A Tale of Two Turtles

Hear now a tale of triumph, tragedy, and one man’s quest for redemption.

It was a smoggy day in early September. Two shaggy-haired teachers were biking home from a day of speaking slowly to students in red and white uniforms when they suddenly hit the brakes simultaneously. Both men were staring at a turtle vendor – whose shelled vendees were the size of golf balls. Their eyes locked. The pet-owning fire was lit and not easily doused. The two foreigners shelled out 16 qui ($2.13) for these two turtles – quite a steal for two miniature domestic dinosaurs and not to mention to join the elite circle of pet owners.

The two shaggy-haired men mounted their rusty bikes, giddy as Scandanavian school girls to be freshly minted pet owners. One with a nose exclaimed, “We own turtles.” The other replied in a high-pitched squeak, “Yeah…” And so the two pedaled home with all due haste. Their hamstrings and quads and calves had a conference and decided they were in pain, but the boys kept motoring home – weaving in and out of traffic, skimming by taxis and grandmas, riding like rebels (such weaving hasn’t been seen since Betsy Ross held a thimble). But then it came…

Pssssssshhhhhhhhh.

The man with the nose exclaimed, “She blew!” The front tire had enough of this biking nonsense, so it rebelled in an explosive way. The turtles were undoubtedly in shock after being jostled to and fro in the basket of the boy’s bike as if they were in some sort of washing machine with wheels. The man with the nose handed the green cargo to the man in khakis. The man with the nose said, “I’ll be at the house in a bit, just gonna get this tire fixed.” The man in khakis nodded.

[47 minutes later]

In a freshly plump tire the man with the nose biked back to the Cloister (the nickname for “the House”) in a flurry, wanting to reunite with his turtle who was depending on him for survival. The shaggy haired gringo jiggled the lock on the Cloister’s door, took off his shoes, slipped on his slippers, and slid to the Bridal Suite (nickname for his room) to find the man in khakis on his hands and knees searching for something under the bed. The man on the floor turns around and says, “Well, I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that your turtle is right there. The bad news is that mine is somewhere.” The man with the nose prods, “What happened?” The man on the ground replies in defense, “Well, they had a bumpy ride and were in a coma so I thought they could use a little freedom. I put them on the floor then fell asleep.”

And so for the next hour and 47 minutes the two friends searched in every crevice within the Cloister but to no avail. The rogue turtle is still loose, savoring his freedom…

True Story.

P.S. – The loyal turtle’s name is Johnny Yuma.

P.P.S. – Shell Silverstein wrote the song, A Boy Named Sue. Johnny Cash sang that song as well as the ballad of Johnny Yuma. The loyal turtle has a shell.