Turtle Blues

TURTLE BLUES

　

A Short Story By Willys Watson

　

Although neither of us knew it at the time Charlie was waiting all morning for me to show up. Whether he was waiting patiently , impatiently or indifferently no one could know for sure because of Charlie’s present state of mind. The glassy eyes, the drug altered perceptions and the foamy substance dripping from his mouth all strongly suggested that he wasn’t exactly capable of coherent thought. That, and being restrained in a large steel container, made any immediate assessment almost impossible.

The one thing poor Charlie did comprehend was just how close he was to his home, a mere heartbeat away. It was the only home he has known for the past twenty years and, while waiting for me, he would somehow muster enough strength to peer over the steel wall and gaze out over his home. After a few minutes his energy would play out and he would lose his grip and slide back down the wall. He would slide backwards, rest and regroup and regain some strength, then try again. This, I was told later, apparently went on all morning while he waited for me.

It was around noon when I pulled my old work truck to a stop at the massive gates that protected the estate. After punching in the code the gates slowly swung open and I drove up towards the main house. As had become the custom while I was working here I parked on the side road that led up and behind the main house to where the cantina and pool were.

Still not knowing I was needed or expected anywhere except on the job I was hired to do, I started unloading the tools I would need to complete this day’s work. While I was doing so Jesse approached my truck. He is the groundskeeper of this estate and he has been working here almost as long as Charlie has been living here.

"We’ve been waiting for you," he said in his usual soft, almost timid, voice.

"We?" I asked as I turned to face him.

"Charlie and me. We need your help."

"Charlie? Is he okay?" I wondered. My concern was sincere. For the several months I have been working here I had become very fond of Charlie.

"He will be soon. But we need your help now. He’s getting nervous waiting."

　

"Charlie gets nervous?" I asked, laughing, as we started back down the hillside.

The front yard, if you can call it a yard, of this estate is spread out over several acres. A long, narrow circular cobblestone driveway divides the yard into three sectors. This circular driveway is bordered on all sides by stone walls that average two feet in height. The center of the yard, sectioned off because of the driveway, is a walled-in playground of sorts covering a half acre.

As we walked back down the hill a quick glance around the property told me Charlie was nowhere in sight. All I saw, in the way of a possible explanation, was the huge GMC truck used by the estate, now blocking the opposite side of the road. This did not strike me as unusual because Jesse or Buddy often parked it there. Although curious enough, I decided to say nothing as I followed him around the driveway, past the garage and back down towards the gates.

We were no more than ten yards away from the GMC when one of my questions answered itself. As if on cue, Charlie’s head came peering up over the bed of the truck.

"What the hell is he doing back there?" I had to ask.

"He was sick. He’s been away for three days. I went into town and brought him back this morning," Jesse replied, offering no more of an explanation than he thought necessary.

"Okay. But why is he still in the back of the truck."

"Because I can’t get him out by myself and with all those drugs he’s taken he’s just not being very co-operative."

"Yeah, I can understand the problem here," I said, laughing again.

It really shouldn’t have seemed so comical a situation to me, but God help me, it was. And I certainly could understand Jesse’s problem. Charlie weighted at least three hundred pounds and an uncooperative Charlie was a major problem.

As he and I stood on opposite sides of the truck I knew Jesse was hoping for some degree of enthusiasm from me. Although I had become fond of Charlie, the truth was I consider myself a man still in his prime, still looking forward to a long, loving, passionate, physical relationship with a yet unknown woman. Pulling a groin muscle or rupturing myself simply wasn’t very high on my ‘to do’ list.

"Where’s Buddy? Why can’t he help?" I asked hopefully. Buddy was the part-time hired hand who worked for the estate and, at least to me, it seemed logical that he should have been the one helping here.

　

"He’s off today and he’s probably out chasing women again. Or getting drunk again. He’s not home. I’ve done tried," he replied. His sly grin told me he already knew he had my help, but he added, for safe measure, "Besides, you’re stronger than Buddy and you like Charlie."

I thought about saying something like ‘I don’t like him that much’ but I gave in without another attempt to avoid the task at hand. Knowing I was doomed to the probabilities of unexpected pain, I climbed into the bed of the truck. Jesse quickly followed.

"Which end do you want?" he asked, as if this were a routine matter to decide.

"I’ll grab his a*s. You take what’s left."

"Yeah, I figured you for an a*s man," he laughed.

"Just shut up and let’s get this over with, okay?"

Yes, I suppose I should have been more concerned about Charlie’s age than his weight. But I figured, like myself, he was still in his prime. After all, a hundred and fifty year old giant South American land tortoise was still relatively young, considering how long these pre-historic holdovers could live if they stayed healthy.

Charlie’s keepers were concerned enough about his health to have him taken to a vet and the foam drooling from his mouth was a reaction to whatever taste the medicine he had been given left in his mouth. He was indeed fortunate that these people loved all God’s creatures enough to accept rescued and unwanted animals, from llamas to ostriches to parrots to tortoises.

Charlie was one of six giant land tortoises that called this grassy, well-kept half-acre area their home. Five of these had been rescued. These five have lived here from ten to twenty years. The two younger ones were bought from a zoo in San Diego, most likely to liven up the place. It seemed the older residents here, ranging in age from seventy-five to at least a hundred and a half, didn’t get around much and the estate’s owners hoped the younger pair would mate.

Back to the problem at hand: How does one grab the rear end of a giant three hundred pound land tortoise without being cut by the sharp claws from it’s rear feet, without either hurting yourself and / or the tortoise while lifting it up out of the bed of the truck, resting it on the edge of the truck’s bed wall, balancing it there while you climb down to the ground, then lifting it down to balance on the top of the stone wall, climbing over the wall and lifting it down onto the waiting grass, all the while trying in coordination to do so with someone carrying it’s front end? The answer was carefully.

　

When faced with a troublesome and unwanted task, something I’ve learned instinctively over the years is the simple, yet highly effective, mental art of transference. You cloud your mind with so much litter that the unwanted task becomes an afterthought. As I slid my hands under the edges of Charlie’s shell this mental device started to kick into gear and I found myself wondering, probably for the first time in my life, about the mind of the tortoise.

What do tortoises think about? Does a hundred and fifty year old tortoise retain memories of a more carefree, active tortoise childhood? Do they lament over lost loves? Do they even remember the last time they got laid? Do they have any conception of time? Do they see the world in color or in black and white? Do they, at this age, still hear well? Do they hear at all? Do they recognize danger or do they sense an enemy is present? Outside of man, do they even have natural enemies? And do tortoises have some standard of conception of beauty? Are some tortoises more attractive to them than others? At what point does a tortoise this old lose interest in the opposite sex?

Because tortoises are larger than the common turtle, because their brains grow larger, do they have greater intellect? Are they snobs? Do they consider themselves superior to their smaller, but quicker, turtle relatives? Are they that much different than human if they do have and maintain their own system of a pecking order? Their own snobbish outlook? And what about...

"Doc, that’s all. You can go back to work now", Jesse commanded.

"What?" I asked, unexpectedly being brought back into the focus of the original task. I let go of my deep thoughts long enough look up and notice that we’ve already gotten Charlie over the wall and he was sitting on the ground. "Sorry. Sure."

I sat on the edge of the stone wall and watched Charlie slowly make his way up the hill towards where the other tortoises had gathered to eat their daily meal of mixed vegetables that Jesse had already put out for them. Behind me I heard Jesse start the truck engine and drive away.

Charlie started nibbling on a carrot, a very good sign that he was going to be okay. What’s odd was that the other tortoises acknowledged him only enough let him get closer to the food. Did he have a place of honor awaiting his return? Did they even realize he was gone for three days?

As I sat there wondering about what tortoises think I decided it was futile. Why sink any more thought into the subject? After all, there I was, a man in the prime of his life who has traveled far and wide and experienced more than most people ever have, and I don’t even understand human nature,, much less the uncomplicated, simplistic minds of turtles.

Suddenly realizing this seemed to bring on an undefined remorsefulness, an unexplainable blues I hadn't expected or asked for. So I got up off the wall and headed towards what I did understand: how to turn an old store room into a walled, paneled walk-in pantry.

　

As I was walking back up towards the main house an old Janus Joplin song popped into my head. For some reason it seemed to belong there right then. What else could I do but start singing:

"I guess I'm just like a turtle

That's hidin' underneath its horny shell.

Whoa, whoa, oh yeah, like a turtle

Hidin' underneath it's horny shell.

But you know I'm very well protected

I know this goddamn life too well."

Then I started wondering, if people spend so much time hiding behind various shells to protect themselves, how could they possibly know life at all?