Now, a couple of weeks ago, my friend Leslie suggested that I try reading my stuff at this dive bar that’s just up the street from her. They do an open mike night on the third Tuesday of each month. Now I’m not going to tell you the name of the bar for reasons that you will soon understand, but let’s just say that it’s nothing special. One long bar on the left as you come in, with a handful of tables and a little stage area set up at the back. Typical local hangout spot. And as usual, I get there early because even after living here in Portland for about a year and a half, I still haven’t figured out how far anything is away from me or how long it takes to get there. But even then as I walk into the bar that night, there’s a pretty decent crowd for a weekday and I’m thinking, “well, maybe this is bigger deal than what I had first thought.” I find the emcee and put my name on the sign-up sheet and I’m going third, which I don’t mind because these things have a tendency to go really late and I don’t want to have to miss the last train. So I get a drink and am standing there against the back wall, reading over the story a few more times and before I know it, the emcee is calling my name. I walk up to the stage and I do what I always do. I grab a chair, or in this case a stool and place it in front of the microphone. Because if you want the truth, I get a little nervous standing in front of a group of strangers reading my most personal intimate thoughts and I’ve found that if I sit down, I can concentrate and give a better performance. Then I look up to introduce myself and there, sitting right in front of me at the very first table closest to the microphone – I mean, we are talking no further than you are to me is this giant squirrel who has crossed its arms and is now scowling at me.

So I start reading my piece – it’s the one about that summer that I spent with my grandparents the year my Father drowned – and for the most part, people are paying attention and it’s quiet enough that I don’t feel like I’m shouting over them. But every time I go to look up at the audience, the giant squirrel is staring right back at me. It literally has not taken its eyes off of me once. I don’t know if any of you have ever read your work aloud to an audience before but it’s one thing if people are looking back at you and they’re smiling – or even if they’re not smiling but you can tell that they’re really listening to every word that you’re saying. But this wasn’t either of those. The giant squirrel is literally glaring at me, its tail angrily twitching back and forth with this really hostile look on its face, like I’ve run over its family.

And I can feel my mouth getting dry and my heart is starting to beat a little faster and thankfully, I get to the last paragraph and by now, I’m just reading it with no emotion. I just to be done and over with so I can get off the stage and go home.
“I had not felt as safe or as warm since those days of my childhood when my Grandmother would tuck me into bed at night and read me the story of chipmunk who wore an acorn top for a cap and lived in the hollow of a great oak tree with his wife, the church mouse – who would sing her babies a lullaby to sleep each night, under a pale blue August moon.”

Finally, I finish and barely anyone claps, which doesn’t surprise me because I already know that I didn’t read it nearly as well as I wanted to – mostly because I got really distracted by this giant squirrel sitting opposite me. So I go up to the bar to get a glass of water but they’re about four other people waiting to order so I just duck into the bathroom – and because I’m still a little shaken by why just happened, I must not have forgotten to lock the door. I hadn’t been in there long enough to even unbutton my jeans when the door flies open and you guessed it – it’s the squirrel, so much taller than I would have initially thought. I’m speechless and can’t even say anything at this point when the giant squirrel gets right up into my face and says, “I bet you think you’re funny, don’t you?”

I go to open my mouth, but the giant squirrel presses a claw into my nose.

“You don’t get to talk right now. You’ve already had your chance.”

And with that, the giant squirrel shifts its hips quickly one side and its tail slams the door shut. So now there I am, pressed back up against the sink as this giant squirrel towers over me, blocking any chance of escape.

“This is a safe haven away from right-wing assholes like you. We are respectful of each other in here and treat everyone with kindness.”

And before I know it, the giant squirrel quickly swings out its paw and slaps me across the face; its claws scratching my cheek.

“What the fuck?” I say, stumbling back against the toilet.

“You should have known that from the minute you walked in. But obviously, you were too self-absorbed to care that one of my housemates is a sewer rat, who is already barely able to support himself on a living wage bussing tables. But because of a barbaric mousetrap set by a hostile co-worker, can now barely even stand up straight and yet you felt you had the right to sit down? So disrespectful.”

“You were sitting down.”

“Your portrayal of a squirrel wearing an acorn hat continues to feed into a negative stereotype that I have fought all of my adult to overcome”, the giant squirrel screamed back at me, determined to ignore anything I said.

“But it was a chipmunk.”

“So that makes it all right, does it? Just because they’re are not here to represent themselves doesn’t mean that they do not have a voice.”

“It was just a story from my childhood. I didn’t write even it.”

“Clearly you have a problem with interspecies relationships and I hope your Grandmother is rotting in hell for not drowning you like your Father.”

At this point, I’ve given up trying to explain myself or even try to apologize but it is clear to me that the squirrel is only going to hear what the squirrel wants to hear and any other word out of me would just make things worse. So, there I stood, listening patiently as I can feel the blood dripping down into my neck.

So now the squirrel is shouting in my face about how difficult it can be for those mammals who hibernate during the winter months who have to give up their jobs and find it difficult to find gainful employment in the springtime. And why did it have to be the mother taking care of her children? Or don’t you think that a single mouse can raise a family and be a successful executive – and why did she have to be a church mouse – haven’t we been subjugated enough by an organization which has exploited undocumented migrant camels in holiday nativity pageants all the while smearing the blood of innocent newborn baby lambs across its doorsteps – or is being a part of the heterosexual white male agenda so important to you that you are willing to send my people to your emotional gas chamber of hate and lies, you Nazi fascist.

“I’m gay.” I blurt out, not even knowing what I can say at this point to calm the giant squirrel down, its tail jerking angrily back and forth against the door.

“I’ll have you know that I have a very good friend who is a butterfly who had a very difficult coming out process and spent months inside his cocoon before he felt safe because he felt threatened by self-loathing internalized homophobic attitudes like yours. And I suppose just because I choose to live an anthropomorphic vegan pansexual lifestyle, you think that gives you the right to say that you’re better than me?”

“I never said that.”

“I am so sick and tired of all you counter-cultural wannabe, faux liberal transplants that are ruining Portland for the rest of us. Chopping down affordable housing while driving independent acorn dealers like myself out of business. Well, you better think twice next time you decide to step up to a microphone because we are everywhere. Sneaking through the attic rafters of your house. Bounding across power lines. Or just out of sight, hidden between the branches of the trees, just waiting to take offense to anything you say if it disagrees with our own personal agenda.”

My eyes widened at this thought as the giant squirrel leaned closer and whispered into my ear, “You can’t win.”

And with that, the giant squirrel opened the bathroom door, scampered out of the bar and up the nearest telephone pole.

I pulled a handful of paper towels out of the dispenser, pressing them to my cheek and quickly walked down the street to my friend Leslie’s, who brings me inside and helps me clean up my face, only she didn’t have any hydrogen peroxide so we had to use liquid dish soap instead.

And then later as we’re sitting out on her front porch smoking, I tell her the whole story and after I finish, Leslie just looks over at me disapprovingly.

“What kind of squirrel was it?”

“I don’t know. Just a squirrel.”

Leslie frowned and took a drag off of her cigarette. “Well now, you’re just being racist.”