatively, Mike placed a thumb and forefinger on his remaining bishop, looking casually over the table at his opponent as he did so. The other didn't flinch, not a bit. Mike tried a few other pieces in the same manner. His opponent had an absolute poker face, damn him. He gave up on the tactic, it was a stupid trick anyway.
Opting for a simple pawn, Mike said, "Your move."
"Yes, Mr. Quadrozzi," Witherspoon was talking again in his clipped British, "There's something I've rather been meaning to speak with you about."
"Oh?"
"Yes, it's quite--"
"Checkmate," Mike's opponent informed him. The man sat back in his chair, wringing his hands through his unkempt long hair. "Bon jeu," he said.
"Yes," Mike said, looking the board over. His king was indeed mated. He knocked him over with a finger flick. "I'm in awe, General, your skill is unparalleled. It's just as you did at Austerlitz." He looked up and offered his opponent a hand. "You've definitely secured yourself an important position when the time comes."
The man got up to leave and shook Mike's hand, obviously pleased. "Au revoir," he said.
"Au revoir."
Mike glanced at Dr. Witherspoon. "He's a swell guy."
The doctor blinked. "Yes. Now, I trust you won't mind talking, Mr. Quadrozzi?"
"Not at all, have a seat."
Dr. Ian Witherspoon occupied the seat recently vacated by Mike's opponent. His hands were folded neatly in front of him. His unlit pipe was askew, casually clenched in his jaws. From time to time he would fiddle with it or use it as a sort of visual aid to accent a particular point.
"Now, Mr. Quadrozzi, first things first--"
"Would you like a nut?"
"What?"
"Nut?" Mike held out the small ceramic bowl of mixed nuts -- pecans, cashews, peanuts, brazils, filberts, almonds. "They're quite good, and an excellent source of protein." He took one himself. "I like the cashews, especially."
"No, thank you."
"Sure?"
"Yes, I've just eaten."
"I hope it wasn't here."
"Pardon?"
"It didn't look very good today. Powdered eggs, again. Why can't they get the real kind? They can't be that much more expensive."
"Mr. Quadrozzi, please," the doctor said.
"Please what?"
"Please follow my train of thought."
"Where's it going?"
Dr. Witherspoon folded his fingers into a steeple and rested his chin. "Now, I'd like to know what you mean when you talk about 'the time.'"
"The time?"
"The time. It's been showing up more frequently in your speech patterns lately."
"I'm sorry, doctor, that was a little too psychiatric for my tastes."
"What's 'the time,' Mr. Quadrozzi?"
"Well, it's coming up," Mike said simply.
"Soon?"
"I don't know. I expect not."
"Why?"
"Well, it'll take some planning, is all."
"What will?"
"The initial invasion."
Dr. Witherspoon gestured with his pipe. "Ah, now you see, Mr. Quadrozzi, it's that sort of talk that worries us sometimes. Now, what do you mean by that?"
Mike didn't answer. He was looking outside at the fenced-in hospital courtyard. There was a sizable grove of ancient oak trees on the grounds, home to dozens of squirrels.
The doctor followed his gaze. "Ah," he said, "I see."
"Do you?"
"Yes, now, what brought these . . . plans of yours about?"
Mike thought for a moment. "Well, I've run into a number of people who seem willing to help. Not to mention them."
"Them?"
Mike pointed out the window.
"Ah, yes, of course. Now, who else do you mean?"
"Mean what?"
"Who else have you run into?"
"Well, the General seems genuinely interested," Mike said, "and I've been corresponding online with a nice young woman in Idaho."
"Idaho?"
"Idaho. She also likes squirrels very much."
"I see," Dr. Witherspoon said thoughtfully, fiddling with his pipe. In his other hand he held a pen. He clicked it and wrote in his little spiral notepad, Monitor all e-mail correspondence.
"Yes, communicating with others is very important, Mr. Quadrozzi," the doctor said.
"I think so."
"Good."
"And how is Mr. Teagle, doctor?"
Witherspoon looked up. "Pardon?"
"S. Gordon Teagle," Mike repeated, "my attorney."
The doctor coughed. "Well, yes, you see Mr. Teagle is kind of in five-point restraints right now. It seems he got a little excited last time the two of you spoke."
"Oh my."
"Yes."
"He always was a little excitable."
"Why do you suppose that is?"
"Is what?"
"Why do you suppose Mr. Teagle is so excitable?"
"Well, he worked in the family business for a good many years, as legal advisor."
"Ah."
"Yes, he had a little bit of a nervous breakdown."
"Little?"
"Very big."
Witherspoon nodded. "Yes, that's what we psychiatrists call it."
"And you'd know."
"Yes. Now, Mr. Quadrozzi, about these plans of yours. You say they're a long way off?"
Mike nodded absentmindedly. He wasn't that interested in the conversation anymore. "Yes, I don't see how we could get started anytime soon."
"Ah, good, well that's what I wanted to hear, Mr. Quadrozzi. You know, we've only got yours and ours and everybody else's safety in mind, you understand."
"Uh huh. Can I go now?"
Dr. Witherspoon got up. "Yes, I don't see why not."
"I've got some reading I'd like to do," Mike said.
"Of course."
"Schematics and things."
"Yes. Do you feel all right, Mr. Quadrozzi, or--?"
Mike smiled. "No, no. I've had my happy shots for today. I'm fine," he said, and his smile broke into a wide grin, "perfectly happy."
Matt’s After Story Happy Shot Induced Gibberings
Poor Mike. Poor, poor Mike. I received this story in a plain manila envelope shoved under my door. It was written on construction paper, in crayon, each letter a different color. Every other paragraph was written backwards. Needles to say that most people would have had a hard time deciphering it. Luckily, I’m as crazy as Mike, and they just haven’t caught me yet.
However, it is good to have hope that someday Mike’s plans may come to fruition. When they do, I will take up arms and join the Squrrely Revolution. Viva la Squirrels!
However, it is good to have hope that someday Mike’s plans may come to fruition. When they do, I will take up arms and join the Squrrely Revolution. Viva la Squirrels!