Fledermaus Murphy: Tales from Riverville

by Alma Boykin

  Three weeks into the fall term, a note appeared in his in-box from Ms. Jones at Annadale. The students had failed to reach a firm majority on any one mascot, and so had ended up selecting the Amoeba. Jerry looked at the attached picture and nodded. Absolutely no one could possibly be offended, or make anything offensive, out of a shapeless microbe. He ventured onto WilliPedia, read the article about amoeba, and wrinkled his nose. A few sub-species caused diseases in humans. Would that be offensive to immune-suppressed individuals? No, probably not, since one couldn’t just “catch” amoebic diseases like one could the flu.

  Jerry approved the request and congratulated the school on a good mascot. Then he forgot about the matter entirely.

  Or at least, he forgot about it until he opened the municipal news web page in November. To many people’s surprise, Annadale had developed into a football power within the district, and the team made the front page of the local paper. When Jerry called up the news feed, the opening screen showed the crowd at Friday’s game for the district championship. There, for all to see, was a student rally sign reading “Amoeba: pound-for-pound, the deadliest creature on Earth!” The sign beside that one proclaimed “Amoebae: vectors forever!”

  “That is absolutely uncalled for.” Jerry frowned at the screen. Someone tapped on the door. “Yes?”

  Charles poked his head in. “Just to remind you of the meeting … is there a problem?”

  “Yes. Look at this.”

  Charles came in and peered at the screen. Jerry pointed to the offensive sign. “Student signs are supposed to be non-threatening.”

  “Shall I call the school and inquire?”

  “Yes, do.”

  Charles caught Jerry after the meeting with the school board that afternoon. “About the sign?”

  Jerry tried to remember which sign Charles meant. “Oh yes. What did Ms. Jones say?”

  “Those were posters from a biology class project, or so the students claimed. She sent me more images, and they do have facts about amoeba on the back side, along with reports the students had to write.”

  Jerry pursed his lips as he considered the matter. “I see. I trust you explained why they might be interpreted as violating the inclusivity policy?”

  “Yes, and she said she’d have a word with the spirit leaders about policing the student signs in the future. It will be a good leadership exercise for them.”

  “An excellent point, Charles. Thank you.”

  The next Friday came and went, with no evidence of anything more offensive than “Go team.” Jerry Sloan turned his attention to more pressing matters.

  Then came the regional finals game. He opened his local news feed and beheld, “Oh, no. No, they didn’t. Ms. Jones was supposed to put a stop to this!”

  Amoebas: We’ll make you runs.

  Go Amoebas! Engulf the Enemy!

  Team Amoebas: Because There is no I in Dysentery.

  Annadale Amoebae: Small but Deadly!

  And several more posters and banners showing a shapeless mass devouring the Stanton Cavaliers mascot. Jerry rested his head in his hands.

  Ms. Jones’s explanation failed to assuage him. “I’m sorry Mr. Sloan. We vetted all the student signs. Those in the photos were made by parents. It seems one of the juniors’ mother is the professor of microbiology at Riverville Polytech. She’s also head of the biology department. Dr. Ja’quina Chow-Murphy.”

  As he looked at the grinning adults in the photo, Mr. Sloan decided that perhaps “Fear the Anteaters: we’ve got you licked” wasn’t so offensive after all.

  Lawn and Garden

  “Can you make a late delivery?” Fleder Murphy ignored the question as he wrestled the bag of beans to the roaster. The day manager, Holly, appeared just as he got the burlap sack close to the big machine. “I said. Oh, sorry Murph’. Say when.” She grabbed one corner at the top of the bag. He held the other corner and reached over with his claw-like finger-tip and pulled the string to open the bag. For once it worked, and both he and Holly reached down, grabbing the lower corners of the fifty-pound sack.

  “One, two,” he squeaked, “three.” Woman and bat hefted the bag up, pouring the beans into the roaster. They triple checked the temperature setting and stirring selection, then Murphy pushed the button and the roaster rumbled to life.

  “Do you mind making a late delivery?”

  Murphy thought for a minute then shook his head.

  “Oh good. Thank you so much! It goes to Digger’s Lawn and Garden service: two extra large coffees and some pastries. They called in the order and Mallory didn’t know that I’d given Wavy the night off.”

  “No problem,” Murphy squeaked. He didn’t mind deliveries, especially not at night, and Digger’s wasn’t too far from his favorite take-out place.

  At seven that evening, just after sunset, the bell rang at Digger’s Lawn and Garden. “I’ll get it,” Terra Dugway called. She’d finished her work for the day and was about to clock out. Terra took three steps to the back door, opened it, and beheld a bat as large as she was.

  “Delivery from the Burnt Bean,” the bat squeaked.

  “Great! How much?” The bat handed her the bill. She read over it, added the tip, and handed him back a twenty. “All yours.”

  “Thank you. Have a good night.”

  “You too.” Terra set the drink caddy and bag on the table by the door, clocked out, then returned, snacks in hand, to the main office. “When you reach a stopping place, the coffee’s here.”

  “I have.” Her brother, Derek ‘Digger’ Dugway appeared in the other doorway, polishing his glasses. He blinked, squinted, and peered around, then put his glasses back on. He sniffed, twitching his nose “What did you order?”

  “Extra large coffee with socks, no sugar, two bran-n-apple muffins, a peanut bar and a,” she sniffed the paper container, then looked inside. “Riverville’s largest pear fritter, I think. I asked for whatever the special was.”

  “Oh good.” Digger stirred one of the coffees, sipped it, and began working on the peanut bar as she ate one of the muffins. “I’m almost finished with the plans for the Thompson’s system. Those raised flowerbeds will be quite a challenge, but I think I found a way to run the pipes and nozzles that won’t cause back-flow problems or pressure drops.”

  “Krayf.” Terra swallowed and tried again. “Great. I told them it would cost more but they insisted.”

  “So I’m going to set that aside and see about getting started on the Martin Plaza work tonight, at least the back section.”

  She thought as she finished her bite. “That’s the one with the drainage problem, isn’t it?”

  He nodded and licked the last of the peanut bar off his fingers before drinking more coffee. “And how. I went by three nights ago, just after the rain stopped?” When she nodded, he said, “Everything squelched and the back was ankle deep at least. I talked to the guys and we’ve adjusted our plans. It turns out there’s a little capacity left in the floodway park behind the fence-line, so we can go under and drain into that.”

  “Ah. So that’s why I found the permit from the city in the inbox this morning. I added it to the Martin Plaza file without reading it over, because that’s when Old Man Jillie came in.”

  Digger wrinkled his nose. “Now what?”

  “The usual, trying to sell us new trenchers, wanting to demo his latest tubing feeder to the crew. I know he’s the area’s top salesman, but no means no.” Terra looked around the meeting room at the photos of their most recent projects. “I’m inclined to call Mr. Archuleta and complain.”

  “Don’t bother. Apparently there’s a bet that someone can sell us something.” Digger shook his head. “Until they can come up with a silent trencher or back-hoe, no.”

  “Agreed.”

  Brother and sister finished their snack. She cleaned up while he put away the plans and confirmed that the permit the city sent was the right one. For once it was. Digger nodded, triple checked everything, and went to get the crew.


  “Hey guys, ready to work?”

  A chorus of grunts and grumbles came from the dark bunkroom. “We’ve got the Martin place tonight, and we’ve gotten permission to go under the fence into the floodway.”

  Blackie, the lead supervisor, waved his acknowledgement as he counted noses.

  “Right. I’ll bring the van around back. The trailer’s already loaded.”

  Digger left Blackie getting everyone organized and went to get the van. He pulled up to the side door and opened the back of the van, lowering the ramp. While the crew boarded, he called the head of security at Martin Plaza.

  “Plaza One, how can I help you?”

  “Good evening. This is Derek Dugway from Digger’s Landscaping. I’m bringing my crew over tonight to get the drainage system installed into the rear of the property.”

  “Uh,” Digger heard papers shuffling and the sound of a keyboard clicking. “Right. The landscapers. You going to be running much equipment or setting up lights?”

  “No, we use a special ultra-quiet system and night-vision gear, so you won’t get any noise complaints,” Digger assured him.

  “Right. I’ll tell the boys to keep an eye for your vehicles and to pass you in.”

  “Thank you.” Digger waited until the other man hung up to click the phone off. Then he glanced around the back to make sure the doors were closed and the ramp pulled up, then got in the driver’s seat.

  The guard at the parking-lot gate seemed a little puzzled. “Only one van?”

  “Yup. We pack pretty well.”

  “Better than my wife does. You’re cleared through.” He raised the gate and waved the van and trailer onto the property.

  Martin Plaza, a new office tower with a huge greenscape around it, loomed over the surrounding buildings. A few geese floated on the moat-like lake around the tower, and Digger caught a glimpse of Blackie shaking his head and pointing at the moat. “I know. I suspect that’s part of their drainage problem right there.” But water features were trendy.

  They pulled around to the back of the property. Digger opened the back door and dropped the ramp, then got his modified night-vision equipment out of his work bag, triple checked the batteries, and pulled the goggles and ear phones on. He looked at the work area through the night-vision lenses. “Oh good. No one moved the markers.” This time. He got so tired of people pulling up his line flags and slope dots.

  “Right.” He pulled out the page and reviewed the plans. “Standard slope, standard lining. Trey and Jake on the initial main line, Cliff and Ted have the cross lines, and you know the rest.” The workers all nodded and Blackie pointed to the field in front of them. “Go for it.”

  For the next four hours Digger handed pipe out of the trailer, measured filter cloth, and lugged “socks,” the cloth-straw-sand tubes that served as temporary water barriers and guides. His team had managed to get the first main trenches done before midnight, when they broke for half an hour. Digger used the break to check his messages. He had one from Terra, two spams, and something he did not need to look at just then.

  Blackie gave orders and the crew returned to work. Digger stretched and unloaded more pipe, then stalked out to check on everything. The trenches looked fine, and when he dropped a transmitter into the low end, the slope came out exactly where it needed to be. The crew did neat work: no dirt tossed around, no excess noise, and they actually managed to not rip up the new sod. Digger had budgeted to replace the sod if need be, but it would be nice to avoid re-sodding if they didn’t need to.

  By three AM, they had run the main and cross lines, put the pipe through as well, and gotten all the initial connections made. After Blackie confirmed that everyone was accounted for, Digger started pumping water into the pipes from the tank on the trailer. Trey and Cliff waddled back and forth down the lines, looking for leaks and checking the heads on the sprinkler system they’d already installed but not tested. Everything seemed to work as hoped, except for one connection on a drainage line. Blackie and Ted soon had that repaired. Digger walked down to see what the problem had been, and Ted emerged from a side hole and waved a part. Digger knelt and held out his hand. Ted dropped the problem piece in, and Digger turned up the light sensor on his night-vision gear. The fitting had cracked across the threads, a bad casting from the looks of it. “I wonder.” Digger said. He keyed his little radio. “Jake, can you pull any connectors, part number 2-7-6-oh-l as in lizard that are still in the bin?”

  Two clicks came back in reply.

  “Thanks.” Digger turned the light gain back down and climbed up the slope to the van, tossing the part and catching it again as he went. When he got to the van, Jake had two small piles of connectors sitting on the ramp. He pointed to the smaller pile and made what looked a bit like a thumbs-down sign. “Cracked?”

  Jake nodded and snorted, then stuck his tongue out and made a “thppppth” sound.

  “Thanks. I’ll have Terra call them later today and give them the what-for.” Digger looked over the good fittings too, just in case, but none of them had cracks or chips. By the time he finished and repacked the good parts, Blackie and Ted had returned. Digger checked the day’s work off the list. “Great job, guys. We’re ahead of schedule despite the rain. If you want to pack up, I’ll bring in the socks and we’ll call it good.”

  Head nods and high fives greeted the announcement. Digger fetched the socks, putting all but four back into the trailer. Those four he used to mark off where people needed to avoid until the dirt settled and the grass came back. Because the guys were so neat, he didn’t need to set out straw bales, socks, or other anti-erosion barriers along the new irrigation and drainage lines. He’d just finished tucking the last sock into the trailer and triple checking that all the markers and flags had come back when he heard three high pitched whistles as Ted sounded a warning. Digger turned off his night-vision gear and whipped it off his head as the crew scrambled up the ramp and into the van.

  A beam of white light hit Digger’s boots. “What are you—? Oh.” The beam swept up over his work-boots and pants, then cut over to the side of the trailer with Digger’s Lawn and Garden on the side, then back to Digger’s chest. “You’re the landscaper?”

  “Derek Dugway.” He pulled a card out of the pocket on his tool belt and handed it to the guard.

  The man looked at it by flashlight and returned it. “Huh. When are you going to start work?”

  “We started just after nine and are finished, sir.”

  The voice turned cold. “Don’t shit me, son. I’m not in the mood for stupid games.”

  Digger thought the guard sounded exactly like one of the more memorable city inspectors: every landscaper and plumber in town had celebrated when the guy retired. “I’m not joking, sir. If you want to see our work, it’s here.”

  The man grunted and followed Digger around the trailer and down the slope. Digger pulled a big six-battery flashlight out of his tool-belt and shined the light on the main drainage line. The guard whistled. “Well, well. You did work on the system after all. You a vampire or something?”

  Digger did not roll his eyes at the tired joke. “No, sir. We just use some new tech that’s very quiet. It uses infrared to guide the trenches, so we can go faster if we work at night, when it’s cool and dark.”

  “Military stuff?”

  “Some of it, yes, sir.” Which was true: Digger’s night vision gear and some of the markers were mil-surplus or downgraded civilian versions of military equipment.

  The guard shook his head. “I never know what they’re going to come up with next. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear this was the world’s longest mole run.” He laughed and Digger chuckled as well. “OK, then son. You done for the day?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’ll meet you at the gate and let you out then.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Digger waited until the sound of footsteps faded away before sliding the ramp into the van and glancing around inside the back. “Everyone buckled in?” />
  Four small forefeet waved at him from two sets of facing boxes, all bolted to the floor of the van.

  Digger closed the door, walked around and climbed into the driver’s seat. Blackie gave him a thumbs-up from his special box strapped to the passenger seat. “Yeah, that was close.”

  They’d travelled to within almost a mile of the shop when the van jerked to the right. “Hold on!” Digger steered with the pull, tapping the brakes and slowing everything. The trailer followed and he managed to get to a wide part of the shoulder. The van had a definite tilt to the front right side. “Everyone OK?” Digger twisted around and counted noses. Everyone seemed fine. He and the supervisor climbed out of the van.

  The shredded tire elicited a whistle from Blackie.

  “Agreed.” Digger took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. There was no way they could limp back to the shop on the flat.

  Blackie squealed something, pulled a bit of scrap metal tubing out of the stash in the van’s front door pocket and carefully scratched, “Murphy strikes again,” in the dirt.

  “Yup. Things went too well on the site.” Digger stood up and sighed. “Well, if you can drop the spare and the guys unload for a bit. I’ll get started. I don’t want to be here during rush minute.”

  Terra Dugway cam in to find Digger finishing up the invoice. “Digger! What are you doing up this late?”

  “Flat on the van just after we crossed the railroad tracks. Tire’s ruined, but we were slow enough it didn’t damage the wheel. Took all of us an hour and a bit to change it, because some idiot over-torqued the lugnuts and the guys had to stand on the jack handle, and that after we improvised a longer one. And then we had to unload and clean up and …”

  She ran a hand over her short, curly black hair. “Aw geez. I’m sorry. Do I need to get a new tire?”