Literary Work
The Great Squirrel Epidemic JIHOON PARK
T
The guard fanned himself with two museum brochures, one in each hand. “Maybe if we give them souvenirs from the gift shop they’ll leave us alone,” the archivist said, peeling a banana and sticking it in his mouth. “We have those modernist-themed trail mix packets. Each one comes with a modernist trading card.” “No, let’s not waste those on the squirrels,” the curator said. “I’m still not done collecting. I’m missing Dali and Ernst, they’re very rare. I must’ve gone through a hundred packets already.” “I’ve got an Ernst card. I’m willing to trade it for a Matisse.” “Okay. Later though.” Outside the museum steps were hundreds of
he curator stared at the magnificent Degas, a generous gift from the Met. Three ballerinas on the barre, their tutus bathing in the sunlight coming in through the studio windows. Beautiful, he thought to himself. Yes, this Degas will put our museum on the map. People will come from miles around to see our Degas. He clapped for himself and smiled, echoing the museum halls. The archivist came with a fruit basket and a bottle of champagne. “Courtesy of the Met. A gesture of good faith. We should send one back,” said the archivist. “This is all bananas,” said the curator. “Yes, these are Klua Klua bananas from the Philippines. Very rare.” The archivist held one in front of his lips, making a big yellow smile. The curator took no notice. “What fruits do we have a surplus of?” “We’re having a fruit shortage. A nasty gnat infestation in the kitchen pantry. But we have a surplus of tomato soup in our cafeteria.” “Great, send them a basket of that. Maybe they’ll send us another Degas.” Just then, the museum guard burst into the room, gasping to catch his breath. “Squirrels!” he yelled. “There must be a million of them. They demand to be recognized.” “They’re probably just here to visit. It’s free admissions night,” said the curator. “They seem pretty serious. They brought their artworks.”
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thousands of squirrels and their artworks, stretching all the way down the city square. People shouted from their apartment windows, throwing down Molotov cocktails and old furniture. “Disgusting vermin!” “Stupid motherfuckers!” But the scurry of squirrels kept growing, more squirrels showing up with their paintings and sculptures every minute. “Can we call the exterminator?” the curator asked. “He’s at night school,” said the archivist, now eating two bananas at once. “I doubt he’ll come at such a late notice. Can we even exterminate them? They’re not doing anything illegal, technically.” “Well, we have to do something.” A red squirrel with an ingrown tooth mustered up the steps, holding a ten-foot-tall marble statue over its shoulder. The statue depicted a muscular squirrel holding and contemplating a walnut. The curator carefully considered the statue. “I can tell you’ve devoted years to your craft, but it’s unoriginal. You lack true talent. We cannot display this statue, especially since we recently got a very rare Degas. It would sully his name.” The red squirrel sulked away. Another squirrel came forward with an oil painting of a female squirrel reclining on a tree branch with a single acorn covering its genitalia. “This painting doesn’t have that spark of ingenuity we are looking for, and the subject matter isn’t aligned with our curatorial tastes. I’m sorry.”
