“It’s
ending,” whispered Mr. Callahan.
“What
is?” inquired Mr. Smyth.
“Our
lives.”
“Well
you’re the pessimistic one today,” Mr. Smyth scoffed.
“No,
just honest.”
“As
honest as a thief.”
“Right. So pretty honest.” Mr. Callahan was not being dull with
this statement; as a thief, he simply could not see the error in his ways. A burglar recognizing the true,
despicable nature of robbery would be like a chameleon understanding that its
own skin was changing and not the environment around it.
“I
think we only have one room left to inspect,” said Mr. Smyth, “Then we will
have to choose which items we will take as our own.”
“That’s
an eloquent way to say stealing.”
“I
try my hardest.”
“That’s
admirable. Most people in this
world seem to be content with just scraping by.”
“And
I prefer to leave the scraping to those people. I would much prefer bruises to scrapes.”
“Why
is that, may I ask?”
“Bruises
mean business, while scrapes are just pesky. Scrapes make their presence known just enough so that you
can never forget them, but they never disrupt your daily routine. Bruises, on the other hand, are ugly
and mean, and they demand your full attention.”
“Fitting.”
“Why
thank you.” Mr. Smyth turned away
from his partner and headed down the hall.
“What’s
the final room?” asked Mr. Callahan.
“I’m
not sure of its nature, but whatever purpose the space serves, it is behind
this last door.” With a mighty
flourish, Mr. Smyth opened the darkly stained wooden door wide and stepped
inside.
There
was nothing.
“We’ve
come all this way for nothing?
This is supposed to be the end, the grand finale, the big finish, but
there is nothing here. Not one
iota of possessions, not a hint of furniture, no hidden artwork, an utter and
complete lack of tchotchkes.
Nothing. What a let down.”
“I
think yours is a widely felt sentiment,” said Mr. Callahan. He said this, but it was not fully
heartfelt. After all, Mr. Callahan
had his dirty, old book that he had stolen back in the first room, so he did
not feel as let down as did his partner.
“What
kind of person owns a mansion, fills all the rooms with a myriad of objects,
but leaves one starkly bare? It
should be a crime! It’s almost as
bad as an author who decides to leave a paragraph unfinished for no
reason.” Mr. Smyth was rightfully
disappointed. He and his burglar
collaborator had spent the better part of a day pillaging, but as of now they
did not have anything to show for
“Maybe
the room’s contents are hidden,” proposed Mr. Callahan.
“Are
you suggesting there is a bookcase with a hidden book that will move one of the
walls when pulled? A clever idea,
except for the fact that there is absolutely nothing in this room.”
“I
don’t understand why you’re so livid, Mr. Smyth. We can simply take what we like from the other rooms. There are plenty to choose from.”
Mr.
Smyth sighed, deflating his body.
“I don’t know, good friend.
I’m simply not in the mood anymore. You may take anything you like, but I’m ready to leave.”
Mr.
Callahan was surprised. Never
before had his partner passed up the opportunity to steal, especially after
putting in so much effort. Then
Mr. Callahan smiled to himself; he now had the perfect opportunity to pretend
to re-take the book he had already stolen.
“Go
ahead and take your pick. As long
as you don’t snag one of those filthy books we saw in the first room. That would surely be a waste.”
Mr.
Callahan lost any enthusiasm he had recently mustered. “No, I’m going to also pass. Let’s head out.”
Without
another word, the two would-be-thieves departed from the grand mansion filled
with curious rooms full of possessions and an even curiouser room that was left
empty. They strode out the front
door, turned left onto the cobblestone street, and walked into the distance.
Behind
them, the house creaked as it settled in its foundation.
The Chameleon’s Bruise
One
day, when Chameleon was walking home from work at the insect farm, he stumbled
over a carelessly placed rock and fell to the ground. Even though chameleons are closer to the ground because they
walk on four legs, falling is still not any fun. When Chameleon picked himself up, he first checked to make
sure no one had seen his forced clumsiness (he could hardly blame himself when
it was obviously the rock’s fault).
When the coast was certified clear, he looked over himself to check for
injuries. Good. Clean. Healthy looking.
Flawless. All good
to—wait. What’s that? Is that a—? It is. A
bruise.
It
was a large, purpling, swollen bruise.
Truly a sight to behold.
Except no one in his right mind, even the owner, would want to gaze
longingly at a bruise. After
taking one far-too-long look at his injury, the Chameleon averted his eyes, not
wishing to inflict emotional damage along with his physical pain. Yes, Chameleon’s bruised side was
aching, but what he was truly afraid of was being called out for falling and
hurting himself. Chameleons are
skilled at blending into their environment, but that task is made much more
difficult when there is a blazoning fuchsia contusion on one’s abdomen.
Chameleon
decided he had no other choice but to continue walking home. He was limping slightly because of his
injury, which only drew further attention to it. When he was almost home, he noticed a pretty, young, female
chameleon staring at him. He
blushed. Then he realized she was
staring at his ugly bruise. He
blushed more, turning the same color as his injury.
Chameleon
hated getting special attention.
He had worked his whole life on perfecting the art of camouflage, with
the goal of never being seen. But
was the effort even worth it when his hard work could be thwarted by a simple
bruise? An old adage came to
Chameleon’s mind: when life gives
you lemons, don’t trip and fall.
No, that wasn’t it. But
still, not bad advice.
After
supper, Chameleon was thoroughly depressed. But he was still thinking clearly enough to know that the
only solution was to sleep on it.
Not to sleep on the bruise of course—that would be painful—but to think
about his dilemma, that he would not be able to blend in, in the morning.
Just
like every morning, the morning came in the morning. And just like every morning, Chameleon got out of bed
(essential), ate breakfast (nutrition), brushed his teeth (hygiene), and picked
his skin color for the day (style).
Unlike every morning, his self-coloration could not be completed
satisfactorily. His maroon bruise
stood out against his now orange skin like an elephant in a needle stack: it was large and loud. But he knew there was nothing he could
do now, so he set off for another day at work.
As
he walked to his cubicle (he was the data entry manager at the insect farm), his
coworkers gave him long, uncomfortable stares. Of course that’s redundant, since all stares are both long
and uncomfortable. But that linguistic
fact did not lessen any of the embarrassment Chameleon felt for being
conspicuous. After reaching his
desk, he contemplated changing his skin color to match that of the bruise, but
he quickly decided against that.
His injury was rapidly changing to a sickly greenish brown, and
Chameleon knew that the only thing worse than having an obvious bruise is to camouflage
using a hideous hue.
Chameleon
managed to go most of the day without leaving his cubicle, thus limiting the
amount of time interacting with others and lowering the chances that they might
notice his conspicuous contusion.
On his way home, he realized that the day wasn’t as miserable as he
thought it would be. But just as
he came to this positive conclusion, he stumbled over a chunk of loose pavement
and hit the ground.
As
he picked himself up, he immediately noticed a new, swelling bruise on his
other side. That was when he had a
brilliant insight. Maybe it was
the dizziness from falling, or maybe it was an inner revelation, but no matter
the cause, Chameleon realized that if he got bruises all over, none of them
would stick out. His skin would
simply be bruise colored, and he could go on living his life, pretending that
purple-brown was his camouflage choice of the day. So before he could change his mind or realize that it was a
horrible plan, Chameleon proceeded to repeatedly throw himself to the ground. This carried on for a solid ten minutes
until he was sure that he was covered in bruises. He could tell he had succeeded by the immense soreness that
seared across his entire body.
Chameleon
inspected himself. He could not
tell that he had any bruises.
Sure, his body was a sickly shade, but maybe that was vogue for
chameleons of the time. Probably
not, but he could convince himself it was.
A
great lesson was imparted on our protagonist that day: It’s not what bruises can do for you,
it’s what you can do for bruises.
Also: Clumsiness is next to
cleanliness, which is next to godliness.
And finally: You should
never stick out in a crowd; no one likes attention-grabbers.
Epilogue
Later
that night, in the comfort of his own home, surrounded by myriad objects he had
stolen during previous escapades, Mr. Callahan settled into his favorite
sofa. He could clearly remember
the house he had stolen it from.
His first burglary. The
nostalgia flooded over him in shallow waves.
When
his reminiscing had subsided, he pulled out the book he had taken from the
mansion. Mr. Smyth still did not
know that Mr. Callahan had stolen something, let alone a book. His partner would not have
approved. That fact made opening
the tome all the more thrilling for Mr. Callahan. He turned to the first page, carefully moving the yellowing
pages, and began to read:
Once upon a time, there was a candlestick
maker. He lived in solitude,
molding wax into long, slender candles day after day, night after night.
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