Bert (standard:humor, 2236 words)
Author: GXD	Added: Nov 12 2008	Views/Reads: 3159/1984	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Slug: A land-roving, air-breathing snail-like mollusk without a shell, but with a distinct head bearing sensory organs (feelers). Herbivore or carnivore? Poor Bert!

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

garden, right?" 

Now I understood.  He didn't know.  I couldn't hurt his feelings by
telling him. 

"I can't tell you how glad that makes me," I lied, "unless you drive
them over into my garden." 

"You got something against slugs?" 

"I've got enough slugs of my own, thanks." 

"So that's it! You've been sending your slugs to harass me.  Fine friend
you turned out to be!" 

"Bert", I pleaded, "I'm not your enemy.  I only asked you about the
slugs. Forgive me." 

He grunted and was silent for so long, I assumed that his blood pressure
was back to normal.  Maybe he really ought to know. 

"Maybe you really ought to know," I began, "that not one of those slugs
you impaled will be there by tomorrow morning." 

Bert shook his head.  I realized he took it as bad news.  "Why not?", he
snapped. 

I broke it to him gently.  "For one thing, slugs aren't vegetarians by
choice. They are carnivores, like lions and tigers. They eat meat, if 
they can, in preference to cabbages." 

Bert took the news like a man.  I watched his eyes roll around in their
sockets, slowly, from left to right.  His pupils grew very large, and 
the deep creases in his cheeks smoothed out a little as his muscles 
relaxed. We sipped our coffee for a minute or so. 

"You mean, I've been feeding treats to the other slugs?, he asked
rhetorically. "How could I do something so stupid?" 

"Well," I replied, "It may not be stupid at all. If you count the holes
in your cabbages, you might be surprised." 

His face took on a puzzled look. 

"You see," I continued, "While those hungry slugs are feasting on their
immediate family, they're too busy to waste time on your cabbages.  
You'll never get rid of them.  As long as they have meat to eat, they 
won't bother your vegetables.  Soft, tender, tasty meat -- not like the 
high-cholesterol dog-food you feed Fido here." 

"Oh, Migod!" he groaned, "What have I done?  Once the word gets out,
slugs will be coming here from all over the neighborhood!" 

"Have you tried scattering moth balls?" I suggested.  "It's a lot less
work then bending down and driving nails into your fence."  I wasn't 
being patronizing.  Sometimes old men just forget simple things like 
that. 

"That's not what has me worried," he whispered in a quavering voice, and
finished off his coffee.  I waited for him to go on, but he got up and 
shuffled into the other room.  He was gone so long, I finally let 
myself out and went to get a newspaper. 

Later that night, I went back over to Bert's to see what was happening. 
The World Union of Garden Slugs was having its political convention.  
Slugs of every persuasion were crawling six-deep all over Bert's 
garden, and beginning to spill over onto mine. 

"Hey, Bert!" I called, "You got a bulldozer in there?  Blaze me a path
up to your door, will you?"  The silence was deafening, except for the 
eerie mewling of the slugs. 

I looked down on the slowly squirming sea, and stepped back a pace.
Maybe it was time to get the sheriff or the fire department with their 
water hoses.  In the dim light, I couldn't see whether or not Bert's 
cabbages were sticking up above the slugs.  The smell was too much for 
me. I turned back to my house. 

About twenty minutes later, a State Agricultural Service truck pulled up
outside and a shapely blonde lady dressed in overalls and rubber boots 
and toting a briefcase stepped onto my porch.  I welcomed her and 
offered to share my cider.  Her name, it turned out, was Ruby, which 
seemed to match her ruddy face. 

I outlined the situation for her, then we went over to Bert's.  By this
time, the slugs were halfway across my yard.  They were plastered to 
the lower walls of Bert's house, up past the windowsills.  Some had 
slithered as far up as the rain gutters.  Slugs seemed to have no 
problem traveling upside down along the underside of the eaves.  There 
was only one way to rescue Bert.  She glanced back at me and stepped 
into Slug Lake with her big boots. 

The squishing and squealing were unbearable.  I ran for home and
telephoned the emergency number.  "Send a helicopter," I shouted, "and 
bring axes.  There's a man trapped in the house."  I forgot all about 
Ruby. 

Minutes later, two helicopters showed up, just as the fire engines came
around the corner.  Police cars closed in on us from all sides.  
Neighbors came out into their yards.  Kids on bicycles began to cluster 
beneath the street lamps.  One man came up with a shotgun.  
Slicker-clad rescuers began to squeamishly wade their way toward Bert's 
front door.  You can imagine their consternation when Ruby stepped out 
of it, toting the fragile old man in her arms.  The firemen parted the 
slug sea with a few blasts from their hoses and she crossed it on solid 
ground, right to the ambulance. 

People from the Health Department and the EPA and the Department of
Agriculture were tromping around Bert's house with flashlights till 
four in the morning.  The slugs didn't seem to mind a bit.  In fact, it 
began to worry me when I saw the slug pond on my lawn beginning the 
climb up my back stairs.  I was just about ready to pack for an 
unplanned vacation, when the landlord appeared with some firemen. 

"Out, out," he said, "we're evacuating everyone." 

"Somewhere, I've seen this movie," I replied. 

"Just say to yourself, 'This isn't a movie, this isn't a movie' and
maybe it will go away.  Now get the hell outta here!" 

The firelady was a lot gentler.  I didn't really need a blanket but she
saw that I got one anyway.  It wasn't all that cold inside the old 
armory, but my cot was kind of saggy.  However, I ran into a couple of 
old friends.  We had a lot to talk about.  Every few hours we'd get up 
for a snack, or maybe grab a nap.  Before long, a military-looking man 
came and got Ed for an exit interview.  At least, that's what he said. 

Pretty soon, I was called in to tell all I knew about the snails.  You
can imagine the reaction when I painted this picture of Bert crucifying 
them slugs. 

"Don't get the idea I'm crazy," I warned him, "You can ask Bert." 

"We did.  We thought he fell off his rocker." 

"Tell me, did they get to him?" 

"A few welts, that's all.  His nerves are shot, though.  He'll be in bed
for a week, at least." 

I breathed a sigh of relief, but he wouldn't let me go home.  "We're
keeping you under observation," he explained.  "Aliens, you know, stuff 
like that." 

"Me, an alien?  I was born in Brooklyn!" 

"No kidding, my aunt Martha lives in Brooklyn.  Near Flatbush Avenue." 

The interview degenerated into a personal investigation of my most
sensitive childhood memories.  In the silences between bouts of 
questions, I heard the dim echo of my landlord's voice, 

"This isn't a movie, this isn't a movie!" 

I guess that's when I started cracking up.  They made me comfortable and
fed me well enough, I guess, in a suite on the fourteenth floor of a 
hotel downtown.  I walked a mile every morning around the roof garden. 
Someone was with me day and night.  Ruby came to visit once, and we 
spent a mighty pleasant afternoon, you better believe it! 

The days and nights flipped over briskly -- they never let me get bored.
 I couldn't write or telephone anyone, but they kept me busy with books 
and newspapers, video movies, always asking questions, studying my 
reactions, waiting for me to turn into the King of Slugs. 

Of course, it didn't happen that way, at all. 

They kept Bert in quarantine for nearly a year, then took me downtown to
celebrate his release.  It was obvious at first sight: he hadn't 
changed!  I met him just coming out of his room, wearing a red-and-gold 
hospital robe.  The hospital terrace was just up the stairs. 

Bert shuffled to the terrace and stumbled on the first step; I took his
arm and lifted him, so he could take the steps a little easier.  We 
settled at a table shaded by a beach umbrella.  Bert was so winded, I 
had to go get a couple of cups of coffee while he recovered his breath. 
No, good old Bert hadn't changed at all! 

I had the waiter put a shot of bourbon in Bert's coffee, to loosen up
his tongue a little.  He probably didn't feel like talking a whole lot 
after a year of solitary confinement. 

Once again, I was wrong.  After a couple of sips, he started talking a
blue streak. 

"Remember what I told you about the tomato worms?" 

"How could I forget?" 

"Well, don't tell anyone, but I think that's how they are going to do
it! 

"You don't mean ..." my gorge rose as I envisioned a blenderful of
slugs. 

He went on and on.  "You're the only one I can trust," and "Why didn't
you tell me that's how they multiply, by feeding on dead slugs."  No, 
it was obvious that Bert hadn't changed a bit.  He reached into his 
bathrobe pocket and pulled out his weapon: 

"They even gave me back my nailing gun!" 

I stared in disbelief. 

"Oh, by the way," he asked me, "Whatever happened to the slugs?" 

* * * * * Written for Heather Nelson and Doug Johnson of Seattle,
September 17, 1990. 

Seattle, November 10, 2008 - Gerald X. Diamond  - All rights reserved


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