I. The Fat Squirrel
We are host to a greedy squirrel. It hangs its ever-widening body off the pagoda roof of the bird feeder, tail above feet above head, furiously stuffing morsels into its mouth, creating a rain shower of corn kernels and seeds in the frenzy to get more. It squats on its haunches underneath the bird feeder snapping up the fallen seeds and corn from the ground.
The squirrel is getting fatter and fatter, spending tens of minutes at a time feeding feverishly on food that was meant for the birds, let’s be clear, while the birds in our new ecosystem fight to perch for just a few seconds on the feeder’s ledge. The birds are lean and bird-like; the squirrel is approaching Buddha-hood.
Amongst the winged and clawed creatures, the squirrel reigns over the robins and the blue stellar jays, which lord above the black-capped chickadees, still a notch above the ash brown house sparrows, the lowly migrant workers, crossing the border into the promised land only after all others have departed, fighting amongst themselves throughout their limited, cautious visit. Above them all, the crows are alpha, scouting the territory from the safe distance of the roof then storming in as if they’ve found a baby hawk. We used to have a rat that lounged lazily on the bird feeder, engorging himself, but there is only so much generosity I have to feed helpless creatures. I was unwilling to allow a rat to steal the food that was, if we recall, meant for the poor darling birds, only to end up fat and dead in our peanut-butter-enticing traps. I am unwilling to host a rat, inside or out. With the quickest of snaps, my husband’s pellet rifle knocked that freeloader right out. The ever-fatter squirrel is our rodent of choice, thank you very much.
II. The Lean Ethiopian
A friend from long ago and far away was visiting. As when I’m the traveler, this meant far more time in cabs than usual. The first cab ride was just the length of the waterfront, a mere mathematical subtraction from Pier 70 to Pier 55. We could have made it on foot, but we’d already walked for over an hour and didn’t want to miss the next harbor cruise.
Against the odds, this being a town in which you must call or text to get a cab, a flash of red and green approached, I hailed, and the car stopped. “Hello, Ladies,” greeted the driver as we slid across the back seat. “How are you today?” His eyes were a sparkling brown. His energy was upbeat, his language welcoming. He assumed we had time to say a real “hello” before launching in to the command of where to take us. He made eye contact as we chatted happily with him. His smile was easy, wide, open, beautiful, really. I don’t know why I hesitate to use the word “beautiful” when describing a man, as if being beautiful would de-masculinize him. Nothing could de-masculinize this man – he was tall, lean, and radiated a winning charm that might have belonged to an Island Man, but this man’s homeland touches no body of water.
There was no meter. As we drove and chatted, I wondered fleetingly if we had made some giant mistake. We’d entered a cab, a tall dark man at the wheel, with no idea what he was charging us. If he was charging us sounded a short-lived alarm. Our ride ended exactly in front of the cruise ship ticket line. “How much?” we asked.
“Five dollars.”
We paid, we tipped well, we got out.
We opened the door to the next taxi after disembarking. Imagine our shock – the same driver! This time, though, we wanted to be taken all the way back to our car, a ways up the road in a hard-to-describe place. Again, no meter. Again his smile, warm and inviting.
As on the first trip, he reached his hand into a large clear plastic bag of some kind of snack. He popped handfuls into his mouth. This time, being old friends, he offered us some. “An Ethiopian snack,” he said. “No sugar. No salt. Very healthy. You will like it. Very good for you.” He reached his hand into the plastic bag, took another handful, and reached his arm to the back seat before we answered. I put my hand under his, and his fingers opened so that the mix fell lightly into mine. Yellow and brown seeds, barley, grains, one half-peanut.
Again paranoia drifted through. I can’t eat food handed to me by a stranger. Even at the local farmer’s market, food tastes are now offered through latex gloves or at the end of tiny toothpicks. We are not to eat from hands that have been in other people’s mouths. From hands that have been moving from food to mouth rhythmically, unthinkingly, throughout both our trips, probably for the past few hours. His dark hand and long fingers easily twice the size of my hand, the pink underside pinker than any patch of my skin. I picked a seed, then another, then another, then the peanut. Poured half my handful into my friend’s. We both ate our treat, using both hands; he ate only with his right hand. The mix was good, the kind of thing you could keep right on eating, without ever noticing the next handful, without ever getting full.
The second trip was invisibly calculated to be nine dollars. Almost twice the distance; it seemed right. We tipped big again. Off he happily went to his next fare, off we happily went to our next friends-reunited-briefly adventure.
And I’m left thinking about a giant bag of seeds and nuts on the cab’s console. How this tall, beautiful man can ever fill himself up on what is, essentially, bird feed. An Ethiopian man who will never get fat, not literally, not metaphorically, not in this city, not in this job, not on five dollar flat fee taxi rates, not on inexpensive grains and seeds that will pass right through his digestive system providing filler, but not nourishment.
III. Seeds of Responsibility
It is my son’s job to clean the bird bath. He set an alarm on his phone to go off before he leaves for school each day, allowing him to clean it regularly. It would have been his job to refill the bird feeder, but he and my husband hung it from a branch that is too high for him to reach. My husband feels proprietary over the feeder. He refills it, resettles feed that might have clumped up in the rain. He brought it this morning and washed it; after a 10 hour work day he headed out to refill it. I suggested he wait and do it together with our son. He was torn. He is concerned the birds will go hungry. I teased him that perhaps the fat squirrel could use a day without effort-less gluttony.
I worry we’re killing the poor squirrel, who will possibly burst like an un-poked baked potato in a hot oven, who will possibly starve to death from having nothing harvested and stored for the winter months to come, who will possibly be forever-after our responsibility.
I worry about the taxi driver. Is he OK? Does he make enough in five and nine dollar fares to support himself? He needs a steak, I imagine, to fuel a body his size, not a five-pound bag of bird feed. I look for him as I’m driving near the waterfront. I ignore the neon yellow or orange cabs, drawn only to the red and green of his company’s car. I peer inside, feeling deflated when I see pale skin. Disappointed when I see a different dark face smiling and talking animatedly with passengers in the back. Does he, too, have a bag of seeds and nuts to fill his body and the long hours?
When I first thought of a bird feeder for the back yard, I just wanted a bird feeder. I wanted to watch birds come into the yard. I thought of it as decoration. Entertainment. I had no idea the pull of responsibility. The tug of my heart when certain birds chase others off, when the crows launch their ugly missile strikes, the concern that the squirrel is leaving nothing for the birds, the concern the squirrel is leaving nothing of it’s own natural instincts. We each have more household chores now to support the lives we now support; we cannot stop without causing quite a rift in our little five-foot square of the universe.
What is my responsibility in this land of abundance and plenty? It is my rightful birthplace, perhaps also the squirrel’s, perhaps also the driver’s. Perhaps also the rat’s. But I’ve made some decisions here. I have opened and closed what I once thought of as an open hand of generosity. I’ve turned a tiny five-foot plot of land into a veritable bird and squirrel Disneyland; it may be the happiest place on earth, but whomever passes through holds no claim to the territory. This is likely no Disneyland for the driver. My five dollars have passed through his hands as quickly as his seeds through my system. There is nothing left of either. Except his smile. My choices. And unanswerable questions.