THE CURIOUS HABITS OF CHAMELEONS
J. Sallini-Genovese

Lizardous incognitous, better known as the chameleon, changes the color of its skin to match whatever surface it scurries across, which is why so few succeed in the modeling industry. They just don't stand out. For years, whenever I sat on the back porch with a copy of the New York Times, these unique reptiles used this adaption to read over my shoulder undetected. I found it a most irritating habit once I learned of their presence (inevitable since they have the breath of an old pest strip).

By such casual circumstances did the chameleon become the subject of my intense scientific scrutiny. Although small, I noticed right away they are quick. I must have scraped my knuckles on the brick a dozen times before discovering, quite by accident, that I could put them into a hypnotic state by reading the William Safire column aloud. Then I simply reached out and plucked them off the wall using my forefinger and thumb, as recommended to me by Smedley Bloom, curator of herpetology at the now defunct Benton Speedbowl & Wax Museum. I amassed close to fifty by this method.

One complication, the chameleon will separate from its tail under stress, so tails are all you ever actually collect. In fact, since they regenerate the part, it may have been the same root specimen I captured over and over again, a possibility which could explain why neither of us ever completed the Sunday crossword.

Not inclined to stuff my collections in drawers, hidden from public view, I considered a number of possible displays before, inspired by Escher, I attached the entire lot to a pen and ink rendering, creating a repeating pattern of hapless lizards. They were either illustrating themselves into existence, or into oblivion, depending upon your world view. Of greater significance, this effort established the possibility that chameleons form tessellations in the wild under extreme conditions, a quite rare form of reproduction if confirmed.

My research also established that the chameleon is not the “leap'n lizard” of comic strip fame, which refers instead to the Cape Verde skink. These once popular pets, now extinct, were blessed with powerful limbs and could leap alongside the most neurotic of poodles. They also enjoyed hanging upside down, catching tropical fruits in the air, and high-stepping in chorus lines. According to the archival data, unlike their color-shifting relatives, skinks were indifferent to periodicals, yet another endearing quality. It explains why many naturalists, such as myself, still mourn their passing. As the poet Nerval once suggested, loosely translated, “Alas, Sylvie, where have the good lizards gone?”

© J. Sallini-Genovese

J. Sallini-Genovese is a teacher of mathematics, which should not imply any special ability in the discipline. His stories, for example, don’t always add up in the end. Publication credits include Pindeldyboz, Opium Magazine, Flashquake, Yankee Pot Roast, Zygote in My Coffee, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), Thieves Jargon, Insolent Rudder, Journal of Modern Post, Rouse Magazine, The Dead Mule, uber, Ten Thousand Monkeys, Copperfield Review, Rumble, SKiVE, Canopic Jar, Subterranean Quarterly, Defenestration, and Facsimilation.

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