Here's a little story that must be told,

And it goes it a little something like this.


I wish it had gone like this.

Actually it went a little like this.

I needed this lunch break. At the wrinkle in time I'm putting the finishing touches on the leading Wine Sommelier's Exhibit Letter, due Friday to the Department of Homeland Security, ATTN: United States Citizenship and Immigration Services. But the words escape me. I got the ideas, and Esq. provided me with a quickly drafted, off the cuff closing paragraph for the proceeding. But I can't read his handwriting. And currently, he's out of reach. Phone calls, meetings with clients, conference calls to the nines. But none of this should matter. These are just words he said, rearrange them, set them to your own music. But I can't. It ain't hitting. I know what to say, and I know how this should all end, but at this wrinkle in time words escape me. If this were college this would be the point in time where I hit up facebook, read an away message, or merely walk away from the page. But I can't. This ain't college, this is real life; the Real World some might say and I gotta sit here and stare, hunt for the phrasings, and reach for the words cause there's no way out.

UT!

Maybe there is. The clock is striking twelve. Get up. Walk away. The rain, rain? Gone away! Let that sun come out and I walk away. To the kitchen. Sammich time. Outdoors I will go. me, an iPod, Vanity Fair, and this sandwich. This sandwich made today with the script flipped. Added to the mix, warmer meat and softed cheese courtesy of a little time spent in the mi-cro-wave, dijon and mayonnaise mixed; warmed, compressed, steaming up the ziplock.

Our initial encounter started out simple enough. Out he ran, dashing across my feet. "Aww what a cute CA- Wait a minute! That ain't no damn cat, that's a fucking squirrel!" Hillarious.

Seat one?

Too wet.

Water in my lap, lightly across the thighs. Spots on the good clothes. The work clothes. The were it to church and then Hometown Buffet or Sizzler afterwards clothes cause I slide beneath the small space between the table and this here chair cause it was too wet.

Seat two?

Fine enough. Just sit on the edge and open the mag. Phone out of pocket and sitting to my right. Next to that the sandwich. Out in the open, sitting on the ziplock, tantalizing scent being carried through the air like a pie sitting on a windowsill. Must be what caught his nose. Cause the cat, excuse me squirrel is back. And he's wildin' out. Seriously, what it do nigga? You lost something? Now normally a squirrel running to and fro is no cause for alarm whatsoever, but at this moment, in this open, spacious mock villa on the westside for these nine to fivers the squirrel is curiously interested in this table, these four chairs and MYspace.

This is definitely more entertaining this Vanity Fair article on that new Stars Wars game. [Which it must be said I kind of want to play.]

And because when I look down, this fool is looking at me. I mean stopping and looking. Big black eyes all up in my big brown eyes. And it's kind of scary. And I don't want none of his riff raff right now. He already look like he don't play, evil stare or not. This fool, while small and fluffy looking is also missing pieces of hair, not in a times or hard [it is winter and all] and mother nature is a bitch, but more, I lost mass quanties of body hair in these streets keeping niggas at bay.

And that is part of the reason why I am scared. I am in no mood to be attacked in the face by a leaping, flying squirrel. No sir. And yet I play back. Stare in his eyes, barely widen our distance, and even throw him a small piece of my sandwich.

And why wouldn't I? This nigga is bold. So hip to something I got that he is breaking the cardinal rule of "stray" animals and we innocent humans, if we motion for you to move, run off, or fly away, you do it.

But not this nigga?

All on the table, running around the chairs, doing circles around my table. When worst came to worst, he ran up and down and around my OWN CHAIR! WITH ME HALF IN IT.

That's when I stood up.

This was getting out of hand. I mean he didn't want my sandwich right? I threw out a piece, he sniffed it and moved on as if what he really was after was some good old human flesh. So I stood up. And just like that he moved on to my possessions scattered on the table. He sniffed the phone. Nothing. Looked at the magazine. Nothing. And the he went for it. He inched closer and closer to the sandwich until a small piece of dijon mustard stuck to his chin. He sniffed. And sniffed. And sniffed. And just like that, BAM! he snapped up 1/3 of my sanwich. A big ass piece of bread hung from his fangs, smothered in mayonnaise and dijon mustard, as he ran up the tree and nibbled in down in two minutes [you know I watched in amazement when I sat back down] on a giant branch.

And I just watched and watched and watched. What else was I gonna do, finish my sandwich? No sir. So I took apart the other 2/3 of my sandiwch and through most of it away, save the other giant piece of bread that complimented the piece he stole in the first place. I sat and watched, bread in hand, amusing the small group gathering/walking by taking in the squirrel and this urban Steve Irwin.

Eventually I gave up and he wrapped his meal up and came winding down the tree just as anxious, as if nothing happened. Again I tossed him the bread. Nothing. A sniff and scamper into the woods.

Fuck this. I'm out and he's killing my lunchtime buzz. I moved spots, he came back, this time deciding that this second piece of bread was his to own. He swooped it and peaced out. This time I saw no squirrel on a branch munching laboriously on a piece of mayonnaise soaked bread. He no longer needed me, and he got what he want. I got played y'all, and that shit ain't cute.

Ungrateful bitch...