Fiction
A Song for the Lemmings Ted Larsen
D
ew drips from the girders above me, as it does every morning. Vehicles roar on the bridge overhead, chasing the new day, but they don’t bother me. The sun dapples my eyelids, and it’s lovely being gentled while I wake. I float for a while in the warmth. My name is scritched into the gray paint on the steel beam above me. “Crazy Amy.” Whoever wrote it misspelled it, but that’s okay. I know they meant well. Eventually, a little voice tells me it’s time to get moving. Stretching my arms over my head, I fling off the bedcovers and stand up. I gently brush away the flies and dragons still hovering in the newborn day. As I always do, I thank them for keeping me safe overnight. I won’t need their help for now, but I’ll call them back later. I brush the grit off my flannels, and decide to get dressed. What togs should I wear? So much depends upon the plans for the day. I will probably wait until after lunch to sing, so I think I’ll do the everasking this morning. For that, a pretty skirt will be just the ticket. I rummage in the cardboard box, the one I haul around inside the old shopping cart, until I find my mood skirt. After a quick look around to be sure no one’s peeking, I slip off my flannels and put on the skirt. I am happy today, so the skirt is bright red. I’m glad. Red highlights my eyes. I put the flannels into the box. The shopping cart wobbles on one wheel. One of these days, I’m going to have to fix that, but I’m always so busy busy busy! Hmm. This outfit needs accessorizing. I choose the yellow wig (the one that sparks), a large handbag for donations, brown boots that come up to my knees. It takes a long time to lace those boots up, but I need them when I’m on my feet all day. I throw a blue vest over my blouse, but it doesn’t feel quite right. It wants some bling, a little more high fashion. I dig into the box. No idea what I’m looking for, but I will know it when I see it. And there it is. Perfect! I pull out two squirrel tails, and clip them onto the vest. I feel better already. I see one more squirrel tail. Can I do anything with it? I ponder this, then clip it to the back of my wig for good luck. I turn my head from side to side and love the way it swings around. My pony tail. My squirrel pony.
I slip my “Don’t Be Mean” stone into a deep pocket of my skirt. When I touch it, the cool texture always surprises me, always reminds me to be kind, even when others are unkind to me. If I make a mistake and say—or even think—something mean, it will tell me to be gentle. I always try to pay attention. Before I start my hike, I hold my arms straight out and spin while stamping my feet—right, left, right right right—until my bones unconfuse. Sometimes they get misaligned and have trouble knowing where to go, so I have to step and stomp until they remember and click into place. A place for everything, I always say. I throw on my backpack. I’m ready for the day. I trek between the mountains to the center of town. It’s a long hike, but I don’t get lost. Hardly ever. Even though I come here every day, I’m forever amazed at how many spend their day inside these mountains, trudging in at morning, rushing out at night. This time of year, the shadows from the mountains are getting longer. The mountains may be taller than they used to be, although sometimes I shrink, so it’s hard to tell. Sometimes I turn invisible, too. There are lemmings racing about all day, rushing past me at lunchtime and dinnertime. They never seem to see me. When they step out of their mountains, they are too busy or too sad to look my way even when I’m visible. That’s why I have to work so hard to draw attention to myself when I everask. I notice they are building another mountain, so one of the cement paths is blocked. Good. More folk will have to walk my way today. It will be harder for them to unsee me. It’s mid-morning, and they are already all around me. So many festive togs walking by — it’s a rainbow! Here’s a woman whose shiny blue dress sits off the shoulders. Her shawl looks like fairy wings. Maybe she actually is a fairy, using the shawl to hide her wings. To be on the safe side, I wave at her with two thumbs up, the traditional fairy greeting. She turns away, which is the fairy way. Close behind her is a master of the black arts. Black shoes, black pants, black shirt; lit up by a bright red tie. He would look good next to me in my bright red skirt.
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