Something fell into my window well and died.
If you don't know what a window well is, you're not from the suburbs and I'll have to explain.
When single-family homes come with basements, it's common for the architect to include a couple windows below ground level. They sink a galvanized steel half-pipe around the window so sunlight can get in. The bottom of that pit becomes a habitat for bugs. It also becomes a trap for animals too stupid to walk around the pipe's raised rim.
I've found mice in mine. I've also seen toads, though they're harder to spot because they blend in with the stones at the bottom. Once there was a garter snake. I jumped down and saved that one, naming it "Perry" for reasons I've forgotten. I set it free at a nearby park so neighborhood children could, perhaps, encounter it by the creek and learn fear.
This time what fell into my window well was somewhat larger than a snake. And it had died.
Weeks later, thinking back on all the living things that could have ended up down there, I wish it had been a little guy.
Not a human. Please. I'm not a monster. I wouldn't want a pint-sized drunken neighbor to be wandering around my house in the dark of night and find themselves unconscious after taking a header into a functional death pit designed by some asshole architect.
I'm talking about fairy folk.
Think how cool it would be.
I'd be mowing my lawn on a Saturday afternoon, then glance down to see a tiny bearded dude with a red felt hat and three giant buttons on his green tunic—because that's what the fairy folk wear. He would squint up at me, clearly dazed from his tumble, and give his pitch.
"Set me free and I'll grant you wishes three."
I'd have to cut my Toro's engine and shout, "What?"
"I says, 'Set me free and—"
"Hold up," I'd say, removing my headphones which would be playing the latest episode of Stuff You Should Know.
He would cross his little arms, nostrils flaring in impatience. "Set me free and I'll grant you wishes three."
"Who are you?" I'd ask. "And why do you sound like Paul Giamatti huffing helium?"
"My name is Perry," he'd reply.
"No shit?"
"Why? What's up?"
"Nothing. It's just…"
"Just what?"
"You're the second Perry to fall down there."
Perry the fairy would blink up at me.
"I wonder if all Perrys worldwide are more stupid than others."
"Hey! Dipshit! Do you want three wishes granted or not?"
"Can I wish for anything? Like, can you make me fly or bring Eddie Van Halen back to life? Or can I ask you to help us avoid a dictatorship?"
"I'm not a god!"
"Clearly."
"What does that mean?"
"You can't even wish yourself up a six-foot length of twine to crawl out of there."
"I can! I just don't have the upper body strength to— Look! Never mind! Just name three personal wishes!"
Without hesitation, I'd name them: a plexiglass window well cover, a Toro mower that never needs gas or oil, and world peace. The fairy who sounds like Paul GIamatti huffing helium would scoff at that last one, but agree to at least make the neighbors act more friendly at the block party this summer. Then I'd reach down and offer my hand. His would be moist. He wouldn't even thank me as he ran between my fence and the neighbor's and vanished forever.
That's how it would go in my imagination.
Instead of how it actually did.
It was a skunk. When their bodies rot their horrible odor is released. And it cost me damn near two hundred bucks for a guy from Aurora to come haul it away.
I wonder if its name was Perry.