Celebratory Snack

A woman had just come through the revolving door and was confronted with “the Turtle Problem”. She caught the attention of a nearby teller, who noticed the predicament she was in and rushed to her aid. “I am rushing to your aid!” he said. He said it just like that, too. Just like that. 

The turtle was moving along at a – well, at a turtle’s pace – and for some reason it was wearing a beret. The little red beret was about the size of a thimble and was perched precariously on the right side of the green amphibian’s head. However, just because it was wearing a beret, neither the woman or the teller wanted to rush to conclusions and assume it was French. 

“Is this some sort of elaborate prank?” the woman asked. She did not know who exactly to ask – the teller, the turtle, or some mysterious personage hiding in the shadows – so she just said it openly, so that the question would reach everyone’s ears. 

“Ma’am, I assure you,” the teller said, looking from her eyes to the almost stationary turtle, and then back to her eyes. “We don’t exactly have spare time to lollygag and attempt ridiculous and juvenile pranks. We happen to run a business here.”

One of the other tellers had noticed what was going on, perceiving keenly that people were forced to come and go from the other side door, and joined the other teller near the blocked entrance. “Just pick it up, for heaven’s sake!” he said. “This is causing an unnecessary scene.” 

The original teller nodded and bent down to pick up the turtle. Just as he was getting his hands around both sides of the shell, he heard a loud hissing and immediately released his hold. 

“What the blazes was that?” 

“It hissed at you!” the woman shouted. 

“So that was definitely from the turtle then,” the teller confirmed, looking at the both of them for any sign of assurance. By this point a sizable crowd had gathered around the blocked entrance in either fascination or annoyance. “I didn’t know turtles could hiss like that. Can they bite?”

“Of course they can bite,” the woman responded. “Haven’t you ever heard of a snapping turtle?”

“Oh, this is just beyond the pale,” the other teller said. “Here, stand aside. Let me do it.” 

He stepped in front of the original teller and bent down himself. He grabbed the turtle on either side of the shell and heard the hissing. He managed to lift the turtle a few feet off the ground until he unceremoniously dropped it again and started howling, grabbing hold of his left hand and proceeding to suck on all the fingers minus the pinky. 

“Ow! Ow ow ow, it got me!” 

“What were we just saying before?” the woman said. “Turtles can bite!”

“Oh, this is just so beyond the pale,” the second teller repeated, but no annoyance or pride he had before could keep him from going back to sucking the four fingers on his left hand. 

It was at that moment that a tinier man with a thick red mustache and a crimson suit popped out from among the throng and barked, “What’s the meaning of this? What is going on?”

The teller who had been bitten by the turtle looked around in frustration and said, “This thing bit me!”

“I’m surprised and disappointed at your performance, Wellesley!” the tiny man in the crimson suit said. “I would have thought that by now you would have this taken care of, and swiftly. Duston here I can see, but not someone of your caliber and salary. We will be having a talk about this in my office. Now everyone step aside and let the real men deal with this.” 

The manager bent down as the other tellers had done and grabbed the turtle by the shell. Amazingly through this whole process, the beret had stayed firmly on the turtle’s head. He raised the turtle up to eye level, holding him as one would a piece of garbage, and said, “See! There we are. Problem averted. Now everyone step aside and clear the doorway before…”

Whatever the turtle lacked in mobility seemed to be made up for by its snapping prowess. In the next instant the manager had dropped the turtle to the ground (the turtle still managing to keep its beret on) and the manager also begin sucking a few of the fingers on his left hand. “Ow ow ow, that hurt!” 

“I was trying to tell you, Mr. Sunderland!” Wellesley insisted. “It’s not so easy as it first appears. That thing has a bite to it.”

Three more attempts from a teller and two customers met similar results. Some of the customers resigned themselves to the other doorway and the crowd began thinning. Even the woman who had first held the door open and discovered the problem with the turtle finally moved away to join one of the queues. 

At this point an even smaller man, much older and wearing a night blue suit, stepped into the thinning crowd and barked, “What’s the meaning of all this? Sunderland, could you fill me in on exactly what is happening here?” 

“It’s this turtle, sir,” the man in the crimson suit said exasperatedly, trying as best he could to keep his composure. “It refuses to move, and we’ve tried everything.” 

“Really, you’ve tried everything?” the old man in the blue suit said. The crow’s feet underneath his eyes seemed to make his countenance that much scarier in an otherwise silly situation. “I find that hard to believe. Especially because the damn thing is wearing a hat. Come on, now. Are we a bank or are we a circus?” 

“Please, Mr. Stafford, you have to understand,” the manager in the crimson suit said, trying to stop him.

“Understand?” Mr. Stafford howled. “Bah, there’s nothing more to understand here! Just a couple of ninnies afraid of one of the most harmless creatures on the face of the earth. I will see all of you in my office forthwith. Now step aside.” 

Mr. Sunderland was beginning to say “You’ll hurt your back,” but the way his superior glared at him stopped the man in his tracks. It was a slower and more laborious process, but Mr. Stafford eventually managed to bend his legs enough and hunch over so that he could eventually meet the turtle at its level and get his hands on the shell. But before he could even begin to lift the turtle off the ground, there was a snapping sound and he doubled over onto his side. “Ah!” the man howled. “My back! My back’s gone. Somebody call the hospital!”

Mr. Sunderland glared at the turtle, then at Wellesley and Duston, and finally rushed off to locate the closest telephone. At this point, the crowd size began to grow as people wanted to gawk at both the turtle in the funny beret and the howling arthritic lead manager of the bank who was curled up into a pretzel on the ground floor. 

The situation stayed like that until the paramedics arrived, which was an impressive six minutes. 

“We need to remove the turtle so we can have enough space for the gurney,” one of the paramedics said. 

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” Duston said. 

“Step back, sir,” said another paramedic, and reached down to scoop up the turtle. He howled and grabbed his hand, and the other three paramedics followed suit in trying to grab hold of and move the turtle. Each one eventually dropped the turtle, howled, and grabbed their hands in pain. 

As Mr. Stafford continued to moan on the floor, the lead paramedic gathered himself together and said, “Come on team, we’ve got to fight through the pain. Let’s find a way to scoot this gentleman over to the side.”

The paramedics each placed a foot around Mr. Stafford’s frame and began scooting him to the side away from the revolving door, as if they were moving a moldy sack of potatoes or a heavy piece of luggage. 

“We’re sorry, sir,” one of the paramedics said. “This is the only we’re going to be able to do this.”

Mr. Stafford continued to moan and said, “Just get it over with. Get it over with! Get me on the gurney!” 

Because the paramedics’ hands were hurting so badly, they nearly dropped Mr. Stafford once they got him onto the gurney. 

“What are you loonies doing?” Mr. Stafford shouted. “Do you have any idea who I am? Do you all understand how liable you are?” 

“We’ve got you, sir,” one of them said uncertainly. 

The turtle remained situated in its spot, watching the whole debacle enfold as they carried him away on the gurney and placed the miserable old man into their vehicle. 

“Do you think we’ll still have to meet him in his office?” Duston asked Mr. Wellesley, apparently half-joking. 

Mr. Sunderland’s face grew beet red at the mention of this. The manager turned on his heels and said, “You both. In my office, this instant.”

“But what do we about the turtle?” Mr. Wellesley asked. 

“I’ll tell you what we do about the turtle,” Mr. Sunderland said. He marched off in the direction of the telephones in the back room and came back armed with two yellow hazard signs, carrying one underneath each arm. 

“We’re leaving the stupid turtle to its own devices and carrying on with our duties,” he said. 

“We’re letting the turtle win?” Duston asked incredulously. 

“If we carry on like this, we’re all going to go off our rockers, and then the turtle will really win,” Mr. Sunderland said, sounding slightly manic. “We’re leaving it. End of story. Each of you take one of these signs and prop it up, one at either end.”

Mr. Sunderland turned to what was left of the crowd around the revolving door and said, “Please, ladies and gentlemen, go about your business. There’s nothing more to see here.” Most of the crowd dispersed, and to the few clinging onlookers Mr. Sunderland said, “Really, I mean it now, people. Move it or lose it. Be about your business or be on your way, please.”

The manager watched the last straggler head to the other doorway and then turned to Duston and Wellesley. “You two, follow me.”

Duston and Wellesley looked down at the ground like ashamed schoolboys being caught in the act, and followed Mr. Sunderland to one of the back rooms. 

The turtle remained in that spot by the revolving doors for the remainder of the day. One yellow sign propped up on the outside street near the doors, and the other yellow sign propped up inside. “Closed Due to Maintenance.”

The security guard on graveyard shift had been updated on the day’s events and planned accordingly. The revolving doors had been emergency locked in place. The bottom line: “Don’t try to move the turtle.”

Things seemed to go accordingly until about 2:00 that morning. The security guard was returning to the front desk after one of his rounds and found that a small part of his turkey and Swiss sandwich was missing, with small bite marks at the end. Upon closer inspection he discovered the turtle resting on part of the desk next to a cash register. The turtle was still wearing his funny little red beret and gulping down a piece of lettuce. 

“Celebratory snack, huh?” the security guard remarked. 

The turtle just stared at him, methodically chewing the rest of the lettuce in its mouth. Staring as if to say, ‘Don’t come too close, pal.’