Authors: Elise Sax
I drove a block before I realized I didn’t know whether to go to Burger Boy or Chik’n Lik’n. I could have gone to Bernie’s Rib Shack, my grandmother’s favorite, but it was in a strip mall next to Weight Wonders, and I didn’t want to face any dieters while getting an order of baby backs. I decided on Burger Boy because it was the closest and had the quickest drive-through.
My grandma’s house was one of the oldest in town and located right in the center of the historic district on Cannes Boulevard near Main Street. The houses
were a mishmash, most built in the haste of newfound money during the gold rush in the nineteenth century. The gold had run out pretty quickly, but people stayed on to enjoy the mountain views. The town had never grown to much of anything, topping out at around four thousand people.
I drove south out of the historic district toward Orchard Road, where just beyond, hundreds of acres of apple and pear trees stood as a beacon to all those who came up the mountain for the town’s famous pies.
Burger Boy was at the corner of Elm and Park, a few blocks before the orchard and across the street from Cannes Center Park. The park had been established about 150 years before in a wise attempt by the town’s founders to preserve and protect the natural beauty of this little corner of Southern California paradise. It was a huge expanse of rolling hills, sagebrush, and eucalyptus trees. It used to have a lovely gazebo in the center with park benches all around, where they held weekly concerts and regular picnics. Then, in the late fifties, a few bored and prudish housewives caught some couples kissing on the park benches, and they lobbied to have the benches removed. It was decreed that the park should be used for brisk exercise and that lounging on benches and in the gazebo would only lead to trouble and moral decay. The gazebo fell into disrepair. Gone were the kissing couples, and with them went the concerts and picnics. Today, brisk exercise was relegated to the historic district and the little park on Main Street. Cannes Center Park welcomed mostly skateboarders
and teenagers searching for a little excitement in the bucolic small town.
Across the street from the park, Burger Boy had location, location, location and a killer dollar menu. It was a gold mine, a favorite of locals who did not particularly enjoy pie or tea.
An explosion rocked my car, jolting it forward a few feet before it slowed to normal. “Whoa, Nelly,” I said, patting the dashboard. “No more car farts. I need you a while longer.” I called them car farts. My mechanic called them a cataclysmic end to the catalytic converter. He had grumbled something to me about being one car fart away from total destruction and probable death, but I couldn’t afford to fix it. Besides, it ran fine as far as I was concerned. It was a 1995 silver Cutlass Supreme, and I had gotten it for free when I worked at a used car lot for one month. I loved it, even though it had more rust than silver paint, and the interior was ripped, with foam poking out in tufts.
I rolled into the parking lot past a group of skateboarders hanging out in front, their skateboards leaning up against their legs as they packed away burgers, fries, and shakes. I followed the drive-through sign, winding through the parking lot toward the talking Burger Boy. I opened my window, and the smell of french fries hit me like nectar to the gods. Really, happiness was truly easy to acquire if you’re honest with yourself. Maybe I could start eating right tomorrow.
Burger Boy’s mouth was open in a big smile, and I yelled in its direction. “I would like two Burger Boy Big Burgers. No pickles. Extra cheese, please. Two large fries, and a Diet Coke.”
There was a long silence, so I tried again. “I would like two Burger Boy Big Burgers, please!”
“Dude!” a voice shouted back at me.
“Yes, I would like two Burger Boy—”
“Dude! It doesn’t work!”
I leaned out the car window and tried to look into Burger Boy’s mouth. The voice sounded much clearer than usual, but I still didn’t understand what it was saying.
“Hey, dude. Like, the drive-through doesn’t work, man.” A skateboarder rolled up to my car, a shake still in one hand.
“Didn’t you hear me? I’ve been yelling at you for, like, forever.”
His shorts hung down well past his knees, and he wore a T-shirt that announced the price of beer bongs. “Dude, I just thought of something,” he went on. “If I didn’t say anything, you would still be talking to the Burger Boy. So trippin’.” He thought this was riotously funny and got so caught up in his own giggles that he didn’t hear me when I said thank you and backed out of the drive-through lane.
I was disappointed about the drive-through, but I still had to get lunch. I was careful to lock up my car before I walked to the front door, passing the four skateboarders deep in conversation. Their attention was drawn to the sky.
“Dude, like, I think it’s an eagle, man.”
“No way, dude. It’s an owl.”
“I don’t know, man. It’s pretty big.”
“Dude, it’s been up there, like, you know, forever.”
“Oh, man. It’s been up there since last week at least. Maybe it thinks it’s a tree or something.”
“Cool.”
I looked up. Sure enough, an owl was perched on top of a telephone pole. I don’t normally notice wildlife, don’t know much about it, but two years before, I had had a job typing up a doctoral thesis on the endangered Madagascar red owl, and now I was staring up at one on a telephone pole at Burger Boy.
“Check it out. An eagle is up there,” one of the skateboarders said, pointing it out to me.
“Actually, it’s an owl,” I explained.
“Oh, dude. She so burned you. I told you it was an owl.” This came from the beer bong skateboarder, who I figured had held on to a few more brain cells than his friends.
“It’s an owl from Madagascar,” I informed them.
“Cool.”
“It’s not supposed to be here,” I said. “It’s highly endangered, and it’s nocturnal. I don’t understand what it’s doing here.”
They looked at me with empty stares. I had the strongest urge to knock on their foreheads to see if anyone was home.
Two things were certain: the four great geniuses were not about to help the endangered owl, and if I didn’t help it, I would be responsible for driving the Madagascar red owl that much closer to extinction.
I sighed and dialed information on my cellphone. A minute later I was on the line with animal control, which proceeded to pass me to seven different offices around the state before I got to wildlife management. They said they couldn’t get someone out here due to budget cuts and would I be so kind as to shoo it off or get it down.
“Get it down?” I asked.
“Yes. If it’s too weak, just go up, grab it, carry it down, and take it over to animal control. We’ll handle the rest.”
“What if it has rabies or something?”
“Ma’am, birds don’t get rabies. Just throw a shoe up there or something. It will fly away. It probably is enjoying the view.”
The wildlife person hung up, and I stood there a moment, looking at my phone. Our tax dollars at work. Sheesh.
“We have to shoo it down,” I told the skateboarders.
“What? With our shoes, man?”
“You know, shoo. Like, shoo fly,” I said. “But in this case, with our shoes. Throw your shoes up there to shoo it away. We have to make sure it’s okay.”
The beer bong guy was the first to take off his shoes, and the rest followed. I guessed he was kind of their leader. They threw their shoes up at the owl in unison, and I shielded myself from the onslaught of laceless, skull-embossed sneakers as they made their way back down to the ground. I looked up, and sure enough, the owl was still there. He hadn’t even blinked, which made me think he was in distress of some kind. Possibly more distress than what I was feeling at being stuck with a bunch of pothead skateboarders having to save an endangered species because my government wouldn’t fund its budget properly.
“Okay. Well, that didn’t work,” I said. “So one of you is going to have to go up there and get it down.”
The guy who had thought the owl was an eagle looked at the telephone pole and whistled. “I don’t
know, dude. Can’t you get electrocuted or something touching one of those poles?”
“No, no. This is a telephone pole. There’s no danger with a telephone pole,” I said. I was almost sure there was no danger with a telephone pole.
“I’m not much into climbing, man,” said the beer bong guy. And that seemed to clinch it for all of them. Without saying goodbye, they put on their shoes and rolled off into the park.
I waited a moment to see if some nice passerby would pass by, and then I kicked off my flip-flops, grabbed the pole, and started climbing. I got about halfway up before I got stuck on a metal doohickey and started screaming.
I was surprised and impressed that it only took about seven minutes for the police to come. Cannes was a very small town, and I didn’t know it had so many police. Two squad cars and an unmarked car with a flashing light on its roof drove into the parking lot. I was amazed I had garnered so much attention.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” one of the policemen yelled up at me.
“I was trying to get the owl,” I shouted down with as much dignity as I could muster.
“Get down immediately!”
“I can’t. I’m stuck on the metal doohickey.”
I was stuck. Stuck, and nothing was going to get me to move. I was sure any little movement would precipitate my plunge to earth. I sat on the metal ladder rungs, my legs wrapped around the pole in a death grip. My pants leg was punctured all the way through by the metal thing, my fear of heights had suddenly
kicked in, and I was sweating so much that a nice slippery coat covered my body from head to toes.
I looked down at the policemen, who were deep in conversation. Four were in uniform, but one was dressed in plainclothes, an expensive suit.
A couple of minutes later I heard a siren and saw a giant hook and ladder fire truck come my way. Presto chango, they had a ladder against the pole, and a big fireman was climbing up to me.
“Don’t worry, miss. I’ll help you,” he said.
“I was trying to get the owl for the wildlife management department. They have budget cuts,” I told him.
“Happens all the time, miss. Come on. I got you.”
He put his arms around me and gave a little tug, and the ripping sound from my sweatpants could be heard across state lines. I pulled back, trying to minimize the tear, and my elastic waistband gave way as I fell upside down, my pants pulled down to my knees, my pink Victoria’s Secret special three-for-fifteen-dollars boy’s-cut underpants out for everyone to see.
I heard snickering from the group below, which now included not just the police and the firemen but the entire staff of Burger Boy. In a moment of lunacy, I waved to them.
The fireman carried me over his shoulder down the ladder. Once on firm ground, I pulled up my pants.
“You have to get the owl. It’s distressed and endangered,” I told the fireman. He nodded and went back up to retrieve the bird.
The policeman in the suit approached me. He was tall. His thick, wavy dark brown hair was perfectly
cut and combed, his chin was shaved down to the last whisker, and despite a manly Gerard Butler kind of face, he looked like he was not averse to using moisturizer and the occasional clay mask. He had largish dark blue eyes and thick eyebrows. He arched one of those eyebrows as if he had a question.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“Cinderella?” he asked, his mouth forming a smile, revealing white teeth. “Excuse me?”
“I was thinking you must be Cinderella.” He held up my flip-flops. “I found these. They’re yours, right?”
I put my hand out, and he placed the flip-flops in it. “I guess that makes me Prince Charming,” he said.
Ew
. Who did he think he was? I had just had a near-death experience.
He stood with his hands on his hips. His suit jacket was pulled back a bit, and I could see his badge and gun.
“I was trying to save the owl. It wasn’t my idea. Wildlife management told me to do it,” I said.
He smiled and cocked his head to the side. “I don’t usually come out for these kinds of things, but I heard the call come out about a woman up a telephone pole and had to see for myself. I’m not complaining, though, and neither is anybody else. Sergeant Brody over there says you have the finest rear end he’s ever seen.”
“Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t up there longer to give everyone a better view.”
“Don’t worry about it. They all took photos with their cellphones,” he said.
A deep heat crawled up my face, and my ears burned.
He studied me a second. “Hey, don’t feel bad,” he said, a smirk growing on his perfectly shaved face. “The town has cut back our overtime allowance, so the men have been pretty down. You just made everyone’s day. I heard one guy say he hasn’t felt this alive in twenty years.”
One of the firemen approached us with the owl in his hands. “I got your owl,” he said. He tapped it, making a hollow sound. “Plastic. It was put up there to scare away the pigeons so they wouldn’t crap all over Burger Boy. I took it down so we don’t have to go through this again. Although”—he winked at me—“I wouldn’t mind the experience.”
“But it looked so real,” I moaned.
Prince Charming took the owl from the fireman. “Here,” he said, presenting it to me. “You should have it.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” I walked to my car and opened the door with a loud creak. Prince Charming was on my heels. He threw the owl behind me onto the backseat.
“Think of it as a souvenir.”
I felt I needed to explain myself to him, and I hated myself for it. “I was just trying to be proactive.”
“You were being a Good Samaritan,” he said.
“I’m not like this normally.”
He gave me another annoying little smirk. “I’m thinking there isn’t much normally in your normally.”
I gave him a sufficiently snotty look back and started the car. “I don’t think you’re Prince Charming at all,” I said.
He smiled from ear to ear. “Nice car.”
The Cutlass chose that moment to let rip its biggest car fart ever. I tried to retain my dignity, although I was guessing it was a little late for that. Besides, how dare he make fun of my only means of transportation? I was about to send back a zinger when he patted the roof and turned on his heel. “Bye, Pinkie,” he called, waving as he walked.