Andrew Felsher

A Book Struggles to Drive in Washington Heights

A book is on the driver’s seat. It’s Tuesday morning, street cleaning. Alternate side parking is in effect, so cars need to be moved.

In a series of three long leaps, a patrolling grey squirrel approaches along the sidewalk, tail twitching as it searches for valid inspection and registration stickers.

The squirrel settles on the driver side mirror and taps on the window that has been left open a few inches.

“License and registration,” the squirrel says.

“What did I do, officer?” the book says.

“License and registration,” the squirrel repeats.

“I don’t have a driver’s license,” the book says. “You can open the cover, flip a page. You’ll notice I’m translated, originally published in 1925 as Der Prozess. I’m documented.”

The book maintains composure and leans on the black leather upholstery, hoping not to move suddenly.

Squirrels are easily startled.

The squirrel pokes its head into the opened window and sniffs, facemask not covering its nostrils. Then the squirrel jots down “Franz Kafka” and “The Trial” on its notepad and tells the book to stay still while it verifies the information.

The squirrel leaps back behind the car, takes out their cell phone, closes out of the Instagram app on which it had been posting photographs of leafless branches silhouetted against the sky, and then confirms that no registered drivers named Franz Kafka or The Trial exist in New York City.

The squirrel calls its supervisor, explaining that it has stumbled upon an unlicensed book attempting to drive an unregistered two-door orange Mini Cooper.

Five minutes later, a chubby duck arrives and waddles to meet the squirrel behind the car. The duck is still soaked from patrolling Harlem Meer pond all day.

The squirrel shows the duck the Wikipedia page, confirming Kafka is dead.

“When?” the duck blurts, no facemask. “I hate reading on phones.”

“1924.”

“Where?”

“Austria.”

“Birthplace?”

“Czech Republic.”

“What’s the book doing in Washington Heights?”

“Not sure.”

“We might be onto something,” the duck says. “Follow my lead.”

The duck approaches the driver’s door.  “What did you do to Franz Kafka?” the duck says, feathers dripping on the asphalt.

“Nothing,” the book responds. “He died before I was printed.”

“Kafka looks like a mouse,” the squirrel scoffs, pulling up a black-and-white photograph. “Was he a mouse?”

“Kafka wasn’t a mouse,” the book says, “but he wrote a piece about a person turning into an insect.”

“What kind of insect?” the squirrel says, licking its lips.

“Something like a beetle,” the book says.

“Neither mice nor people become insects,” the duck snaps. “Did you murder Franz Kafka and steal this car?”

“I’m not a murderer,” the book says. “Not a thief.”

“Whose car is it?” the duck says.

“It’s Sam K.’s car.”

“Where and when did Sam purchase it?”

“Sam bought it a couple months ago on the internet,” the book says. 

“They shipped it directly to our apartment. We were worried about public transportation during the pandemic.”

“You’re driving an unregistered car,” the duck says.

“The DMV is delayed in issuing registrations.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Duck,” the squirrel mutters. “He has a point.”

The duck swivels its emerald head, stares at the squirrel, and then motions for the squirrel to follow.

They pace around the back of the car and crouch beneath the rear bumper.

The duck whispers to the squirrel, “I think the book is hiding something. I’ve got a gut feeling. If we expose a conspiracy, I might become detective. Maybe you’ll get promoted too.”

“A conspiracy?” the squirrel says uneasily.

“International.” The duck spreads its wings to cover its beak, winks, and then waddles back around to the door. The duck flaps its wings, momentarily takes flight, and lands on the roof, where it puffs out its chest. “Book, please step slowly out of the car.”

“If you don’t put on a facemask,” the book says. “I’m not going to answer you. It makes me uncomfortable, not to mention I don’t have legs.”

“Are you mocking me?” the duck says.

“The virus can spread on books too,” the book says. “I don’t want Sam to get sick. You might have the virus and be asymptomatic.”

Just then, the duck extends its neck through the gap in the window, yanks the book from the driver’s seat, clenches the binding in its yellow beak, and then drops the book on the hood.

Terrified of physical conflict, the squirrel doesn’t budge.

The book contorts, its cover of five blue eyes punctuated by a single golden eye, all set against a red background, brushes against bird droppings spattered all over the hood.

“What’s with the cover?” the duck says, its orange-webbed feet pinning the book down. “We have to search your car.”

“I think it’s—" the squirrel stammers. “It’s just a unique cover design.”

“Don’t question me,” the duck says. “Search the car.”

The squirrel leaps into the car, spins around the gearshift, climbs onto the arm rest, crawls behind the pedals, and then finds remnants of peanuts beneath the floormat.

The squirrel nibbles on the crumbs and stuffs some leftovers in its cheeks.

Across the street, pigeons and sparrows watch, but do nothing, and then continue munching on a mound of rice left along the curb in front of a bodega.

The squirrel returns to the driver side mirror. “I couldn’t find anything,” the squirrel mumbles, mouth full of nuts.

“We need to inspect your pages,” the duck says, still soaked and pinning 

the book down.

“You’re dripping on me,” the book says. “My ink will smudge.”

Flustered, the squirrel dashes toward the end of the block, feverishly digs a hole in the dirt beneath a gingko tree, and then buries the stash of nuts.

“You can read me,” the book says. “I have nothing to hide.”

The duck turns the book over, folds back the opening pages.

When the squirrel is back, they both closely read the opening line.

Someone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything wrong, he was arrested.

The duck fidgets, inadvertently tearing a wet page.

The book cries for the duck to dry itself before leafing through pages.

“Tell us about the Czech Republic,” the duck blurts. “Are you a communist spy?”

“You just ripped it,” the squirrel says.

“Don’t be weak,” the duck says. “The book is fine.”

The duck flips through and stops.

“Lies are made into a universal system,” The duck squints. “Book, is that a code? What are you really trying to say? Don’t deceive us.”

“I’m a complex novel,” the book says, “with many interpretations.”

“Books like you should stay on a bookshelf,” the duck says.

“I don’t want to be on a bookshelf,” the book says. “I want to get a job. I want to do what I can to help Sam. Bookshelves suffocate me. I won’t go back.”

The squirrel is expressionless.

“There are no jobs for books,” the duck says. “I’m giving you a ticket.”

Sam, having noticed the escalating encounter from her living room window, sprints outside.

She’s too late.

Imprints of the duck’s webbed feet have branded the book cover. Pages have been torn, ink smudged. The tarnished book is now clamped between the windshield and the wiper blade, orange envelope protruding from the altered pages.

Inside the envelope there’s an official notice that claims Sam must furnish proof that the book has returned to a bookshelf within 30 days or else there will be a legal proceeding, where fines, confiscation, or more severe penalties may be given.

Sam releases the book, rubs it down with disinfectant wipes, places it on the passenger seat, turns on the engine, and then accelerates into the cluttered street.

“I’m guilty,” Sam says. “You shouldn’t experience this.”

The book can’t speak.