Tony Liebhard
Squirrels spend months preparing for winter, gathering nuts and hiding them in various locales, hoping to hoard enough grub to last until spring. Only problem is, sometimes they forget where they stashed their snacks. In rare events, even the smartest, most hardworking rodents starve to death.
All that time and effort for nothing.
Staring at the last question on the Animal Behavior midterm today, I have total empathy for all the squirrels lying dead in trees somewhere.
For two weeks I memorized lecture notes, studied flash cards, and participated in study groups. But nothing prepared me for the only essay question on the entire exam. Worth ten points out of a possible hundred. And 10 percent of the freaking grade. The difference between an A or a B. What might drop my GPA and keep me out of vet school.
Describe the mating habits of bluegills.
With the rest of the exam completed, I sit and watch the clock, trying to recall anything aquatic. Half a semester worth of material and Dr. Penn decides to ask us about something that wasn’t even in the PowerPoints. The bluegills thing was just some rambling tangent he went off on one day in class. The rant was so random I probably didn’t even jot down any of it in my notes. Though I should’ve known better than to disregard it. When a professor who calls himself Aquaman gives you a test, you should expect at least one question will be about fish.
Even if I did write it down it wouldn’t have mattered. Odds are I wouldn’t have read about it last night when I was cramming anyway. I barely had time to look over the important stuff, let alone the insane yammering of some vet school reject.
I wish I’d never found that damn cell phone.
Yesterday was immortalized in ink inside my planner. 8-10: calc. 10-12: research. 12-1: lunch. 1-3: Vertebrate Ecology. 3-12: study for doomsday. An hour break was scheduled in the evening to walk dogs at the Humane Society, one of my many duties as Pre-Vet Club president.
Somehow Vert Eco ended early. There was a new gap in my schedule for a quick nap. Half asleep, I began walking home. Right as I passed the Social Sciences Building, a distorted version of “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison erupted from a row of bushes.
Following the sound to the source, I looked beneath branches of pine needles until the music stopped. Sunshine reflected off the pink metallic case of a cell phone hidden among pinecones. I grabbed it off the ground, and the touch screen lit up.
The wallpaper said Lexi’s phone and was littered with animated hearts.
She had eight missed calls and twenty unread text messages.
In the middle of trying to figure out how to unlock the keypad, the phone started vibrating. I almost dropped it. “Brown Eyed Girl” began playing again. The screen said, Incoming . . . Vanessa.
I tried to decline the call but somehow hit the wrong button and wound up accepting it instead.
“Oh, my God,” a girl said. “It’s about freaking time you answered your phone. Are you that hungover?” She paused. “Lexi?”
“This is not her,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I must’ve dialed the wrong number.”
“No, you didn’t. This is Lexi’s phone.”
“Well,” she said, “can I talk to her?”
“I’m sorry but you can’t.”
“Why not?”
I went into detail about how I found Lexi’s phone on the ground on the way home from class and so on and so forth.
“Oooooooh,” she said.
“If you happen to see Lexi or talk to her,” I said, “will you please tell her to call her phone? That way we can figure out a place to meet so I can give it back to her.”
“Sure thing.” A lighter flicked, followed by a long exhale. “You know, it’s really nice of you to, like, go through all this trouble to give her phone back.”
With the phone pressed against my ear, I started walking home again. “Anybody else would do the same thing.”
“Oh, whatever,” Vanessa said, with a prolonged exhale. “People suck.”
“They can.”
“You know,” she said, “you sound kind of hot.”
In nature, animals often use sound to attract mates. Birds and insects croon unique melodies to lure in the opposite sex. Dolphins can seduce each other from miles away with the right tune. Even an ugly bird can mate if he sings pretty enough.
I said, “You ever sit outside on a hot summer night and hear crickets chirping?”
Vanessa exhaled a long one and laughed. “Yeah, why?”
“Do you like the way they sound?”
“Um, yeah, sure. It’s kind of pretty.”
“You ever see one?”
The conversation ended with me asking her one more time to please pass the message on to Lexi.
After the Animal Behavior midterm today, I stop in the biology research lab and open my lecture notes. A skim through the material reveals no trace of anything bluegill related. Of all the things Dr. Penn could’ve quizzed us about, he had to pick the most insignificant nonsense and make it worth the most points on the test.
After flipping through the notes a few more times, I give up and begin collecting data for my research project about the role of scent in mating. In theory, each animal has a special fragrance they use to attract the opposite sex. With just an odor, they can entice a mate, sight unseen. These natural perfumes that animals emit are called pheromones.
Scientists have long wondered if this same phenomenon exists in humans. Although there’s no conclusive evidence to support this theory, a study once showed that strippers who were actively ovulating made the most tips. Strippers who were on the pill, which prevented ovulation, made significantly less money. Fat, ugly, skinny, gorgeous—looks didn’t matter. Was there some invisible chemical at work? And, if so, in a world where physical appearance matters most, could other senses, such as smell, help an unattractive person find a mate?
In my apartment last night, I sat alone in the living room scanning the Animal Behavior study guide. Class notes were spread across my desk, and I didn’t smell pheromones. All I smelled was barbecue grilling outside.
Sunlight crept through the blinds on my living room window the way waves carry sand pebbles to the shore. It was such a beautiful day yesterday, and I was stuck inside studying, trapped in a learning cage, while other people sat outside drinking, laughing, and barbequing. Enjoying the weather. Enjoying each other. Enjoying life.
I looked at my lecture notes and glanced outside. After every test, I keep telling myself, I’m going to start going out and meeting people and having fun. Too bad every time one test ends, another begins.
I take a break from collecting research and open my planner. 12-1: ace the midterm. 1-2: research. 2-3: lunch. 3-4: Pre-Vet Club e-mails. 4-10: study for calc test on Monday.
All this studying doesn’t even matter anyway. No matter how hard you work, you always seem to get a curve ball like the bluegill question thrown at you. Sometimes you wonder what the hell the point is. Sometimes you wonder why you even want to go to vet school. It almost isn’t worth it.
Almost.
Summer after sophomore year, I interned at one of the best zoos in the country. I took care of everything from bats to giraffes. I didn’t get paid jack, but it didn’t matter. I loved every second.
My favorite part of the internship was working with a three-legged tiger named Peggy. She just had her first litter of cubs, two little boys called Fuzz and Buster.
The cubs spent most of their days chasing each other around the exhibit. Once in a while Peggy would hobble around using her lone front leg as a crutch. The cubs usually used this as an opportunity to join forces and take her down. After two weeks, they had it down to a science: one swept the front leg while the other jumped on her back.
This routine would go on until Fuzz and Buster tuckered out. During naptime the cubs used Peggy as a pillow in a way that shielded her stub. From this angle, she looked like any other tiger. They looked like any other family.
As the cubs slept, Peggy licked their burnt-orange coats clean and watched over them diligently. The way she looked at them as they slept, you knew she would do anything to protect them. Even with only one good paw. Even if it meant she would have to sacrifice her own life to keep them safe. Witnessing that kind of unconditional love was a miracle of nature.
Moments like those are what made me want to become a vet.
Secretly, I always hoped some of that love would extend to me.
The larger black arm on the clock in the front of the lecture room did its job full force today. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. My heart raced. I wrote down, The mating habits of blue gills, and erased it at least fifty times.
This is what being a nice guy gets you. Instead of studying last night, I spent most of my time acting as a receptionist. Lexi’s cell phone kept ringing as I tried reading the Animal Behavior notes. Every few minutes, another song played. Her phone was a handheld jukebox.
“Single Ladies” . . .
Incoming . . . Adriana.
“Girls Just Want to Have Fun” . . .
Incoming . . . Madeline.
“I Kissed a Girl” . . .
Incoming . . . Escalade.
Everybody wanted to know:
Is Lexi there?
Why do you have her phone?
One girl even said, “So, do you know how I can get ahold of her?”
Worst part was I had to answer every call, just in case it was Lexi. A guy can’t get anything done in these conditions. You can’t memorize material for a test with a phone going off every two seconds. If I knew that trying to give Lexi her phone back was going to be that big of a pain, I would’ve let it rot in the bushes.
I thought about shutting it off until I was done studying but decided to leave it on, because if I lost my cell phone, I would want someone else in my position to do the same thing. Sometimes you need to do an act of self-sacrifice for the greater good.
A vampire bat will vomit blood into a roostmate’s mouth if it is too sick to hunt.
A pregnant tiger will chew off her own leg when it’s stuck in a trap to keep her unborn offspring safe.
A reclusive nerd will hit the accept button, donating priceless minutes of study time, just so some spoiled brat can get her texting machine back. This is the opposite of Darwin. Extinction of the nicest. Suicidal altruism.
There was a delightful period of silence last night. I raced through the notes, scribbling additional information in the margins based on the material in the textbook. My studying momentum was building and . . .
Lexi’s cell vibrated again. “Unbelievable” by EMF blasted from the speaker. The screen said, Incoming . . . Madison.
I sighed and answered the phone.
Madison asked, “Is Lexi there?”
“Sorry,” I said, “but she can’t come to the phone right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” I said, “she’s tied up in my basement.”
Click.
After research today, I pass by a group of people handing out flyers on campus. I keep my nose buried in the Animal Behavior notes, which still show no trace of anything bluegill related. While I’m skimming the section about sexual dimorphism, this girl with a nose ring homes in on me like a hummingbird to nectar.
“Hey,” she says, “haven’t I seen you at the Humane Society?”
“Um. Maybe.”
“Yeah.” She looks me up and down. “You’re always walking dogs.”
“So?”
“So, that’s pretty cool.”
I keep my face planted in the notes. “It’s all right.”
She flips a few renegade strands of blonde hair away from her robin’s egg eyes. The hair and eye color everybody wants, even though both traits are recessive. “I’m sure you already have plans for the weekend,” she says, offering me a flyer, “but if you’re looking for something to do . . .”
I politely decline. “I’m super busy this weekend.”
“Well, if you manage to find some extra time . . . ,” she says, slipping a red flyer into my Animal Behavior notes.
I sigh and read the headline. “Animal Allies?” Their mission statement is to promote the well-being of all living creatures. “I’m the president of the Pre-Vet Club. Why haven’t I heard of you?”
She keeps forcing flyers onto people. “We’re kinda new.”
The flyer advertises a wine-tasting fund-raiser at the Humane Society. All proceeds will go toward purchasing claw caps for cats at the shelter.
I close my notes. “Claw caps?”
“They’re caps that go over a cat’s nails so they can’t scratch stuff,” she says. “It’s basically a humane alternative to declawing.”
“I didn’t know declawing was inhumane.”
“As president of the Pre-Vet Club, you of all people should know. It’s like getting the tips of your fingers chopped off.”
“I guess I never thought of it that way.”
“I never did, either, until I started working as a vet tech.” She grabs another stack of flyers off a nearby table. “If you’re in the neighborhood walking dogs tonight, you should stop by.”
“I’d like to,” I say, “but I need to study for a calc exam.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “It’s Friday.”
“Calc doesn’t take a day off.”
“Well,” she says while handing out flyers, “neither does animal cruelty.”
The beautiful music you hear in the clouds is usually male birds telling others to stay away. Chirp, chirp, this is my territory. Tweet, tweet, that’s my girl. How such a lovely sound can be interpreted as a threat is a mystery to me. But after a night full of squawking yesterday, I think I’m a bit closer to understanding the secrets of nature.
Some calls should be ignored.
Some calls were never meant to be answered.
Picture a lukewarm spring morning. Dewdrops in the grass. The sound of running streams. A turkey walks through the woods, enjoying the day, letting his beard hang. Suddenly, he hears a female calling. He struts toward her, giving her a gobble back, letting her know he’s looking to hook up. She keeps gobbling, and he follows the sound, unable to resist the allure of her song. Her sweet serenading leads him out into an open area of the woods and . . .
Boom!
He gets shot by a hunter dressed in camo holding a turkey call.
You can learn a lot from nature.
Lexi’s phone chirped. Another new text message.
I opened my living room window. Sunlight poured inside, illuminating everything. Rays of light reflected off the pink metallic case of Lexi’s cell.
Nobody knew that I found her phone. If I threw it back outside, nobody would know the difference. It could’ve been some other poor schmuck’s problem.
Altruism, schmaltruism.
I ran across the living room and snatched the phone off my desk.
It wasn’t my fault Lexi was irresponsible and lost the damn thing. Who cared if she ever found her stupid phone anyway? Let some other nice guy finish last.
Survival of the fittest all the way, baby.
I brought my arm back, ready to chuck the stupid thing out the window and . . . it started vibrating.
“Party in the U.S.A.” by Miley Cyrus began to play.
Incoming . . . Destinee.
I clenched the still-vibrating phone in my hand, staring at the screen. With the light shining in through the window, I took a deep breath, clicked the accept button, and muttered, “Hello?”
“Who’s this?” a girl said in a bitchy tone.
“I don’t know. Who’s this?”
“The owner of the phone you just answered.”
“Lexi?”
“Oh, my God, he knows my name.”
A girl in the background said, “Maybe he’s stalking you.”
Simultaneously, both girls said, “Cah-reepy.”
I ground my teeth and squeezed the phone, trying to crush it. I pretended to throw it out the living room window twice.
“Why do you have my phone?” Lexi asked. “Did you, like, steal it or something?”
“Long story short,” I said, rubbing my forehead and taking a deep breath. “I was walking home from class today, and I found your phone. I just want to give it back to you. Can we meet somewhere so I can do that, please? I’m really too busy to be dealing with all this.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“In the bushes outside McCloud Hall.”
“Oh, my God,” Lexi said. “It must’ve fell out of my purse when I stopped to pee on my way home from the Beta kegger last night.”
“I see . . .”
“So let me get this straight,” the girl in the background said. “You just found her phone and you wanted to give it back to her?”
“Yep. That’s all I wanted.”
Both girls said, “Ooooh, that’s soooo nice.”
“Most guys wouldn’t do something like that for a complete stranger,” Lexi said.
“Yeah,” her friend added. “Most guys are assholes.”
“Whatever.” I paced across the living room. “Can we meet somewhere so I can give you your phone back?”
“I’ve got a tanning appointment soon,” Lexi said. “But after that we could meet up.”
“It has to be within the next hour,” I said, looking at my planner. “I have to walk dogs at the Humane Society soon.”
“Aww,” both girls said in unison. “Puppies.”
Except they said it like poopies.
I held the phone away from my ear.
The girl in the background said, “Oh, for cute!”
“Yeah, they’re super-duper adorable,” I said. “What time can we meet?”
“I should be done tanning in about a half an hour,” Lexi said. “Then I’m signed up for an elliptical at the gym.” She paused. “We could meet at the gym in thirty mins.”
“I’m kind of on a tight schedule.”
“If for some odd reason I’m not there on time,” Lexi said, “one of my bestest guy friends is working the front desk. Just drop the phone off with him.”
“All right. Sounds good.”
“Okay, then, see you soon,” she said. “Thanks for finding my phone.”
“Oh,” I said, looking at my gigantic pile of notes. “No problem.”
Before hanging up, Lexi said, “Hey, one more thing.”
I sighed. “Yeah?”
“What’s this I hear about me being tied up in your basement?”
Nowhere in my planner does it say: reread the Animal Behavior midterm notes to find out if we ever really covered anything about bluegills. But this evening, when I’m supposed to be studying for my calc test, that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I bet Dr. Penn loved every minute of it today as he sat behind his desk at the front of the auditorium, scanning the crowd, smiling. Aquaman in his faded blue San Diego Zoo sweatshirt. The letters in the logo cracked from decades of washing. His hair like a vulture’s nest made exclusively of grey strands. He looks out at us every day and sees the future he never had. Just because he wasn’t good enough to get into vet school doesn’t mean he should take it out on the rest of us. Half the garbage on the exam was irrelevant. When a family brings a dog in to be neutered, the difference between hibernation and torpor won’t mean jack. I mean, the mating habits of bluegills?
Seriously!
I don’t want to wind up like him, some middle-aged college professor with a tan ring finger. Today in my living room, no cell phones ring. Outside, coeds nap on towels, blanketed by the sweet grace of sunshine. Nothing but the sound of fun.
I shut my Animal Behavior notes, and a piece of red paper falls out, landing on the floor. In black letters it says: Five good reasons not to declaw your cat. Below this there is an X-ray of a human hand with the fingertips separated from the knuckles. The bottom of the flyer advertises a wine-tasting fund-raiser tonight at the Humane Society hosted by Animal Allies.
After reading one last snippet of notes last night, I made a few PB&J sandwiches and engulfed them on the way up to campus. Last week, I brought a digital recorder to Animal Behavior and taped the lecture. While I drove around trying to find a parking spot, it sat in the passenger seat playing with the volume cranked.
Almost every stall was full. One pay meter was open. I hopped out of my car and tossed in two quarters. I had fifteen minutes to find Lexi and give her phone back.
Before locking my car, I sprayed on cologne.
The wind picked up as I walked across campus.
I held the cell phone tightly and flipped through the photo gallery. Ever since I talked to Lexi, I was dying to match her voice to her face. It’s our curious nature to follow a pleasant sound to the source. No matter what it takes. If we don’t see who is behind the beautiful music, it will drive us insane. We will always be left wondering.
We are all the turkey in the woods.
I scrolled through the pictures on Lexi’s phone. Every snapshot had the same group of girls posing eagerly for the lens. A brunette was front and center in every photo. On Halloween she wore an orange satin nighty with black stripes that clung to her body like static electricity. The edges of her costume were lined with black fur. She had black leather boots zipped up to her knees. A pair of furry tiger ears sat upon her dark brown hair with white highlights. Even her eyes had the eerie yellow-brown glow of a cat.
Before I reached the gym, it started drizzling. Raindrops pelted my face as the wind gusted. When I met Lexi, I was going to let her know how much trouble I went through just so she could get her stupid phone back.
I had the speech practiced in my head.
I walked across campus in the cold rain just to give this back to you. I have to walk dogs in T-minus thirty minutes, and since I had to take precious time out of my day to deliver the phone that you lost back to you, now I’m not going to get to eat dinner. I have a slight glucose headache building. I’m short a week’s worth of sleep. And I’m out fifty cents because I had to park at a pay meter.
When she tried to offer me a reward for finding her phone, I was going to be this big hero, a knight in shining armor, and say, No, that’s okay. Keep it. You don’t need to give me money. I was just trying to do the right thing.
The opposite of Darwin.
Her heart would melt, and she would thank me.
Walking up the concrete path to the gym, I thought, Maybe she’ll hug me. Maybe she’ll give me her phone number. Maybe she’ll ask me to come to a party sometime.
I’m going to start meeting people and going out and having fun.
I took a deep breath and opened the door to the gym. No girls were standing in the front entrance. Not a single one from any of the pictures on Lexi’s cell. The only person there was a guy sitting behind a desk.
With the phone in my hand, I walked over to him. “Hey.”
The guy behind the desk looked up from his laptop. “Hey. Can I, uh, help you?”
“This is going to sound weird, but I think I have your friend Lexi’s cell phone.”
“Oh.” His eyes went wide. “Yeah, she called and said you might be stopping by.”
“Well.” I handed him the phone. “Here you go.”
The guy grabbed it and smiled. “Okay, I’ll make sure she gets it.”
Part of me was relieved to have the damn thing out of my life. But part of me also wanted to stick around and wait for Lexi. To see what she really looked like. To at least get a thanks. But I had to get going. Pre-Vet Club was scheduled to walk dogs soon. I needed to cram for the Animal Behavior midterm. Study for a calc exam on Monday.
One test ends. Another begins.
I exited the gym and walked down the sidewalk. Lexi’s voice played in my head. The pictures on her cell phone swam behind my eyes like exotic fish trapped inside an aquarium.
Streetlights magnified raindrops as they fell to the cement. I turned around to look through the window at the front desk one last time.
And there she was.
Lexi, wearing a black short-sleeved shirt with Siberian tiger pajama pants. Her dark brown hair with white stripes pulled back into a ball. Her golden halo gaze.
Panthera tigris in the flesh.
The guy behind the desk stood up, smiled, and gave Lexi her phone.
She started jumping up and down and screaming. She threw her arms around him, and he embraced her back.
They began mock slow dancing in a circle, and I swear, for one second, the guy from behind the desk locked eyes with me and grinned.
Sitting here alone in my apartment, I read the Animal Allies flyer and think about last night. Outside in the cold rain, the light from inside the gym illuminated everything out in the darkness.
And I remember.
The last question on the midterm.
The one about the mating habits of bluegills.
In order to lay eggs, fish build nests just like birds and reptiles. In the aquatic kingdom, however, males build nests instead
of females.
A dominant male bluegill, for example, will build dozens of nests during spawning season, hoping to attract a mate.
There are times when even the fittest need to go the extra mile to reproduce.
When a large, dominant male bluegill finishes making craters in the sand, he picks a central location and guards his turf, chasing away all other males who dare enter. Thus the smaller, weaker male bluegills are forced to hide in the weeds and watch the ritual from afar like losers sitting alone in the bleachers during a slow song at a high school dance.
Day and night, the dominant male protects his nest, and all his labor finally pays off when a female shows up to spawn. Soon as the deed is done he kicks her out and goes right back to defending his territory, all while fanning his tail to aerate the freshly fertilized eggs.
Only one thing ever lures him away.
Another hot female looking to spawn.
The second he leaves his nest all his hard work goes down the drain when a weaker male zips in and re-fertilizes the eggs.
Nature’s equivalent to a drive-by shooting.
They call these fish sneakers.
Right now, sitting in the horrifying silence of my living room, no birds chirping or phones ringing, I could recite the mating habits of bluegills from the lecture verbatim.
But in the essay section on the Animal Behavior midterm I wrote down nothing.
On my desk the red Animal Allies flyer dwells among the pages of lecture notes like the hourglass on the belly of a black widow. I check my watch. The wine-tasting event is about to begin. I shut all my books, including my planner. For the first time since the midterm, I look at the clock, cognizant of every passing moment as I grab my keys and head for the door.