THE STAIRS© Tom Scocca, 2025 This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, and events is entirely coincidental, with the exception of the events in Chapters One and Two, which happened more or less as written, on the line between Cambridge and Somerville, Massachusetts, on Memorial Day weekend in 1999. 8. It took a while after the squirrel had spoken for me to be able say anything back. "Excuse me?" I managed. Any squirrel usually looks intense, but I was pretty sure this one was glaring. "The nut," it said. "Acorn. Tree-starter. Unless, that is, someone eats it before the tree gets its start. As I aim to. Give." "Squirrels can't talk," Theo said. "Pretty sure of our facts, aren't we," the squirrel said. Its voice was reedy but clear. "Good thing you're not the one with the nut." It turned back to me. "I don't know how you got that, but there's your money. I'll take it." "Why this acorn, anyway?" I said. "It's just an acorn." "Bottomless knowledge here," it said. "Go pick yourself up another one off the ground, then. Might have to go a ways. Seven thousand miles, give or take. And you'll need a boat." I must have looked blank. "That," the squirrel said, "is from a Quercus serrata. Bao li. Native to East Asia, including offshore on Taiwan and the islands of Japan. Approximately the same height as Quercus alba, our white oak; acorns a little smaller but, in my opinion, much tastier." "This acorn came from Taiwan?" Maxine said. "You tell me," said the squirrel. "If you can. Which, it seems, you can't." "Where did you get the nickel?" Theo said. "I fished it out of a payphone," the squirrel said. "I won it on a slot machine. Where do you think I got it? I had it up in the tree." "Before that," I said. "You don't see nickels like this around anymore." "You don't see acorns like that around much, either," the squirrel said. "Not on this side." "This side?" Maxine said. "On the other side, it's a nickel a nut," the squirrel said. "At least from my guy. You got your nickel. Now give." We weren't making much progress by discussing things. I held out the nut in my palm, low to the ground. The squirrel scurried up and grabbed it, so fast and lightly I barely felt it, then scurried back to where it had been. "Thanks," it said. "That is what you people say, right? For instance when someone gives you a nickel." It took a bite. "Ah, there we go." It took two more bites. Little muscles in its face moved back and forth. "Thanks for the nickel," I said. "How do you get to the—other side?" Maxine asked. The squirrel paused between bites. There were nut crumbs in its whiskers. "You wouldn't fit," it said. "Not the way we go." "We don't need to," Theo said. "We can take the stairs." "Good for you," the squirrel said. It seemed less hostile now that it was eating. "A tree you see now is, you know, inherently—internally, in the layers—the same tree that stood then. A tree is a point of continuity. You go into an old enough hole in an old enough tree, the right tree under the right conditions, and you come out another part of the same hole, and there you are. If you were the sort to go via tree, which you are not. I'm Marta, by the way. My name." We introduced ourselves to Marta. "Charmed," it—she—said. "How did you learn to talk?" Theo said. Marta the squirrel looked annoyed again. "How did you learn to listen? Ask around on the other side." "Are there other ways to get there?" Maxine said. "Besides the stairs or a tree?" Marta the squirrel swallowed her last crumb of the East Asian acorn. "You could catch the train at 75th Street," she said. Then she ran off. Find other chapters of The Stairs here. EASY LISTENING DEP'T.Here is the Indignity Morning Podcast archive! SANDWICH RECIPES DEP'T.WE PRESENT INSTRUCTIONS for the assembly of a sandwich selected from Cassell's New Dictionary of Cookery, published in 1912 by Cassell and Company, London, New York, Toronto, and Melbourne, and available at archive.org for the delectation of all. POTATO SANDWICHES. Cut a pound of cold roast beef into slices, and fry these gently in hot fat for two or three minutes. Take them up, drain them, and spread over them on both sides a layer of mashed potatoes a quarter of an inch thick. Dip them into egg and bread-crumb, and fry in hot fat till they are lightly browned. Serve piled on a white napkin. Time to fry the sandwiches, five or six minutes. If you decide to prepare and attempt to enjoy a sandwich inspired by this offering, be sure to send a picture to indignity@indignity.net . SELF-SERVING SELF-PROMOTION DEP'T. Indignity is presented on Ghost. Indignity recommends Ghost for your Modern Publishing needs. Indignity gets a slice if you do this successfully!
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