Are Raccoons Part Of The Food Chain?

This is one of the few stories I’ve included here that I actually remember
EXACTLY when I wrote it. It’s off a letter to Chaosia, written when we were
dating, and I included the date on the letter… 3/29/93.

It happened at work. It was somewhere between one and two A.M., and I'd
called for relief. It was late, and I wanted a smoke break. When my position
was filled, I stepped outside the side door and lit up.

Raccoons are cute, but irritating; furry, bumbling little critters leading the
good life out of the dumpsters across from the cafeteria. They've learned that
plastic bags left on dorm porches often contain good things to eat, left over
from the meal trays brought out for the disciplinary cases. I understand that
some urban coons, when captured and given medical checks, have
developed some rather human medical problems: high blood pressure,
clogged arteries, and even a few cases of diabetes.

Here's my point:
Raccoons have an ugly sense of humor, and at night, when I go from one
building to another, I stay clear of the thickets and the main treeline; get too
close and an unseen 'coon may well decide to make a noise like Godzilla
getting kneed in the crotch, just to watch you jump.

I stood and smoked and watched a good-sized buck eat the lawn; for some
reason, the grounds out where I work are infested with deer; a night hardly
goes by where I don't see several, and when I have to go up the hill to do the
Xeroxing, I practically have to kick 'em out of the way... they're durn near
tame, too. When you walk towards them, they look at you as if to ask "I beg
your pardon? Can I help you?" in a persnickety tone of voice.

This particular one apparently felt safe enough fifty feet from me, but kept
giving me suspicious looks. It was a beautiful, serene moment, which
apparently bothered the 'coon hiding somewhere in the trees -- or perhaps
the little fellow was just having a personal problem. At any rate, he cut loose
with a shriek that would have done any horror movie actress proud.

The deer and I jumped a total of about ten feet in the air; the deer, apparently
having decided that I was the source of the offending sound, landed running,
pointed dead away from me. I laughed, partly because of the humor of the
situation, and partly to discharge the tension of having had the crap startled
out of me.

The deer had almost made it to the treeline when the 'coon did it again.
Perhaps he didn't like the buck charging at him. If so, it worked; the buck
jumped again, spun in midair, and landed running again ... this time pointed
right at my face.

It took me a few seconds to absorb the situation; by this time, the deer had
cut the distance to about forty feet and closing, and had lowered his head.
Bucks have antlers, you know, and rather pointy ones at that, and they can
move real fast when they wanna.

For a second, I was merely nonplussed --"Wait just a minute there, Mr. Deer, you've obviously forgotten our respective positions in the food chain," -- when it hit me: if I didn't do
something, I was going to wind up like a cocktail shrimp on a fork.

Absurdly, the first thing that ran through my mind was the Basic Procedures
Manual; unfortunately, the chapter on "Personnel Safety: Policies And
Procedures For Physical Holds, Take-Downs, Seclusions, and Disciplinary
Procedures" didn't have word one on pissed-off creatures of the forest, as far
as I could remember. It did occur to me that deer look real pretty when they
run.

Shit! What would Davy Crockett do in this situation?

Well, he probably wouldn't step inside and close the door, but I did.

The deer rammed it going full-tilt, making a sound not unlike a sack of dirty
laundry and bowling balls dropped onto a wood floor from a height.

Then silence.

It then occurred to me that I wasn't yet out of the woods, so to speak. What
was I supposed to do now? If I opened the door, he could be waiting outside,
and I could just see myself calling the Center Supervisory Office to report an
enraged ungulate roaming the halls.

On the other hand, I could just lock the door and do nothing, but the morning relief staff might be alarmed to arrive to find an unconscious or dead deer lying outside the door, and I'd be
responsible for explaining ... and either way, I'd end up as the butt of endless Bambi jokes from the C.S.O.

Then I noticed: I still had a lit cigarette in my hand. That clinched it: I had to
at least open the door a crack and get rid of the thing; the smoke alarms out
there are so sensitive they'll go off if you even lose your temper.

I leaned down and popped out the door brace; it'd keep the door from
opening more than a few inches, no matter what. Then I cracked the door,
flicked the butt out, and peeked.

The buck was several yards from the door, staggering unsteadily away. From
off and beyond the treeline, I heard a chittering sound that very much
resembled raucous raccoon laughter.

My memory buzzed and spat out a fragment of narration from Marlin Perkins' old Wild Kingdom TV show: "Man is, by far, the most dangerous animal in the forest."

Mentally, I added a footnote: don't bet on it.

Boss-Bitch-O-Matic

The school district I work for has a bad policy about personnel management. Near as I can tell, the object is to motivate their people by kicking them in the ass. I'm not sure if they're trying to scare people into fearing for their jobs, or if the Superintendent just thinks that constant criticism causes people to work harder, but they do regular walkthroughs and inspections, and they NEVER have anything good to say, and they will pounce on ANY little thing that gives them an excuse to be critical. They gave one of the best math teachers I've ever seen a faceful because his room was "messy and unclean." *

Sigh.

Anyway, they've apparently programmed the main computer servers along these lines. When I checked my work email this morning, I had a snippy automated note from the computer, stating that I had fallen below the number of grades dictated by District policy, and that I was expected to correct this dereliction of my duty as soon as possible.

I was confused for a moment. What? Ohh, wait, Spring Break! I didn't enter any grades for Spring Break. That's why the computer's bitching at me.

At first, I thought about doing nothing, until I thought about it for a moment. Everyone else in the building probably got the same snippy email. Surely, administration would look into it... realize what the problem was... and ignore it.

Until I remembered what happened last time I ignored one of those snippy automatic notes. The following week I got another one that said, "Your failure to correct your dereliction has been noted. Your principal has been notified. Please note that you are in dereliction of your duty to comply with District policy."

Yeah, like my principal has nothing better to do than come down to my room and beef at me about my number of grades in the gradebook. But when I thought about it, I realized that he was probably going to have to investigate half the teachers in the building next week... because THEY would all ignore the snippy email.

So I said the hell with it, opened up my gradebook, and entered three grades for all my kids for all my classes for Spring Break. That week, none of them showed up, and I gave them all "EXCUSED" grades for all three assignments. This will bring me up to the minimum number of grades, and the machine will quit bitching at me.

So... my upper echelon bosses programmed a MACHINE to bitch at me, and I did what it wanted, for no other reason than to spare my LOWER echelon bosses the hassle of coming and checking into my grades for reasons they'd already know by the time they got to me.

Man, I work for some weird people...

*They checked his room between third and fourth period... after several herds of seventh and eighth graders had stampeded in and out. They didn't have time to actually watch him TEACH, so they bitched him out for ... apparently... not leaping forth and picking up all the litter the kids left. Apparently, math teachers should also be part-time custodians...

Another day on the job...

This is how I know I’m a behavior management specialist: An actual exchange in my class last month:

"Hm," I said, checking my calendar. "Tomorrow is Groundhog Day."

"What's Groundhog Day?" asked a student.

"It happens on February second," I replied.

"Why they call it Groundhog Day?"

"Because there's an old legend," I said, seizing the teachable moment. "They say that the groundhog comes out of his hole on February 2 after sleeping all winter, and he turns around to see if he has a shadow. If he sees his shadow, that means winter is pretty much over."

"What if he don't see his shadow?"

"Well, if he doesn't see his shadow, that means there'll be another six weeks of winter."

"Where the groundhog live?"

"Not in Texas. Groundhogs are native to the northern states. Why?"

" 'Cuz if we could find out where the groundhog live, we could go kill it before it make the winter any longer."

Straight face. Straight face. STRAIGHT FACE....

Christmas Spiders (from CLASSICS)

I can't believe I wrote this more than six years ago. Seems like only yesterday...

I am in my last week of student teaching. I'll be certified, soon, to teach in our public schools... but I found another reason yesterday that I don't wanna teach elementary school.

You see... there are four men in this particular school building, most school days. Me, an elderly math teacher, and two custodians.

Yesterday, during my lunch hour, I'm settin' up the next week's materials, surfing CNN, and bitterly cursing the District Computer Nazi, who feels that access to message boards and outside email sources should be blocked, right?

And a woman I barely recognize bursts into the classroom, jabbering and gibbering. I vaguely remembered her from the last faculty meeting; she was a teacher there. She knew ME, though, as my own last name was the only thing she was saying that made any sense. It seemed extremely important that I should go with her, though.

As we hustled through the empty halls -- all the children were at lunch -- I wondered what could be so screwy as to drive this poor woman into hysteria. Fire? Terrorists? Bomb threats?

Hmmph. Shooda known.

We arrive at her gaily decorated classroom. Sitting in the large open area towards the front... maybe fifteen feet away from where I stood in the hall... was a large cardboard carton marked XMAS.

The woman, whom I will call "Mrs. Tulip," became even more incoherent at this point, but pointed furiously at the box, and indicated that I should go and do something with or to the box.

I ambled into the room, glancing around for bombs or Satan or Alan Rickman with a machine gun, or something. Nothing was on fire. The box was open. I sidled up to it and glanced inside.

Ah. Christmas decorations. Atop it all were three large stuffed toys -- a bear, a penguin, and Santa.

And perched atop the bear's belly was a spider. A HUGE friggin' spider.

Dawn broke over marble head. Ah. THIS is the emergency. But... something didn't look quite right. The spider was posed rather oddly, legs bunched together, front and back, instead of legs spread around her, ready to leap or run. And... her abdomen. Spider that big should have a butt the size of my pinky tip... but... it looked... scooped out, somehow.

That's when I realized that this was not a spider. This was a molt, a shed skin left behind as a spider grows. The spider had shed its exoskeleton in the process of getting bigger... and was, possibly, still in the box somewhere. Furthermore, the only non-tarantula spiders in this hemisphere that get THAT big are female. A female spider in a cardboard box in someone's shed or garage has only one reason for being there: it laid eggs. Spiders' eggs hatch between September and late November. It was now December. There were potentially hundreds of spiders in there.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of saying all this out loud.

Mrs. Tulip's reaction was kind of interesting. She, like wriggled, and kind of looked like she wanted to turn herself inside out, then and there. She jabbered some more, and indicated that I should do something about it.

"What do you want ME to do about it?" I said.

"Uggh," she replied. "Eeegh...yecch... you're a MAN," she gagged. "Do SOMETHING!"

I turned back to the box. Carefully, I fished Bear, Penguin and Santa out, one by one, and flicked them to the floor. They did not erupt in a seething mass of arachnoid horror. The dead molt fell to pieces with the impact. Mrs. Tulip wriggled and vibrated.

Beneath the stuffed toys was a mass of plastic pine needles. The rest of the box contained a disassembled artificial Christmas tree.

Ghod only knew what might be hiding in there.

Mrs. Tulip sat and stared at me, chewing her nails. I looked at her. She looked at me. I sighed and turned back to the box. I COULD simply refuse to do it. It wasn't MY classroom, or my Christmas tree, or my problem. On the other hand, I'm still a student teacher, and I'm going to be DONE with this in a week. All I have to do to get my certification is not screw up or piss anyone off...

...and it occurred to me that as wacko as this woman was acting, there was no way she was setting foot in this room until all materials in this box had been examined for spiderlike presences... and, considering where my classroom was and where Mrs. Tulip's was, she had probably gone rampaging all over the school looking for custodians before finally remembering that I existed.

It was noon. The custodians were across the street at Fatso's Barbecue, having lunch. They wouldn't be back any time soon. If I didn't do something, this woman was going to be standing in the hall gibbering when her children returned from lunch. And how would my evaluation go if I went on record as saying, "Hell with you, lady, this ain't my problem?"

Steeling myself, I fished one of the tree stand's legs out... and carefully picked out one of the branches. I whacked the branch a few times with the tree stand leg. Three dead crickets fell out of it.

I did it again with another branch. Nothing happened.

I did it again.

And again.

And again.

I noticed that about every third or fourth branch had a dead cricket or two in it. Each seventh branch seemed to have a LIVE cricket in it, which always evoked a horrified ejaculation from Mrs. Tulip, still in the hallway.

...and the eighteenth branch had a live SPIDER in it, a good-sized specimen, who came scuttling up the branch to rip my hand off. I flicked him off the branch with the tree stand leg and stomped on him. Mrs. Tulip immediately did this... amazing... thing... with her whole body ... that would have done any contortionist proud, except that Mrs. Tulip did it out of sheer horror.

I was not happy. That spider was nowhere near big enough to be the one who'd left that molt on top. That was one of the kids.

The twenty-ninth branch had ANOTHER molt on it. An even bigger one. How long had that mama spider been IN this box? And was she still HERE?

Mrs. Tulip wobbled and writhed and made weird noises some more, by way of assistance and moral support.

I kept plucking branches out. More dead crickets. A few live ones. Jeez, there'd been a whole ecosystem going on in this woman's Christmas decorations...

And in time, I came to the bottom of the box. Well, almost. The only thing left was the top of the Christmas tree, a largish cone of stiff wire and fake plastic pine needles. There was no way in hell I was sticking my hands in THAT thing. I could beat it with the tree stand leg until the toads came home, and the entire Bolivian army could still be hiding in there.

Perhaps jostling it would provide some information. I carefully knocked the box over. The tree top rattled and rolled out.

And Mama Spider came out, erupting from between the branches like a little snake monster ripping through a spaceman's sternum in a horror movie.

Now, in truth, that spider wasn't THAT big. This is Texas, after all. I've certainly seen tarantulas that were bigger. On the other hand, I've also seen tarantulas that were SMALLER, which gives you some clue as to how fraggin' BIG this thing was. I raised a foot to step on it, and hesitated. Man, this thing was BIG! What if it... didn't... DIE? What if it grabbed my foot and threw me across the ROOM, or something?

And then, Mrs. Tulip screamed, a sound like a fire engine might make if it were giving birth to a Toyota.

I leaped on the spider with both feet. It crunched surprisingly loudly. For a horrible moment, I thought I felt it moving beneath my shoe soles. You shouldn't be able to feel a bug moving beneath your shoe soles when you're standing on it with both feet.

Mrs. Tulip had very good lungs, though, and continued. The same scream, too. She only screamed once, but it went on for a while. I heard the patter of feet, as people came running to investigate.

Many of them were children. Fourth graders, as I recall.

...and abruptly, Mrs. Tulip snapped. It was amazing. One second, she is in the grip of total pantswetting hysteria, and the next, she's perfectly calm, and herding children around. It was like someone had found and pressed her RESET button, right there in front of ghod and everybody.

I casually cleaned up the dead spiders and the scattering of cricket husks, and tossed 'em in the garbage. I then checked the tree top. It was clean. Not that anything alive would have willingly shared quarters with Mama, anyway. Upon erasing the remnants of madness, I strolled away back to my classroom. Mrs. Tulip smiled and gave me a nod, still herding her students, as I passed.

And I betcha my certification won't even have any mention of my heroism or my goin' the extra mile, here....

And it didn't. *sigh*

SCALAWAGGERS!

“Battle of Bull Run?” tried Bud, nervously.

“Sorry,” said Mr. L. “Question goes to team two. What was Sherman’s movement through Georgia called?”

“Um... march to the sea?” asked Fleur.

“Got it,” said Mr. L, with some satisfaction. “Team two advances by one.” With that, Mr. L moved the little magnetic marker up the board.

Tension was thick. Today, the American History class’s last exam of the year was taking the form of a competition between two teams... and the winning team was going to get the higher grade of the two. It’s a handy trick for getting otherwise bored kids to focus and engage, you know?

“Fleur, you got it, so you pick the next question,” said Mr. L, gesturing at the numbered slips of paper taped to the board.

“Um... number eleven.”

“Number eleven: who instigated violence before elections in the South during reconstruction?” recited Mr. L. “Charlie?”

“The bags. I mean, the baggers. The moneybaggers. I mean, the teabaggers. The whatever-bagger-people.”

“Nope,” said Mr. L. “Question goes back to team one. Who instigated violence before elections in the south during Reconstruction?”

“Battle of Bull Run?” said Bud, with some trepidation.

“NO!” cried Bunny. “Sir, that doesn’t count. It wasn’t his turn!”

“All right,” said Mr. L, reasonably. “Bunny, can you answer the question?”

“It was the CARPETbaggers!”

“I’m sorry, but no. That’s a fumble, so it goes back on the board. Team one will choose the next question. Lite?”

“Um... 23,” said Lite.

“What did the Southerners call other Southerners who supported Reconstruction and the Union government?”

“Carpetbaggers!” shouted Charlie.
“NO, you dumbass!” cried Bunny in agony. “Carpetbaggers were from the NORTH, not the south!”

“I’m sorry, but ‘carpetbaggers’ is the wrong answer,” said Mr. L. “And please, watch your language, Bunny. Question goes to team two. What did the Southerners call other Southerners who supported Reconstruction and the Union government? Schlitz?”

“Be fucked if I know,” said Schlitz.

The room erupted in laughter.

“That’s enough of that, Schlitz,” growled Mr. L. “Any more profanity, and someone’s getting out of school early. Does anyone on team two know?”

“They were called, ah, scallops,” said Heathcliff.

“What?” said Mr. L.

“Ah, um, scallops... scalpers... skateboards... scalpbaggers... um... something LIKE scalpbaggers... “

Mr. L. waited patiently.

“Um...”

“Clock is ticking,” said Mr. L.

“Aaahhh..... scallops... scalar... SCALAWAGGERS!”

“The word is “scalawags,” and it is correct,” said Mr. L., moving another marker on the board. “Heathcliff, it’s your call.”

“Number thirty.”

“What was the importance of the battle between the Monitor and the Merrimac? Bud?”

“Battle of Bull Run?” said Bud, brightly. He was met with a collective moan and a smattering of thrown paperwads.

“Nope. Back to team one. Darla? What was the importance of the battle between the Monitor and the Merrimac?”

“Ah,” said Darla, who had not been paying the slightest attention, “carpetbaggers?” Another moan, and another few paperwads came her way.

“And no one gets that one, so it goes back on the board,” said Mr. L. “Bud, call me a number.”

“Number nineteen. And it’s Battle of Red Bull!”

“Number nineteen. And the question is ‘at what battle did Stonewall Jackson face off against General Pope at Manassas?’ And what did you say?”

“I said it’s the Battle of Red Bull!”

“And that would be wrong. And the question goes to team two: Stonewall Jackson versus General Pope at Manassas? Anyone?”

“BATTLE OF BULL RUN!” screamed Bunny.

Bud’s jaw dropped several inches. “I SAID THAT!”

“No,” said Mr. L., “you said ‘battle of Red Bull,’ which was incorrect. To my knowledge, there are no American Civil War battles named after popular sports drinks that supposedly give you wings.”

“Aaw, that ain’t RIGHT, man! I had it earlier!”

“And if that had been the question, you would have been right earlier. Bunny, the next question is yours. Number?”

“Number seven!” crowed Bunny.

“Where did General Lee surrender to Northern forces? Trisha?”

“Um... animal house... no... it starts with an A,” said Trisha. “A-house. A-house. A-something-house....”

“I need more than that,” said Mr. L.

“I’m thinking. A-house.... A-house... A-house..... dang, I don’t know. I mean, I know it, but I can’t pronounce it.”

“Try,” said Mr. L.

“Anaphalactic house?” tried Trisha.

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. L. “Charlie?”

“Aaaah,” said Charlie, who’d been paying no attention whatsoever. “What was the question again?”

“Where did General Lee surrender to the Union forces?”

“A-house,” said Trisha, helpfully.

“A-house,” said Charlie thoughtfully. “A... COURT.... house.... a-courthouse, alamo courthouse, android courthouse...” Charlie rose from his chair, and began to pace nervously in the aisle.

“Is that your answer?” asked Mr. L.

“NO, no, no,” muttered Charlie hastily. “A-courthouse... alamo... alcohol... apollo... apple.... approximate... approximate... it was like approximate...”

“Clock’s ticking, Charlie,” said Mr. L.

“I know, I know... Approximate courthouse... approximate courthouse?”

“I need an answer now, Charlie. Is that your answer?”

“No, no,” said Charlie, sweating, and furiously pacing. “It sounded a little like approximate courthouse...”

“NOW, Charlie--“

“APOCALYPTIC COURTHOUSE!” screamed Charlie.

The room erupted in laughter. Charlie realized what he’d said. In a rage of embarrassment, he flung his notebook to the floor and screamed, “Aaaww, SCALAWAGGERS!!!”

I couldn’t teach any more after that. I was laughin’ too hard. The correct answer is “Appomattox Court House,” by the way.

MAKE YOU HARD LIKE STEAL PIPE

It began shortly before Christmas.

I teach. I teach Special Ed. I teach Special Ed in the public schools. What this means to those of you not in the know is "December is pandemonium." We're halfway through the school year, testing data is due, everyone's rushing around like mad to clean up all the paperwork and conclude their lessons and units before the vacation cuts us off and the new year begins.

I was no exception. Being Special Ed, I've got more paperwork than most, and so I might be forgiven for not quite noticing that email from the Jones family. I teach Li'l Jonesy, and his parents are a nice couple, fine folks, supportive, keep in contact with teacher, can't say enough good about 'em.

...which is why I found it confusing when they sent me an email with nothing in it but a link. No title, no text, no nothin'. Just a link. If I'd been at home, I'd have been more cautious, but I was tired, and I clicked, and next thing I know, a web site in broken Engrish is trying to sell me herbal Viagra. I killed it and moved onto the next email. It didn't even register.

But yesterday, when this fine young couple sent me another email with a link... this one offering to MAKEY OU HARD LIKE STEAL PIPE... I couldn't help but have it kind of register in my head. WTF? It took a second to click: zombie botnet.

These poor folks's computer had been coopted by a zombie botnet, which was sending scam spam to everyone in their email address folder. Oh, man. I dashed off a quick email warning them of this...

...and then didn't send it. I am a teacher, and although you might not believe it, most of us are actually quite patient, reserved, cautious folks who do not fuck our students, literally or figuratively... and it had occurred to me that I was about to send a parent an email with a subject line reading MAKEY OU HARD LIKE STEAL PIPE. Something in my head was throbbing out a warning about that.

I rewrote that damn email a half dozen times. I didn't WANT to put these nice people on my BLOCK list; when I get a parent who's reasonable, cooperative, and communicative, I want to stay on their good side; my line of work tends more towards the wacko with rights, all too often. I tweezed that email to the point where no sane person could possibly be offended or upset by it (aside from the fact that it was pointing out that their virus-infested computer was sending me viagra spam)...

...and, wincing, I sent the thing. It was the right thing to do, I told myself. If left unchecked, what next? Male enhancement ads? Porn? And what about everyone else on their mailing list?

******************************************************************
Mrs. Jones came in and apologized profusely this afternoon when picking up her li'l snowflake. Seems half her relatives and more than a few of her church acquaintances had been getting weird emails from their computer for a week or so, but everyone was too durn discreet to tell 'em. She thanked me profusely, apologized lavishly (albeit sheepishly), and collected her child and left.

I felt better. I'd seriously been hoping this wasn't some sort of twisted offer...