A Squirrel's POV

A squirrel bounds from his perch in an oak tree and jumps onto a power line. He clutches an acorn in each front paw, oblivious to the fact that he is precariously balancing well over twenty feet in the air.

Beneath him, a backyard party is underway. The backyard belongs to that of Stephen Thornhill. It is one of several yards on the Thornhill compound that could be labeled with the description of 'back.'  This one happens to be the largest and possesses the most intricate landscaping. The hedgerows are neatly arranged in a row. The shrubbery is similarly arranged. No one can tell from their viewpoint on the ground, but the landscaping forms satanic symbols that would frighten most Christians.

Inside, beyond the squirrel's view, is Mother Thornhill. She was brought in to make her delicious and prize winning potato salad. Actually, she is making nothing. She is much too elderly to stand up for a time longer than a couple minutes.  She grabs her cane tightly with her left hand, and points with her right.  All the while barking orders of ingredients and their measurements to a cook, who mixes them with a large wooden spoon inside an even larger bowl.

Our squirrel, sloppy and wasteful, drops an acorn while he eats another. Nobody knows this but you and I - but the dropped acorn germinates in the spring, and many years later becomes a magnificent oak. Young lovers seek out the Oak and like to sit under its thick branches.

The squirrel's eyes dart to the left. And back again to the right. He watches the party unfold and his eyes settle on a group of men.

A half-dozen men are gathered in a semi-circle. Each one is smoking a cigar or a pipe and holding a drink. Most of the guests are drinking vodka based drinks. Thornhill drinks brandy and is the only one holding a brandy glass. He swirls it around the inside of the glass while he fields compliments about the landscaping, and is asked to forward them to the gardener. They discuss what to do with their millions. Thornhill says something about the ascendant Japenese Yen, or something about Gold, or something else about a company, Amalgamated something or another.

The squirrel, never landing in one place very long, darts from the power line into another tree, and across two lanes of blacktop. Just at that moment a young man – Krebs – sole heir to the Krebs estate and its billions and billions, is late for a party and is coming around the corner with his girlfriend, Contessa, in his Porsche Cayman S.

Contessa passes him a joint.  He hits it. At that moment he sees the squirrel. But it's too late. He hits it.  The squirrel's brains squish out all over the Porsches' left-front wheel well.

“What the fuck!” Krebs exclaims.

Pleasant Thoughts

I've come the conclusion that this is probably as good as it gets. The dead don't have much to say about current events. You'd figure by now some clever dead guy would give us a hearty, “Hello!” But nothing. Nothing from Houdini. Nothing from Abraham Lincoln. And nothing from Hitler. Not even a “Hey! How's it going? BTW, death to the Jews!” The only one who has anything to say is Jesus and he has to talk through portals, like Pat Robertson, who make interpretations for us, because we're too thick-headed to understand.

I don't buy it. Just like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster. An argument can be made for UFOs, however. Anyway, we invented the shit because life got boring and we had to keep ourselves amused, or, in the case of God, we invented some hokum about “your rewards are in Heaven,” so everybody would get back to work and not fuck-up the balance sheet. Otherwise, people would say, “Fuck you!” to their supervisor and enroll in community college to take a course in literature, or baking, or some such thing. But I'm not a believer, so as a result, I've never seen a Bigfoot, a UFO, or even the alleged God or his dead son, Jesus. As long as I'm in the area, doesn't this marketing line seem a little OJ to you?

“He loves you so much that he allowed his only son to get murdered.”

How about a marketing line we can all agree on? One that isn't so violent.

“He loves you so much that you can eat the last Chocolate chip cookie.”

The old man didn't throw up any road-blocks for the Romans? He just let them kill his son and, although I'm no expert as a single guy, a parent would never allow this to happen without a big fight. Maybe God could have used a woman's opinion. Why didn't he marry Mary, anyway?

So, back to my original thesis, that this is probably as good as it gets. I think life is much like any Soprano's episode. Lots of un-answered questions and lots of violence. Nobody is minding the store, and God, if he ever existed in the first place, probably killed himself a long time ago, after years of wringing his hands over how it all turned out.

I never gave a second (or even a first) thought to how this might turn out. I guess I'm old now. The correct answer is 'badly.' It all ends in a hole in the ground, or in a furnace. Then, it won't be long before everybody you knew winds up there too. Before you know it, nobody will be left that knew you. You'll be forgotten like the runner-up at this year's Daytona 500, or this year's Master's tournament.

So, Heaven and Hell are clearly on Earth. We're on our own here.