A (short) story about a magical duck
I said to Gabriel, this is what I wrote down.
I’m sitting in a mid-eighties Mercedes, like the one my grandfather used to drive. The interior is gray and feels half way between leather and synthetic. The knobs, indicators and clock are anachronistic, and most don’t work–– it would feel old and run down if it weren’t for the emblem on the hood. I notice the cracks in the center consul, so I lean my elbow on it for stability and aesthetic’s sake. The engine is in idle, and I’m stuck in traffic, tapping the clutch firmly enough to entertain myself without throwing it into gear. There’s a white paper cup from In-N-Out Burger in the makeshift cupholder stuck to the dashboard. I can’t see if there’s anything in the cup, but I suspect it’s half filled with flat Coke.
In the passenger seat is a duck, that looks fresh off the pages of a cartoon. He has a round brow, flat beak, oversized wings, with light dots for eyes. I can’t tell if he’s three-dimensional because he’s pressed against the seat too tightly. His right wing rests on the edge of his open window, drumming his index feathers on the sill to the hard beat of the hip-hop CD rattling my sideview mirror. I say, “Duck, how many dimensions you got?” He responds in duck. I say, “All right, I’ll call you Tom.”
I know we got off the 101 a long time ago, because I recognize the view–– a tributary of the bay. It must be the rainy season because the hills are still green. To the right is a small cement walking trail that snakes along the contours of the water. Past the water are hills, offset by probably two-hundred yards, and covered with resplendent houses perched for the view. In the trough of the round hills, I can see a pillar of the bridge. On a clear day, the sun hits the dirty copper paint and illuminates it incandescent. Tom quacks again. “Yeah,” I say, “it wouldn’t glow if we lived here.”
The traffic eases up and I shift the car into first and then second gear. The clutch catches a little bit on the second shift, so I put it into third. Marshland is so ugly, I think, noticing it on the left side of the road. I wonder if environmentalists trying to save the marshes are those who couldn’t hack it in the deforestation prevention world. I don’t say anything, because Tom probably likes the wetlands. I look at my tachometer and downshift. “Tom, where are we going? We stopping at this marsh?” Tom takes his focus off the road and opens the glove compartment, rifling through the contents, throwing CD’s and gum out the window. He grips the registration, which says: “State of California DMV, Tom’s Mercedes, Arnold Schwartzenegger Governor.” He must just need help driving a standard transmission. “So I should just keep going straight?” Tom nods.
I look in the rear view mirror to see if I have any zits an am surprised by a woman sitting in the backseat. She has layered brown hair and pale Bettie Davis eyes. In the middle seat, she is wearing a red dress that comes to three-quarters thigh. Her knees are touching, but her feet are shoulders distance apart. Her mouth moves slightly off cue to her words, “Matt, slow down.” My attention shifts back to the road. My shoulders tense and I grab hold and crowd the wheel like a senior citizen–– she knows my name? “Matt,” she says, “You’re going too fast for the duck. Ducks can’t go this fast.” I swivel my head to Tom, who seems perfectly content going this fast. He quacks, but before I can respond, the woman jumps in, “Matt, are you going to listen to him?” I tell her I am listening. She says that Tom is afraid, so I ease up on the accelerator.
“You cool, Tom?” Tom flips opens his palm, shrugs, makes a fist and pounds his chest twice. “Cool man, cool,” I say.
I contort my trunk to look at the woman. “You see. Tom is fine.” She covers her top lip, horizontally, with two fingers of her left hand. Reaching around the seat with her right arm, she places her hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Are you all right, Thomas?” she asks. “We needn’t do this.” Tom puts his beak in his wings and pulls his knees to his belly, rubbing his little webbed feet against each other. She takes her hand off his shoulder, petting his feathers downward as she pulls back. Finding my eyes in the reflection of the rearview she says that she understands and asks me to pull over the car. I stop on the side of the road, the tires crunching the gravel. The woman gets out and crosses the street to the left. “Are we done?” I ask Tom. He pops up the door lock and tugs on the handle. I get out of the car, hustle around the front and open the door for Tom. We walk down a small slope to the water; Tom reaches up and holds my hand.