A Song for the Lemmings

Ted Larsen

Dew 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.

Which reminds me to take a quick look. Yes, the skirt is still red.

And here’s three men, all talking loudly. Each carries a brown kitbag. They all talk at the same time, pointing their fingers at each other. I suppose they must be friends, the way they’re walking together, but they don’t seem happy about that.

Unnoticed among them are some of my people, too. Robbie mutters his way down the street, doing his usual two-step shuffle. He takes a money clip out of his pocket every few feet, counts the one green dollar in it, and returns it to his pocket. Two steps later, he does it all again. He’s always going somewhere. I have noidea where.

Leaning in the shadows of the foothills is Hector. I like Hector, although we’ve never actually spoken. He’s always busy, too. He stands still and twists his hands, kneading invisible dough. He burbles “Alleluia” and “No rest!” over and over, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes in a roar. I wonder if he is ever silent.

Mystic mice dart in and out of the crowdwaves. No one sees them but me.

A shame, that. I think they’re beautiful, the way they shine in a kabillion colors. They love to dance. On a good day they sing, too. You’ve not heard music until you’ve heard mystic mice in harmony.

I know some people think I’m crazy, but it’s their eyes that are broken. I feel sorry for them. I don’t think they notice anything real. I don’t think they even try.

It’s a blessing to see real reality.

Today must be an invisible day for me. Most of the lemmings don’t even glance at me as they scuttle past, even though they all have to herd my way.

“Help for the homeless?” I say.

“A little help?” I ask. Invisible or not, I evertry to ask every one of them. I think most of them don’t want to be bothered, wishing they could be unseen like me. Still, I ask. People are more helpful when you ask

“Children are hungry,” I cry. “Your brothers and sisters. Hungry!”

One man steps out of the pack, pulls something out of his pocket and tosses it in the handbag. I smile at him in gratitude, although he doesn’t smile back.

I don’t know how much he gave, but it was folded. Money that folds is good. Money that clinks is also good, though. I’ve learned that.

It’s a noisy morning. The vehicles rage and snarl, like always. Sometimes they honk. The lemmings always look up at that. I smile. Just wait, I think. If you like the honking, wait until you hear me sing!

The morning passes slowly, but pass it does. Every so often, someone donates something. It helps to fly the time.

I hear a growl. Before I get too scared I realize it’s my tummy. I must be hungry. Looking down, I notice my skirt has turned a sandy brown. I don’t wear a watch, so I look into my bag to figure out the time. I see a fair amount of silver and copper and green at the bottom, which means my tummy and skirt must be right. It’s lunchtime!

There are benches nearby. Even when there are people sitting on them, like today, they always stand up and move when I get near them. It’s so nice of them to give me their seat. People are so kind.

I thank them and wave as they go. On the ground in front of me, I spread out a checkered blanket. I sit, criss-cross applesauce, and lean back against the bench, tucking my skirt around my knees. I’m excited to see that the skirt is now sky blue. This also complements my eyes!

A pleasant breeze blows. High above me, the clouds spell out “Well done, Ames.” The yellow ringlets of my wig curl around my face, and sparks meander from it, lighting the air. Everything smells like lilacs and puppies.

I turn to my lunch. I pull something in a wax wrapper out of my bag. What did I pack for lunch today? Peanut butter! It’s a good day. To make it last, I eat it slowly, mindful of the complex flavors. It has a caramel nose, and a nutty finish. Even though I try to savor it, eventually it is gone.

I wash it down with water from my thermos. The water’s warm, maybe because the thermos is cracked. Also, maybe because the water was pretty warm when I put it in. Still, it refreshes me, and it’s time to start my afternoon.

I have learned that entertainment helps. A little song, a little dance. Sometimes I juggle. I only have two juggling pins, but that seems fair. I only have two hands.

Today I think I’ll sing. I take out Luke the Uke. He’s got two good strings, and he always plays well for me. I must remember to thank him for that. Today, I’ll sing my favorite setlist. Classics. “Old Mill Stream.” “Home on the Range.” “Smoke on the Water,” “O Sole Mio.”

I’m feeling zesty, and start the concert. Almost immediately, one string breaks. No matter. Luke the Uke sounds great anyway.

A young man walks up and stands next to me while I belt one out. Strange. This rarely happens, although his face looks vaguely familiar. I might have seen him before somewhere.

Even stranger, he starts to sing along with me. This never happens, but we croon away like old friends, in perfect harmony. Even the mystic mice stop to listen and applaud. Afterwards, after the Camptown ladies have doo-dahed to their hearts’ content, he and I both laugh.

“Hello, Mom,” he says. His voice is familiar, too. I thought he was all alone. I don’t see his mom. Is he talking to me? He looks at me expectantly. I don’t want to be mean, but I have no idea what to say to him.

I need to say something. “Ames is the name, crazy is my game!” I heard that somewhere. I don’t know what it means, but seeing the look on his face, I kinda wish I hadn’t said it now.

His shoulders sag. “Mom, it’s me, Dylan.”

I used to know a Dylan. I’m sure of it, but that was long ago and worlds away. I don’t know what this Dylan expects of me.

“Hello... Dylan. Nice to see you.”

He looks at his shoes, and shakes his head. Now he’s the one stumped for words.

I try another tack. “Times they are a changin’, huh?” He smiles. “Like a rolling stone, Ma.” More familiarity. Have I had this conversation before? I think this is not the first time I’ve seen him. I try again. “Help for the homeless?”

“Ma, come home. I love that you do this thing, that you try to help people, but why can’t you come home? Please? You can stay with me and Miriam. We can help you.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about. The homeless need help. Not me. “I have a home. It’s even got my name on it.”

“Ma? Please? Can we talk about this?”

This guy seems nice enough, but I should send him on his way. He’s interrupting my work. The “Don’t Be Mean” stone vibrates against my leg.

I try to change the subject. I turn my head from side to side, feeling my squirrel pony fly. “Do you like it?”

He exhales slowly through his mouth. “Mom. Listen. I know you love to help people. But why can’t you let someone help you?” I don’t need any help. I have dragons and flies to protect me. I don’t know how to respond, so I slip on my nicest smile and simply shake my head.

He stares into my eyes, and a smile creeps onto his face, sad and kind and sweet, like Autumn.

“Ok. I know there’s no budging you when you’re set on something. I’ll stop by next week and see you again.” He slips a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter into my backpack. He moves as if to give me a hug, then steps back. “I’ll see you soon, Ma.”

As he leaves, I say “Thank you, young man.” He turns around and I say “Don’t think twice; it’s all right.” He waves, and blends into the lemmings.

I’m not sure why, but I’m a little upset. My skirt has turned gray. No matter. It will cheer up again when I sing.

Which I do, and it does.

Uncountable hours later, I look at the sky and the day has moved on as it always does. Most of the lemmings are gone to whatever burrow they call home, and I take my foodwalk. The traffic smatter is smattering less, and it’s an easy walk.

I stroll up to Geo’s, and knock on the back door. After a moment, the door opens, and the smells of baking and frying and food magic waft around me. Geo sweeps me into his arms.

I don’t like hugs that much, but Geo’s the exception. He’s made of marshmallow kittens. I laugh and hug him back.

“Hiya, Geo. How’s it goin’?” “Hi yourself, Ames. Is it dinner time already?”

It must be. My bag is heavy. I hand him all the hard and soft money. “I don’t know how much is there.”

He takes it. “That’s okay, Ames. Whatever you have is always enough. You know I’m always happy to help.”

I smile. Helping is helpful. There are stars and comets circling his head. And angels. He does not see them.

He packs boxes of cooked food into the backpack and zips it up for me. By the time I get to my place and my people, it will be cold, but it’ll still be good.

“You’re a good person, Ames. Enjoy your food when you get to the enclave.”

Enclave? I don’t know the word. After a moment, though, I get it and laugh out loud. My home is a little like a cave, but it’s on the ground. It’s my on-cave!

“Thanks, Geo! See you tomorrow!”

The hike back home takes no time at all. It’s the magic time of evening. It feels good to be back among my people. We live hidden in the brambles. There are tents of blue plastic strung between the dead branches of old trees, banners held aloft by skeletons. The muddy river gurgles too much, and sometimes garbage drifts by, but it’s our river.

There are four or five small fires among the tribe, and the branches glow from the reflected light.

“Hey, Ames! Welcome back!” Lenny is usually the first to welcome me back. He’s the community watchman, when he’s not catching stars.

“Hey, Lenny. Didja have a good day?”

He smiles, and what teeth he has gleam with joy. “Yeah! Over in the refuse container back on seventh, I found lots of stuff to burn. No one’ll be cold tonight!”

I pat him on the shoulder. I’m lucky to have a friend like Lenny. We all are.

There are shoes and boots propped on the branches. They may have been left by elves or fae, I’m not sure which. All I know is they’ve been there as long as I can remember. Same with the empty beer cans. Artifacts from forever ago.

The sides of the tents start to move, as my people realize I’m back. Most of them have stones or bricks holding the flaps closed. I see hands reach out and throw the doors wide open.

Soon I am surrounded, and everyone laughs—some sing!—as I hand out the food Geo made for us. It’s happytime. My heart soars. I make sure it doesn’t float clean away.

These are my people, and I’m happy to be around them. Kum ba yay.

The sun sets soon after the feast is feasted. I work my way through the sleepy tribe to my place. I slide the thin carpet out of a cardboard box that’s also labelled “Crazy Amy.”

Too bad they misspelled “Ames.” And, for that matter, “Crafty.” I unroll the carpet onto the wet earth and lay down. Luxury.

Still bright against the darkling sky, the clouds spell “Sleep well, Ames.” How blessed I am!

Having a home is a gift. This spot of mine, this on-cave, is all I need.

I call to the flies and dragons, and they return right away. They’ve been waiting for me. Their wings burn red in the setting sun, which is how I know they will keep me safe while I sleep.

Contented, and warmed by the fire, I sigh. As near as I can remember, it’s been a good day.

Ted Larsen lives in Northeast Ohio. He is an author, actor, director, playwright, composer, and avid bicyclist. His fiction has been published in The Broadkill Review, The Storyteller magazine and Literary Yard; and his story “Only the Stones” placed third in the international Aeon Award contest and will be published in Albedo One magazine. In addition, he has had nonfiction published in Computers in Healthcare magazine.