1945 Ekco A 22

There is a lizard in my bathtub.

I am in the bathroom having my pre-afternoon golf pee, when, out of the corner of my eye, I see something moving in the tub. I’m not crazy about distractions when I have a good stream going, and definitely not crazy about anything moving in my bathtub.

I go investigate.

It is a lizard.

It is not the tiny lizard from the insurance company commercials. This is no gecko. This is a prehistoric reptile about 18 inches long. With a tail twice that size.

It appears to be dead. At least, it is not moving.

So, I of course do what most people do when they encounter a lizard in their bathtub: I get my phone and take a picture.

I take a picture because I know this will be a fantastic gift for my friend Allie. Now Allie is difficult to shop for and whenever I come across a potential gift, I nab it as quick as I can. Lest you think that Allie has a proclivity for reptiles, I should explain that Allie is forever lecturing me about closing doors. The door to my backyard. My front door. My garage door.

“Something is going to get in,” she warns.

“What could possibly get in?” I reply.

So now I can give her this exquisite ‘I told you so’ gift. I text her the picture.

I then go to the pool and get my pool scooper. I’m sure it has another name, but I don’t know what else to call it. I go back to the bathroom.

The lizard hasn’t moved.

I prod it with the scooper.

And then it moves.

Scares the shit out of me.

It tries to climb out of the tub but it is a very deep tub and the porcelain is very slippery. So, it keeps slipping down.

It would be funny if it weren’t so disgusting. I beat a hasty retreat.

Allie texts back.

‘Oh gross. What is that?’ She asks.

‘A lizard,’ I reply.

‘In your bathtub?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did it get in your bathtub?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How many times have I told you to close your doors!!’

See? The perfect gift.

‘Is it dead?’

‘No. But it can’t get out.’

Allie knows better than to think I am going to do anything about the lizard.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘What do you think I’m going to do?’

‘You are going to call Lewberg.’

‘Of course I’m going to call Lewberg.’

Lewberg wants to know where I am. We are teeing off in five minutes.

I tell him there is a lizard in my bathtub.

He tells me to call security. Without missing a beat. As if I call him every day about a lizard in my bathtub. “They will take care of it.”

He tells me to hurry my ass. He doesn’t want to play behind this foursome of women.

I close the bathroom doors and call security.

I speak to Freddie.

“There is a lizard in my bathtub,” I tell Freddie. Freddie is unfazed.

I’m guessing he has heard it all.

I give him my address and tell him I am leaving the front door unlocked. I also tell him I am leaving $20 for him on the dining room table.

He says he will be right over.

I go play golf with Lewberg and Goldfarb.

I play pretty well considering there is a lizard in my bathtub.

Goldfarb doesn’t understand how I can leave the front door unlocked. He has a world class security system. I tell him there’s nothing to steal. Besides, I know Freddie.

He says that I have thousands of dollars’ worth of radios.

And I say, “believe me, Freddie is welcome to them. They are the bane of my existence.”

Then Lewberg says, “nobody ever says ‘bane’ without ‘of my existence.’ You ever notice that?”

Every once in a while, Lewberg comes up with a beauty.

“What about your echocardiogram?” Goldfarb asks. “You said it was one of a kind.”

That is what Goldfarb calls my EKCO A22. He says when I talk about it, he can see my heart racing.

The 1945 British-made EKCO 22 might be the prize of my collection. I have managed to snag myself a very hard to find working model. “Yes,” I agree reluctantly, “it is pretty rare.”

“There you go,” he says. “Just lock your door.” He might have a point.

After golf, I gingerly open the bathroom door. No lizard.

Good old Freddie.

The phone rings.

It is Freddie.

And this is what he says. He says, “I’m on my way.”

As he says that, I walk with my phone to the dining room. The $20 is still on the table.

I say, “Freddie, you haven’t been here yet?”

“No man, baby gator at the Shapiros’. We just got it out. I’ll be there in five.”

He hangs up before I can tell him the lizard is gone.

I look in the tub. There is a scrape in the porcelain. An actual scrape.

So now there’s a lizard running around my house. I text Allie.

She says she wants to throw up.

She says do I want to sleep at her place tonight. Then she says, ‘I told you so.’

I’m good for three or four birthdays.

I show Freddie the scrape.

And Freddie says, “well I’ll be damned.”

Then he says, “you always leave your back door open like that?”

Freddie does a cursory search of the house and gives me his cell phone number.

“Call me if it turns up.”

I give him the $20.

Now I’m not scared of no lizard.

But if I want to lock myself in my bedroom all night, not even going to the kitchen for my nightly bowl of Cheerios, then that is my right.

Has nothing to do with a lizard on the prowl.

Of course, if you are going to lock yourself in your room, you had better make sure you haven’t locked yourself in with a recently escaped reptile.

My curtains move.

And there is no wind.

Maybe I stand on my bed for a minute or two. Then I summon the courage to go take a look.

Yup. Lizard at three o’clock.

I text Freddie.

I tell him the front door is unlocked.

Freddie is here five minutes later. He corners the lizard, grabs it by the tail, dangles it out of the room, with me trailing safely ten feet behind, then flings it out the front door.

Now I don’t want to throw any shade on Freddie. Guy came right over. Showed no fear.

Grabbed the lizard like it was nothing.

The thing is.

Freddie is not a world class lizard flinger.

You see, you want to release at the apex. But Freddie. Well Freddie releases early. Very early.

So, the lizard, instead of being flung across my front yard, lands on my porch, a yard or two from where Freddie and I are standing. The lizard then promptly gets up on its two hind legs and, my hand to god, runs right back into my house.

And then Freddie says, “well I’ll be damned.” We search the house.

No lizard.

Freddie says I should text him if it shows up. I give him another $20.

Somehow, I manage to sleep.

The next day, Emma and her cleaning crew arrive. Emma lectures me about closing doors.

I say, “yes, I’m going to close doors.”

I’m pretty sure the lizard is gone. Until I see it in the kitchen.

Then, I’m not that sure any more.

Emma, Indiana and Rosita then team up to shoo the frightened to death lizard out of the house, into the backyard, and then out of the backyard onto the 17th fairway.

They aren’t about to let no diablo lizard mess up their clean house.

And that is that.

Lesson learned.

Or so I think.

Goldfarb decides that two days of lizard hell is not enough of a lesson.

Learning to shut the door is one thing. But he is going to teach me to lock my door.

And so, that night, while Lewberg and I are out at dinner, Goldfarb lets himself into my unlocked door in order to steal my prized EKCO radio.

I know this because when I get home, although there is no lizard in my bathtub, there is a Goldfarb on my living room floor.

“Oh, my back,” he wails in pain, “my fucking back.”

Goldfarb threw out his trick back while trying to pick up the radio.

See, Goldfarb knows the 1945 EKCO A-22 is really, really rare. What he didn’t know, is that it is also really, really heavy.

“Goldfarb,” I say while helping him up, “how many times have I told you that you have to lift with your knees!”

The End