For the past four days I've been observing the antics of a lizard who's taken up residence on a Venetian blind in front of my face. Antics-wise, lizards are less amusing than other household pests, but grossness wise they're far superior. at least to me. In fact, I'm usually happy to see a lizard, partly because I assume he's going to eat whatever other pests are nearby. My tolerance for bugs, reptiles and others assorted animals tends to operate on the following scale:
Eats flies: +5 points
Eats mosquitoes: +7 points
Eats ants: +10 points
Eats cockroaches: +50 points
Eats rats: +100 points
Eats humans, including me: - 500 points
Eats humans, excluding me: +100 million points
The window in front of my desk (on which my computer sits) is made up of one very tall window, screened by Venetian blinds. The lizard appeared on one of these vertical blinds, right at my eye level, about three days ago. He's about five inches long and green. I was afraid that he was going to crawl into my purse or other belongings. I did not have to worry. Once I realized that he didn't move - ever - I became weirdly fascinated. In fact, suffice it to say that throughout my 8-10 hour workday, the only animate object in my office that stayed as firmly planted as the lizard was me.
At night, when I left, he'd be hanging out on the blind. In the morning, when I came in, he'd be hanging out on the blind, in the same spot. He never moved. What did he eat? How did he sleep? These were all mysteries to me.
But then, today, the lizard disappeared. I thought perhaps he'd been lured away by a particularly juicy fly, but then I noticed that no, he was still there, but on the opposite side of the glass.
How did that happen? The window doesn't open. Did the lizard teleport? And if so, did I just observe a scientific miracle? More importantly, did I just observe breaking news? I could write this story. An exclusive: "Solid glasss no barrier for teleporting lizard discovered in newspaper office building." First line: "Decades after Captain Kirk first said 'beam me up, Scotty' , a creature viewed by many as a household pest has cracked the mystery of the space-time continuum..."
My habit of arriving at the office obscenely early (before lunchtime) would suddenly seem like prescience.
I'd have to take a few weeks off work, probably, since the TV channels would swarm my desk in order to get footage of the teleporting lizard. But I could do that.
There would, of course, be pressure for a follow-up story. "We should own this," the editors would say, and I'd be sent off on exotic quests to find other teleporting animals. The cafe, the elevator, the Maldives...my own show for Travel & Living...maybe even a YouTube channel, a Facebook page and a Twitter account....
I took to Wikipedia to discover what type of lizard I had. It turns out, not all lizards are equals. For example, "Only the very largest lizard species pose threat of death; the Komodo dragon, for example, has been known to stalk, attack, and, on occasion, kill humans."
Stalk and kill, eh? That sounds awfully premeditated. Like the news reports of cows that sneak up on people and murder them from behind.
Of course, the next thing Wikipedia has to say is, "Numerous species of lizard are kept as pets," (which, in light of the previous sentences, suddenly seems like a fraught idea. But who am I to judge?)
Unfortunately, the magical lizard has teleported himself somewhere far away, and observing his now-empty spot on the blind, I'm overcome by a feeling of sadness. Maybe I won't spill the lizard's secret after all. It must be nice to teleport - it has long been the superpower I would choose, given a choice. Instead of reporting on the lizard, maybe I could convince him to share his method. And then I could also teleport myself somewhere. Anywhere.
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