Orion Magazine - May-June 2008

Sacred & Mundane

artifacts of contemporary culture

How to Make a Great First Impression by nick neely

“How you doing, o;cer?” I’m kneeling on a sidewalk in Riverside, Rhode Island, and a squad car has just pulled into the nearest driveway. My > ngers are incriminatingly spattered. All the evidence—brush, paper, and body—is laid out before me.

“Fine,” says the o;cer. “But the question is: What are you doing?”

“Well, as you can see, sir, I’m painting this squirrel.” The o;cer leans out his window.

“I pulled him o= the center stripe a few minutes ago be- cause of the rushing cars. I’m going to make a print. This is art.”

A scurry of squirrels is chattering and ?agging tail in the big-tree backyard behind us. I imagine that this one—warm and pliable, perfect for printing—was formerly of its cheery, quick-limbed company.

“You’re serious?” asks the cop, matter-of-factly, as he steps from his car.

“Yes, sir. Roadkill prints. I’ve done a number: fox, raccoon, bird . . . I’m hoping for a deer, eventually. You haven’t seen one lying around, have you?”

Another cop pulls to the curb and parks. I’m surrounded now.

“What’s this?” asks the second o;cer, closing his door. He quickly surveys the

scene and sees the tiny, untimely victim.

“Oh, good God, son. You’re touching that? And you’re not using gloves?”

“Well, circumstances suggest he didn’t die of disease,” I o=er. “He must have felt rubber only a minute or two before I came across him.”

The >rst o;cer: “Do you have some ID?”

I fumble for my undergraduate credential, hoping it will license my creativity.

“I don’t know what . . . well, frankly . . . I mean, I’ve never dealt with anything like this before,” says the o;cer, sizing up my prom picture. “I’m not sure about legality here, but this just looks wrong.”

Man alive.

“Regardless, someone called you in,” he continues. “People are disturbed. You’ll have to move this o= the sidewalk.”

Only a few minutes before, several SUV drivers had slowed and looked down at me askance, cell phones in hand.

“You can’t do this here,” says the cop. “Take it somewhere else . . . put it behind your car . . . some place less out in the open.”

“What if I move the squirrel to that side street?” I inquire. “Or I could just take him to go, if you prefer, and wrap this up at home.”

“Either way,” says the cop, “but you do something with that, while I call in and make sure there aren’t any warrants out for you.”

It’s November and cold, and the squirrel warms my hand when I lift it onto my printing board. The second o;cer chaperones as I round the street corner, carrying the squirrel as if on a tray. Resuming my work, I smear a hairy tail with a thin layer of ink. The cheap sponge brush is sticky and picks up coat: long, coarse bristles, like pine needles; downy underhairs, thin and light as lint; short, tapered threads, all shades of brown, red, black, and gray.