The Anti-Heist

A friend recently bought me two baby turtles from a vendor in Chinatown. It didn't take long to realize that a touring musician who plans to be on the road 200 days next year should probably not be raising turtles. Basic care for these little guys includes daily sun exposure, changing their water, feeding them fresh produce, and avoiding salmonella, which this particular variety of turtle has been known to carry, leading them to be banned from several US States and the entire continent of Australia. Also, they can grow to be nine inches in diameter and live to be 40 years old. That's a bigger time commitment than raising a child (which, these days, appears to take about 32 years)

As cute as they were, I knew I had to, as Tony Soprano might have said, lose the turtles. No, I don't mean having them whacked. Tony Soprano never would have whacked turtles. He'd probably ask his friends and put an ad on Craigslist, which is exactly what I did. Turns out there's little-to-no market for salmonella-carrying turtles who live to be 40. A week went by, and Diego and Angelo (I had caved and named them) were starting to grow rapidly.

Finally the zero hour came. I had to leave town for a few concerts out of state. I had no choice. I grabbed their small plastic terrarium and placed it on my passenger seat, and headed toward Chinatown, salmonella infested water sploshing around the tank with every turn. They stared up at me, quizzically. This was it.

I took the turtles into the store where my friend had bought them. I went in and explained everything to the vendor, who at first pretended not to speak English. I told her that she could take them back without refunding me any money and resell them, thus making twice the profit on the same turtles while sending them to a good home. She finally looked up at me, annoyed, and said, in perfect English, "I'm not taking these turtles. Forget it."

I had to think quickly. I thanked the woman and turned toward the display shelf where all the other little turtles sat rapt by our conversation. I said a quick, heartfelt goodbye to Diego and Angelo, then casually set their little plastic case down next to the others, and sprinted out of the store. It was like a heist scene from a movie, but the complete opposite. It was the anti-heist. As I jogged cinematically down Spring Street in the morning rain, the lady popped her head out and shouted a half-enthusiastic "Hey!" before shrugging and going back inside.

Wherever Diego and Angelo are, I hope they're in a good home, with some wonderful child who will care for them and play with them for the next forty years. Hopefully a child with a very strong hand-washing regimen.

Jakob