Hamsters Past

    "Laura Parsons?"

    "I am."  The woman stood behind the screen door bouncing a baby in her arms, looking quizzically at the men standing on her front stoop.

    Damon straightened himself up, realizing how awkward this whole thing might be.  How absolutely out of the blue it would seem to poor Mrs. Parsons.

    "My name is Damon King.  I don't know if you remember me, but we were in grade school together..."

    She raised an eyebrow but made no move as she stared at him, befuddled.  It was obvious she didn't.  She shot a look to Damon's companion, who was holding a digital camera and filming the whole encounter.

    "That's Mark.  Don't pay him any mind.  He's just the cameraman."

    She seemed a little wary.  "What's this all about?"

    Damon quickly answered in the hopes that he might dispel her unease.  "You wrote a poem, Depressed Hamster, for a workshop.  Mrs. Solomon, sixth grade."

    No answer.

    He continued.  " 'I'm running in my hamster wheel, plastic, apple red.  I'm running in my hamster wheel, I wish that I were dead.'  Remember?"

    "Sorry?"

    "'I want to squeak my feelings, let all know how I feel, but there aren't any hamsters with me on my hamster wheel'.  I thought it was beautiful.  Profound."

    Laura Parsons locked her screen door.  "Look, I don't know your game, but I think you'd better leave."

    Mark spoke up.  "Code purple, Damon?"

    "No!"  He answered.  "C'mon, Laura...'I've contemplated suicide, but I'm restricted (lack of thumbs).  There aren't any hamster pills or little hamster guns...'"

    "I'm calling the police."

    "PURPLE!" Damon shouted, and he and his "camera crew" made haste for the car.  She sure didn't act like she remembered.  All of it was true, though.  Maybe the next Laura Parsons would be the one.  Damon's film school thesis needed its finale.