"Hello, Clarice."

I snapped into full-conscious mode, speaking as if I were blinking at a talking sloth.

"Dr. Jorgash? Is that you, Dr. Jorgash?"

"I trust you found the letter amusing. I do hope so."

"Ah...well, you know how it goes." All it had said was 'nada' after I'd inquired about whether or not the mythical grant decision had been reached.

His reply stretched like taffy. "Do I? Do I, indeed? How thoughtful of you to have made up my mind for me."

"Well I hadn't quite meant it that way, Doctor, I, well I mean-"

"Yes, you know how it goes. Tell me, Clarice, have you ever visited Kenya? Felt the warmth of sand-blasted air scrap the back of your neck red?"

"Never had the pleasure, no.."

"A pity. If you'd just walked out into the countryside at dusk, you might have found someone who might know how it goes. The male African field mouse lives for a single year, at the end of which its testicles distend to the size of walnuts. For the next 72 hours it galvanizes every female it can find, breeding, cavorting, never sleeping, never stopping. Finally its heart explodes from sexual stress and orgasm."

I didn't know whether to be turned on or puzzled.

"...That's a hell of a way to go," I chuckled.

"And you can only dream of getting out, getting anywhere, thrusting onward. You're sooo ambitious, aren't you? Never stopping. But then how swollen up are you inside? How eager are you to get started, Clarice?"

I choked.

"Well, ah, just call me a field mouse, sir."

"Witless, but adequate. Soon, on Christmas Day, I will be in the Hilton on 16th street in the town of Santa Monica. I want you to meet me for an interview at 12:15 pm. I will be in the lobby. You will not be late."

"Ok...Hilton...12:15, lobby...right. I hope I can make a good impression."

"Don't worry, you had me at 'Dr. Jorgash'. Good day."

Click.

At least, that would have been a much more dramatic recreation of the subsequent two sentence email he sent about an interview.

previous - next