Fall-out from the El Cid reading kept occuring this past week: I was "ambushed" and dragged into participating in a pod-cast for noted sex educators/writers Freddy & Eddy a few days ago. Somewhere on this wacky interwebs thing you can hear me talking about fellation: receiving not giving-- sorry.

Now to counter all of that and, as promised, I am re-posting "The Turtle Story" which is both non-fiction and G-rated. Enjoy!



I was spending a lovely summer afternoon watching baseball on my living room TV when I heard the commotion from outside. There were some excited, raised voices discussing how big something was and before my mind went straight into the gutter, I hurried outdoors.

There, I found a turtle making its way past my house and across the lawn. He was headed towards the street, and despite his snail’s pace –- nee, turtle’s pace –- I realized that he would eventually reach the asphalt. I decided instantly that this would be a bad thing, and unless I wanted to see whether a turtle could race a Jaguar, it was up to me to do something.

I ran to the back of my place and grabbed the kiddie pool that had been sitting there since last Independence Day, when a few friends and I had a white trash 4th of July –- sitting in the kiddie pool on my small patch of crabgrass, grilling anything and everything that came within arm’s reach of the hibachi as the empty beer cans floated around our ankles in the plastic pool. I dragged the kiddie pool back to that same spot of now dead crabgrass and put a little water into it. Then I headed back inside, retrieving a head of Romaine before finally approaching the turtle.

He was big –- not quite Gamera big –- but real big nonetheless, nearly the size and shape of a toilet bowl seat. I could tell he’d been around the block a few times, but I still didn’t want to see him get squashed. There were also the neighbors to consider, especially the ones who bred pet chickens that were mysteriously replaced every few months. I wasn’t certain that their menu could be restricted exclusively to their own pets, and the neighbors weren’t getting my turtle for next week’s turtle soup.

So, using one scrunched up piece of lettuce at a time, I lured the turtle across my yard and toward the kiddie pool. His head, about the size of a child’s fist, protruded from his gnarled shell as he snapped at the Romaine. It took nearly the entire head of lettuce to get him close enough to the pool before I felt confident enough to scoop him up and drop him in.

I rewarded him with the rest of the Romaine and moved in for a closer inspection. This is when I noticed the small, metallic sticker towards his rear that read “CA F&G.” California Fish & Game. Somebody knew this turtle.

I went inside to call Fish & Game but since it was Sunday, I got no answer. Then I called the ASPCA and explained the situation. They informed me that they were short-handed but that they would get someone out to me as soon as possible. I gave them my address, then I went back outside to hang with my turtle.

Apparently, this was a free-range turtle and he didn’t care much for being cooped up in my kiddie pool. He started moving in a circle around the inside perimeter of the pool. Every so often he’d pause, raise his right flipperish claw up the side of the slippery plastic wall and then carefully try and pull himself up with his left, causing him to slide straight back down into the pool. I decided to name my turtle Sisyphus.

Hours went by as I turtle-sat and Sisyphus churned butter in the kiddie pool. I made another call to the ASPCA, but they didn’t pick up this time. In mid-afternoon, my friend Steve called to see if I wanted to see a movie with him that evening. I explained that I was waiting for Animal Control to come rescue a turtle I had found but if night fell and they hadn’t shown, I would need a plan B, so I accepted the movie invite.

I was still sitting vigil outside Sisyphus’ pool as day turned to dusk and Steve finally arrived. He looked into the kiddie pool and did a triple take.

"I was expecting a turtle," he said, holding his hands about grapefruit-size apart, "not a TURTLE!"

As Steve stared, goggle-eyed, at my monstrous Sisyphus, I told him that it appeared as if the ASPCA had better things to do than come rescue my new friend. I left Steve to watch Sisyphus do his heart-breaking laps around the pool as I ducked inside my apartment, returning moments later with my cat’s carrying cage and a plan. The movie was in Westwood, and I knew we were going to take Pico heading west. I directed Steve to drive to the Fox Hills golf course across from the studio. Reasoning that the grass, water holes and sand traps were a far better option than the cement, traffic and hungry neighbors in my ‘hood, this oasis was to be Sisyphus’ new digs. Steve agreed that my relocation plan seemed sound.

Getting Sisyphus into the soft pet carry bag had been easy –- I just shoved him in -- but getting him back out was more than a little frightening. It was dark on the golf course, and I couldn’t tell which direction Sisyphus was facing. I was wary of where I put my fingers, remembering clearly the turtle’s snapping jaws as he devoured the lettuce. Maybe Sisyphus knew the one about the tortoise and the hare, but did he know not to bite the hands that feed?

Sweating bullets, I finally got Sisyphus out of the bag and onto the lush, green grass. I’d like to say he looked back over his shell and winked his thankful goodbye, but that would certainly be writer’s embellishment. After a moment, Sisyphus began to trudge toward a line of trees. Mission accomplished, Steve and I headed back to the car and then the movie theatre.

End of story, right? Not so fast.

Two days later, my girlfriend called me while I was still at work, to tell me about the “HAVE YOU SEEN OUR TURTLE?” flyer she'd found on the doorstep of my house. We’d been telling the turtle story for the past few days and maybe one of my friends wanted a laugh at our expense, she reasoned. But when I arrived at home, I spied the very same green flyer (complete with photo of Sisyphus) on all my neighbors’ doors. If this was a prank –- and I now seriously doubted my friends’ commitment to such a hoax –- it was a good one.

Well, what else could I do but phone the number on the flyer? I didn’t quite have good news, but at the very least my call would give Sisyphus’ owner closure.

A woman answered and, choosing my words carefully, I told her I had some good news and some bad news. “Yes, I have seen your turtle,” I informed her, “but I set him free at the Fox Hills golf course.”

She seemed a little angry, but I shut her right up by telling her that at least I'd saved her beloved pet from getting run over. However, I didn’t inform her about the pet chicken-eating neighbors –- why worry her unnecessarily? She calmed down and asked where exactly I had released her turtle. I told her, she thanked me and we hung up the phones.

Now, that’s really the end of the story, right? You’d think so, you’d really think so. But about two weeks later, I heard a commotion at my next door neighbor's -- a commotion that involved the magic word “turtle.” I raced outside to find Nick and Cathy in their little parking garage. Nick was backing out the sports car he'd been refinishing for as long as I had known him and had spotted something unusual in the corner of the garage. I ambled over, looked in the corner, and nodded.

Sisyphus was just sitting still, his nose stuck in the corner as if he was being punished. “I know that turtle,” I said.

I darted inside and retrieved the “HAVE YOU SEEN OUR TURTLE?” flyer, which I had added to a small collection of odd “missing” item flyers, including one that had a picture of a small coffin and another that featured a child’s sketch of his lost bunny-- adorable, yet useless for identification purposes.

I watched as Nick called the number on the flyer and was abruptly hung up on. “What the hell?” I asked, but Nick said that the turtle owner had thought it was a joke. I guess they received more than a few prank calls from the flyer. I asked for the phone and hit redial.

“Hey, yeah...I found your turtle AGAIN,” I said. The “again” must have resonated because this time, the guy didn’t hang up. I told him that I was the same guy who had found his turtle and let him go at the golf course. He asked me for Nick's address and said he’d be right over.

Within two minutes, this guy came walking up the driveway. He was in his mid-to-late twenties, working that “I just woke up” Hollywood hipster look. I wanted to take up a collection to buy him a belt. Sisyphus was still assuming the position in the dark corner of the garage, and I just had to know.

“How’d you find him at that huge golf course?” I asked.

The guy laughed. “The groundskeeper found him. Brought the turtle home for his kids.” Of course, when Sisyphus’ rightful owners had showed up to claim him, the groundskeeper had to hand him over.

I told the guy that he should keep a better watch on his pet, that he couldn’t expect Sisyphus to keep showing up where I could find him. He told me that the last time, the turtle had escaped while a friend was pet-sitting him, but this time...“Hey, I just don’t know how he keeps getting out.” He scratched his matted 'do to emphasize his astonishment.

Conversation exhausted, the hipster went into the garage and scooped up Sisyphus, tucking the turtle under his arm not unlike a running back with the pigskin and walking back towards whence he came. I looked for the “How to Serve Turtle” cookbook in his back pocket, but, fortunately, it wasn’t there.

Sisyphus was gone, and if he ever did escape again, he didn't find his way to me. I guess a turtle can only stick his neck out so far before people start to notice.