Five-Second Rule

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The Interloper

Steve lived in a small cabin about two miles from his Oklahoma town; he walked in to work his dishwashing shift at Irene's Diner every day. He had happened upon Irene's Diner one day when his van was making a terrible noise, and got the job; soon after that, he'd found this cabin that was in an isolated glade, the landlord more or less permanently out of town. It was a great situation, but he was right about the van, it was some kind of transmission thing, and would take more than a couple of paychecks if it was even worth fixing. He had plenty of time to brood about it, out in his cabin, as fall settled on this beautiful part of Oklahoma.

The trouble was, some raccoon was settling in directly under his bedroom; he heard it, for about a week, then saw it one early morning on his way out the door to walk to work. He knew what it was up to; winter was coming, it was going to have babies, come spring, if it was comfortable. Steve hatched a plan to make sure that didn't happen. Friday morning, he prepared a tent, sleeping bag and camping supplies to take with him to work. Before he left home, he found an old AC/DC cd that his roommate had given him; he had a stereo that would play it in a continuous loop. He jammed the speakers into the air ducts so the music would rattle in the pipes and go directly under the bedroom where the raccoon was trying to set up house. He turned the music on, turned the volume up loud, walked out the door and went to work. AC/DC was a raunchy, grating kind of hard rock, was how his friend described it, though Steve agreed with the raunchy and grating part more than the hard rock part. Steve didn't especially like the music, but it didn't matter; he'd be gone all weekend. 

Nevertheless, it kind of stuck in his head as he walked to work; it did have a catchy element to it.

At work it was a rough shift, being Friday and all, and everyone teased him about the tent and sleeping bag which he'd stored in the corner. In this town you couldn't grow a single hair without everyone noticing it, but that's the way it was, he was still kind of enjoying the place in spite of everything. Instead of camping that night he ended up at a work friend's house where they were sitting around on old overstuffed couches and had no problem with him just staying there, as long as he wanted, whatever. The place had the smell of stale beer and cigarettes and had people coming and going more or less all Friday night, drinking a bit, listening to music. Steve's impression was that, although many of their friends tended to excess, drugs or alcohol, these particular people were pretty mild, and would do little more than drink a few beers that night.

At one point they put on a band called Cross Canadian Ragweed, an Oklahoma band that, as far as Steve could tell, was a kind of modern AC/DC, a bit raunchy, but not bad. One friend told the story of how, down in Big D, which was what they called Dallas, they were supposed to get a hotel room, but this particular band had just moved out of the room they were set to occupy, and it took the hotel seven hours to restore it to the point where they could re-rent it. The story teller had gotten a discount, he said, because he'd been waylaid for seven hours before he could get his room.

In the morning Steve was glad to get out of the friend's house, and get out into the fresh air, which was his original intention, but first he went back to Irene's to get a stack of pancakes and talk to all the regulars. When he finally got to going out to the park to pitch his tent, it was the middle of the afternoon, and finally, he made a campfire and had a pretty decent dinner as the sun fell, way back in the back of the state park where he'd be left alone. The countryside had a peaceful feeling to it; he seemed to have the park to himself, though there were clearly deer around. It occurred to him, he didn't really know Oklahoma; he'd never know who lived here first, what had happened, why it was the way it was today. The sound of animals in the forest crept in on him a little; his food was well protected, strung up in a tree where nothing could get it. Folks had teased him in town for camping; they couldn't grasp the concept. But Steve had camped hundreds of times. Nothing was more comfortable to him. The sun set, and he slept deeply.

The following day, Sunday, he went back to his cabin to check on the raccoon situation. The music was still on, loud, the speakers now facing the center of the place. The cabin was a mess, though, trashed out; it appeared that someone had broken in. Toilet paper was all over the place.  Pots and pans and papers were strewn all about. He quickly looked for his prized possessions, his money, his passport, his inlaid-pearl harmonica, and they were all there, untouched; that was odd. His guitar was scratched up, though, strings broken, gauges in the polished wood. He looked at it quizzically: why not just steal it? Then it occurred to him: it was the raccoon. The raccoon had popped the speakers out of the heating ducts, come up into the house, and trashed the place completely, but was still unable to turn off the music.  And had finally left, as far as Steve could tell.

It took him hours to clean the place back up,  and for days, he listened for signs of the raccoon under his house, but heard nothing. As far as he could tell, he had that cabin to himself again. His plan had worked, and he didn't have to kill anything, though his guitar would carry the scars forever.