I’d heard rumors: Geckos were invading. All over campus, little geckos. Hiding in crevices, under rocks, in your bed. I needed to find one. So one evening, I grabbed my trusty headlamp (next to the lube) and started hunting. With the exception of a half-retarded possum I found nothing.
On a side note, you may be wondering how I knew the possum suffers from trisomy. Well, I know animals aren’t rocket scientists, but I’m pretty sure when you peek around a small pole, I’m still going to be there. Don’t be so shocked. And if you fall for it the first time, don’t return to the original side and freak out again. Blows your little fuckin marsupial mind, doesn’t it?
Anyway, a few days later, I try again, with no luck. So I go, dejected, to pay my friend a visit. As I’m walking up the stairwell to his floor, I happen to peak out the small window, where I am confronted by the underside and cloacae (that’s the combined vagina and asshole, for you laymen) of my desired quarry. I dash back to my room for a camera, but I need not have bothered. The lazy slut didn’t move an inch. So I snap some photos, then go around to the outside and try to scale the building. Clearly I am not a gecko. This plan was rather half-baked. I managed to haul myself onto the window ledge, and the little asshole scampered away. Just then, an underclassmen trudges up the stairs. We lock eyes through the glass. He mouthed what appeared to be “shut the truck?”, and walked off.
Satiated for the moment, I give up my quest. A few days pass. I go to town for a late dinner, and nonchalantly stroll through my door. I discover to my horror a small gecko poised above my bed, ready to strike. Thank god I saw it first. Instead, I grab the first convenient object I find, a shoebox, and catch the gallivanting varmint.
I need a way to seal my catch. I grab something else, a thick manila envelope stuffed with my bathroom reading (the orientation bullshit). I jam it between the wall and the box, and I know he’s mine.
With clever thinking, I grab a plastic bag, and stretch it over the opening. A window, if you will. Of course, I leave some airspace so it can breath. Then I pull away the manila shield.
It’s resting, quite calmly, on the inside wall of the box. I peel back the plastic, and take a quick photo. The bright flash startles… no wait, it doesn’t move. I take away the plastic. It stands still. I poke it. It doesn’t move. Just then, I notice the small streak of blood. My gecko is dead.
The neck is dark with blood and crooked at a weird angle. I must’ve accidentally broken its neck with the thick folder. Atleast it was a quick and likely painful end. A small tinge of guilt runs through me; I’m not the animal-maiming sadist people think I am. But I wont let it go completely to waste. These are close-ups I wont be able to get again.
Gingerly, I grab its tail, and try to pull it off the side. Like any good gecko, it’s stuck even after death. So I yank harder to release its legs from the box’s grasp. The monster twitches. Fearing the sudden rise of the living dead, I quickly drop it. It makes a perfect land on one of the box flaps, its head peaking over the edge in a freakishly natural pose. Except for its dead tongue lolling out of its mouth.
A few photos later, it’s time to say goodbye. I simply close the box lid, and carry it away. My neighbor, who came in to witness the funeral, asked me if I had any words. I said simply, “I’m sorry.”
But I wasn’t. I’m a biologist, but I’m not a hippie. My entire summer job consisted of gassing innocent moths. You’d think as a Jew, I’d know better. There was some guilt, sure, but the pleasure of having unprecedented close views of a creature that would normally scamper away at the first sight of me far outweighs any guilt. This is why I choose plastic over paper and take long luxurious showers. I’m not a fucking hippie, I’m a biologist. I don’t do it for the world, I do it for myself.
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