One day, he found a duck. It was wandering out back behind his apartment in Boston, with shuffling strides and a call that was at once grating and charming in its abruptness. He began to feed it bread, tortilla chips, and whatever kind of complex carbohydrates he could spare, grateful for the intrigue that came with its stay there, the break in monotony. The duck was a thing much alive, and when he saw this he felt an inner warmth. Continuing its stay, it took up a kind of residence there in his backyard, and every day when he would rise, he would look out the window and expect for the waddling bird to be gone, like an odd and captivating dream that vanishes once you are done rubbing your thighs while your feet hang out of bed on a cold morning. However, it did not leave. Food came to it, and it was wise enough to take advantage of the service.
The duck’s benefactor went to a prestigious school for contemporary music, wrestling with questions of identity as he attempted to verify his sense of worth by forcing out artificial and hollow songs- songs about girls on trains, about death, sunsets, leaves falling, and so on. Of course that’s what one sings about. Those are the things the songwriter must feel in the depths of his being as he leans over his guitar with brows arched in soulful concentration. It’s an unspoken rule that you must ignore that fact that the artist pauses every once and a while to check a mirror just to be absolutely sure that he appears sincere and eloquent. The student met swinging cats at his school who could play jazz on their guitars fast as he could play if he had 10 fingers on each hand, and he met the suffering artists who ruminated on rooftops, gazing across the Boston skyline as they composed music in their heads to achieve a transcendent catharsis. The latter made him uncomfortable, like sweaty socks worn too long. Were they real? Did they enjoy watching themselves do this as much as he might if it was him sitting in their place, with warm wind tossing his hair dramatically, like a kiss blown from a lover miles away? Certainly, there was no way they could avoid watching themselves, he thought for reassurance, but he, now he was different because he was smart enough to see how often he looked at himself in car windows, devouring the image of a strapping young artsy-type with a guitar slung on his back, playing the part of the roving minstrel. But, he feared, deep within him, his artificiality, and longed for the days when he did not know when he was acting, and his performances did not stand out to him like grotesque and shiny faces that had been under the plastic-surgeon’s knife. And he also feared those who were rawer than the bloodiest meat, who played the parts they were given the most adeptly because they did not watch themselves, and reveled in the euphoria of their and did not wear their dignity like an absurd silver pocket watch. Those were the rooftop composers, and he struggled to decide whether or not such a group actually existed.
He took the duck in to quell his isolation. There were messes to deal with at first, the constant defecation, and the knocking of lamps off of tables- not to mention the occasional sleep piercing quack that stabbed through his dreams. The feeding was an odious ritual, too. He would unroll a tin of sardines, just like the ones in cartoons from which green fumes slithered, signifying overwhelming stench. No visible green vapors, of course, but there was a horrible fishy odor that settled in the nostrils as comfortably as the most oblivious unwanted guest. But the sight of that duck letting food slide down his gullet, head stretched upward and jerking with quick, frenzied motions, warmed his heart. Sometimes they would even have the same meal- wine and bread. He would administer the wine into a tiny silver bowl designed for cat food, and break the bread into pieces, laying down some of it on a plate for his companion, and then he would wait for the duck to start so that they could both enjoy the meal together, reverently.
Physically, there was one feature about the duck that stood out. He was a mallard, and the green on his head and neck shone with a brilliance that was unprecedented in any duck he had ever seen. The student would sit and contemplate the radiance of this emerald sheen, wondering how it was that a creature so ostensibly frivolous could be so strikingly beautiful. Along with this particular quality, everything about the duck exuded this sense of comical majesty, from his webbed orange feet that flopped regally about the gray carpet, to his proud yellow beak that emitted asinine noises. A more subtle feature that inspired awe was the stark white collar that cut off the green at the end of the neck in a precise manner.
After a few weeks of the duck’s occupancy, the student decided that it needed a name, even if it would never respond to it as a dog might. There was much consideration over this matter, but ultimately, he dubbed him Gus. Gus the duck. Now, when he informed friends and family members of his new pet, he could refer to him matter-of-factly. Who is this? Why, mom, I’d like you to meet Gus the duck. Gus, mom. Mom, Gus. Returning from the pet store one day, the student brought home a small cat collar, with the name “Gus” inscribed on a dangling piece of metal and his own phone number beneath it. It was too large, but the duck accepted the collar with minimal resistance and merely ruffled his feathers after it had been secured around his neck. Even when the leash was attached, Gus exhibited only minor displays of discontent; a brief and spastic shake of the head and one disgruntled quack was the pinnacle of his protest.
In this manner, they strolled about the city of Boston, and though they drew stares, it seemed natural to him, even more natural than walking a dog. He did not mind that people watched or were amused, because they watched Gus, not him. And after all, why should they not? He deserved to be seen, as an enigmatic waddling and flapping embodiment of laughter and solemnity. For this college student, Gus was more real than any sunset he had ever seen. In fact, the apparent absurdity of his pet prevented him from trying to squeeze a forced sense of inspiration from the whole relationship, which was, oddly enough, one of the most spiritual he had ever had. There were no movies of men walking ducks around Boston, no pop songs written about feeding one, and certainly no pictures in magazines of men smiling paper smiles while they held their pet mallards. He met Gus as he was, and the sight of him radiated ripples of the purest white through his nerves And so this- this was something. Nothing more, or less, than a duck.
When thanksgiving rolled around, Gus came with him on the plane as he journeyed home. The stewardesses pointed and smiled, waving at the duck, who quacked nervously among the growling mechanical ejaculations. A middle age male steward, balding and frail, mumbled something apologetically to the student about protocols, and how it was his job to tell him that he could not bring the duck on the plane, and he was very sorry that such a stupid rule existed, but it was not his fault, you see? To this, the stewardesses, made tough and loud from the many red eye flights with their groping, middle-aged men and fussing, haughty mothers, slapped the wispy steward on the back, saying to the student that they were sure they could allow him on, and this steward here was just a fuddy duddy, and so on. The steward coughed a bit and gave a tortured smile, bowing his way out of the situation, with a pitiful kind of half laugh, “Well, yes- I’m sure… of course, my apologies, sir. Ladies… excuse me if you will… ladies… thank you very much- you charming gals…”
Gus traveled in a duffle bag with the top unzipped the slightest bit for his lithe neck to reach out of. Only small nervous shuffling movements could be seen in the bag, and there was no din of beating wings flapping in a twitching frenzy, or urgent salvos of sound from his beak. The quacks were subdued throughout the flight, and only one seemed to bother anyone, a man who was reading, but as soon as the offended gentleman saw the face from which the sound leapt, his wizened features grew soft in a smile of contemplation and he turned back to his book with an incredulous, but jovial, shake of his head.
The student leaned back in his chair, with Gus sitting by his shins, and fell asleep. During flights he usually would be forced to take Dramamine, both for the motion sickness, and for the fear, which was cured by the sleep inducing tablets, but not an anxious thought crossed his mind today, and his stomach rested contentedly in his gut. All he could think about was Gus. The queerness, the beauty, the strange humor about him. In that stumbling duck, he sensed God in a way that sugar coated songs containing only the repeated words of “lord”, “Jesus”, and “Love” had never allowed him to before, because they only presented him with images of insincere women standing on stage, hands reaching to the sky and eyes closed in constructed elation.
He looked outside, and his gaze fell on the circular engine attached to the wing. And of that piece of floating aluminum- or whatever it was, whirring away with noise that meant nothing to him- he though this: How strange and beautiful!
Gus could not stay in the house, his mother said. “He’s an animal, and he’ll make a mess all over the floor! No! Get him out! At least in the back yard.”
“But I’ve trained him, Mom! I have! If he does make a mess I’ll clean it up. How’s that sound?”
The mother, with a wrinkled brow, and silver flecked hair, pretended to consider this offer. Then she shook her head emphatically. No. No ducks in the house, even ducks named Gus. Other children would be arriving soon at the house soon and she had to prepare, so there would be no further contention regarding this matter. The siblings would come from Yale and Community College, from various partners, some them of the same gender. From alleyways and bars and libraries and churches. Every niche was filled in this house, every human being a color on a spectrum, and to the human eye, there was only a finite number of colors to recognize. Things began to blur, and identities ballooned gratuitously or shattered with moaning under the pressure of the place.
So, to deny Gus lodging amongst the family seemed unfair. His mother showed her callousness by throwing him into the backyard to be fenced in like some normal creature at the zoo. This was his duck, and it pained him later that day to see his brothers and sisters bear an attitude towards Gus that they would not even take up with a dog or a cat. They shooed him away, ignored him, did not even throw him the crusts of their sandwiches. Someone even tripped over him and then mockingly behaved as if it was the ducks fault, laughing to those around him at his act of cruelty- how permissible it was! He was like a harmless insect to that motley crew of aspiring students, avant-garde bohemians, all American athletes, and computer hackers. A cold and distant ignorance gripped them all, the student thought. Could they not see this majestic creature, this piece of the student’s very soul, for what he really was? But the resentment melted away after a day or so, as he stood up in the cool morning, glancing out, coffee warm and laughing against his clasped palms. It did not matter if they did not also see Gus like he did, only that he continued to allow his current state to be as perpetual as it might, and did not let his newfound joy dwindle as a result of their scathing apathy.
One morning, though, the duck was gone. That is, his essence- his “Guss-ness”- had dissipated. Some animal had gotten a hold of him. Now there were pieces of flesh and feathers laced in blood strewn about the frosted grass, green and red and black and white in the rising sunlight and aimless morning mist. Over on one side of the back yard lay the most coherent mass of remains, connected to which were the orange feet and yellow bill streaked with mud and crimson. There were even bones, and this struck the young man as the most sickening thing. Little frail and slick ribs poking out like the teeth in an orifice of some savage and primordial beast. With tears collecting in his eyes against the bitter wind, he tried to understand this new context in which he was seeing them. Bones were what was left of the fried chicken from KFC after you had torn the savory meat off, they were the shapes of little Halloween candies that were hard and broke like sugar-chalk between your teeth, they lay on the ground in old deserted temples in the movies, and in museums were assembled to form the skeleton of some ancient mammoth: these things were what bones were for. They were not to be seen among the mutilated pieces of his dead duck, his deceased Gus! Inside the house, the brothers in the navy and the sisters who could juggle had on faces that attempted woe, like people looking at cue cards which told them they should feel sad at this moment, or like mice trained to behave a certain way when an electric shock was received in their tiny, exposed brains.
The student buried him alone that day, pulling dirt from the grown with a shovel between grunts of perplexity. What would he do with himself now? The only thing that ever elicited an honest reaction from him was now gone, or worse, transformed into a vile mass of duck meat that still steamed in the frosty atmosphere. It was back to the stools in front of mirrors where he would pretend to be a songwriter- someone tossed about in romantic struggles and metaphysical problems, someone who had a pure and honest heart and a determined spirit with great resolve and a soft, soothing way of laughing, and eyes that held deep and complex secrets, and…..
He patted the hard earth with his shovel, letting a tear escape the cradle of his eye, and for a moment, an intense joy sprang up as he felt the single droplet, cold like a small shining diamond, roll dramatically down his face and then off of his chin. People won academy awards for that kind of emotion, he thought, and then he caught himself and shook his head in frustrated revulsion. He must fence with those impulses, in honor of Gus’ memory. On the ground, there lay a single green feather, dusty and frosted, but there was no trace of blood or last night’s struggle on it. He held it tightly in his palm, and then released it to a wind that bore it briefly in the air, then plunged it cruelly into the earth as if it were riding down a drop in a roller coaster. But the wind picked up again and carried it in-between the chain link fence. Someday, he said to himself, someday I will find that feather again; I will spend my life searching for it. On the way to work, walking home from church, when I am strolling with my wife in the park. He would look with the brief glances of an armature hunter and at the very least, he felt he knew where it was going. And he would, at the very least, meet it there.
