The other day, as I pulled out of my apartment complex, I noticed something moving on my windshield. Suddenly, a little green face poked out from between my windshield wipers. It was a gecko, who had taken a sun nap on the hood of my car, only to be rudely awakened from his bed accelerating to 30 miles per hour.
As I reached halfway to the speed limit, I saw his increasing frustration, trying helplessly, legs sprawled out and flailing, to find a less windy position.
Then, he looked straight into my eyes and, I blame Geico commercials for this, gave me the saddest look. As if to say, “Why are you doing this to me?”
It broke my heart. Watching his little feet try to grasp at my windshield. His face shooting me dirty looks as if I was a monster. His prayers to his gecko god to save him. His silent lament of life choices. Ok, maybe I was projecting on that last one. As soon as I could manage it, I pulled over onto the side of the road.
Now, while I was frantically checking my mirrors to find a safe retreat, I pictured the rescue scenario. Me, giant sunglasses and all, cupping the little gecko and releasing him into a field of green grass. I’d wipe a tear from my eyes, and head on to my meeting with a story of Christina the Great Humanitarian to share with my more-charitable friends.
And then, reality.
I exited my car and rushed to the other side, where I could grab the gecko out of reach of cars going upwards of 60 miles an hour, probably more. Only, every time my fingers grazed the gecko, he escaped my grasp.
At this point, I was alternating between laughter and scorn at the gecko. “I’m only trying to save you!” I screamed into the wind as he ran away thinking, “Eff you random giant stranger who probably wants to eat me!”
I imagined what I looked like to the passersby: a tall girl with a bun and flowers in her hair, rocking Daft Punk-esque sunglasses and a lace vest. Trying to save a gecko from the roof of her car next to an incredibly busy highway.
Soon, I’d unwittingly pushed the gecko to the other side of my car. I braved traffic only inches from my exposed body, on my tiptoes. Still reaching for that stupid lizard.
When I’d finally, clumsily, pushed him off the roof of my car and onto the ground, he scattered quickly to a shady spot right underneath my tires. I sighed and got back in my car, waited for a few minutes, hoping the gecko would take the head start to remove himself from the path of my wheels, and drove off, listening carefully for any sound or squish that would indicate all my efforts were in vain.
I didn’t feel bad, actually. I’d done all I could to help the thing, and with no audible thank you.
A few minutes later my finger began to itch. I pictured all the things that gecko had probably stepped in. Poison ivy, no doubt. I’d saved a gecko and all I had to show for it was a rash.