Turtle Crossing

Bob and Marg were two medium-sized Red-eared turtles. The terrarium they used to live in, was pushed off the table by the two boys, during an impromptu hockey game at the Mackenzie house, one night when the parents were out partying and the baby-sitter was making out with her boyfriend in the Rec-Room in the basement. They somehow made it out of the house and were now living in the wooden foundation of the mailbox located on the front lawn near the curb of 85 Minto Place in suburban Providence, Rhode Island. One day they decided, as only turtles can, that they should make a FAST (and I use that term somewhat loosely) break for the yard across the street. This is the story of their adventure.

At exactly 11:59.00 p.m. EST on July 15, 1986, Bob plummeted off the concrete sidewalk and onto the scorching pavement below. Marg followed a few seconds later. Once re-oriented, they clamored due east in the direction of the Robeleski’s purple-doored bungalow. A speeding bicycle swerved and narrowly missed Marg as she pulled into the lead ahead of Bob. Bob, eager to blaze a hairy trail of his own, inched his way up to Marg’s hind quarters. His powerful little beak clamped onto her tail and for a short time was treated to a free ride out into the middle of the road. When Marg finally noticed that she was dragging her partner, she stopped and turned her head to look behind her. Bob rushed, as only turtles can, around the other side of her and broke into the front of the two-turtle pack. The ground shook and a swirl of dust blew past them as a 1955 Thunderbird sped over-top of them. Now, over halfway there and both of them had picked up speed. The curb in front of Robeleski’s was in plain view. Another bike whizzed by and then another. A basketball bounced dangerously close to Marg’s head, but on she hustled (??), undeterred. Bob was still in the lead by at least four or five seconds. Bob looked upward at the sun and could tell by its position in the sky that the time was now 11:59.32 p.m. EST. There was no time to dilly-dally. A turtle stalled on this blazing black-tarred pavement was only asking for one or more sizzling claws. Not only that, but there was always the possibility of a garbage truck or a delivery van creeping up on them unexpectedly with heavy black and rigid-treaded wide dual wheels ready to make both of them into some tasty pureed ingredients for a wonderful turtle bisque. Marg inched her way forward and soon she was neck and neck with Bob – an image which I’m sure even the most uninterested spectators of high-performance turtle sports can well project onto the optic pathways of their brains. Ahead of them and directly in their paths lay two snails, also making their way toward the Robeleski residence. As the two turtles whisked past the gastropods, the antennae on their slimy little heads flapped sharply in the wake of their much faster reptilian friends.

The snails could be heard to utter, “Whoa, what was that?”

As Bob and Marg approached the looming wall of concrete that lay ahead, a final set of tires screeched to a deafening halt only inches from Marg’s mobile shelter. Instantly, both her and Bob contracted limbs and heads deep into their shells. A car door opened and slammed shut, followed by footsteps approaching the two turtles. Two hands descended upon their sturdy forms and lifted them skyward.

Bob uttered, “Is that you, God?”

As they were both placed gently onto the green Robeleski lawn, they both chuckled little turtle chuckles and the nearby town-hall clock began to chime. It was 12 noon and all was well.