The Duck
I’ve only just moved in to this house but the porchlight shows something I’ve never seen before,
A duck staring out at the lake, thinking about what he wants for lunch. He debates many options but knows the choice really comes down to either leftover lasagna or a sad burrito and the lasagna wasn’t very good the first time but he wouldn’t exactly describe it as “sad” so is it worse to have bad food or sad food?
It’s not my place to comment but I do anyway, recommending an ice cube garnished in lemon sauce and while the duck can’t tell if I’m mocking his small avian predicament, he quacks earnestly and loudly which I take to mean agreeance.
Three hours pass and I hear the quacking again, the sort of “hey buddy, I know we already talked today but I have follow up points and also I’m a little lonely” kind of quacking that you might expect from your duck father after the divorce and so I head back out to the porch to see what he’s on about.
The duck is perched on the handrail and he gives me a head nod which I take to be the equivalent of a smile since duck bills don’t really bend enough to signify emotion.
He’s staring at a bag ripping with grease, particularly sad grease, the kind of grease that might suggest the ice cube wasn’t satisfying enough and the lasagna wasn’t emotionally charged to his liking. Half a sad burrito, I suppose a melancholy burrito at this point, is sitting on the ground and the duck refuses to make eye contact with it for fear of starting up that old fight again. I wonder if the burrito started off sad or if the duck’s own despair is contagious.
I head back inside for fear of catching the depression but the duck quacks at me, desperate for some company. I tell him “look man, I’ve been through a lotta shit too and I mean I don’t want to abandon you here but I gotta look out for myself sometimes, you know? I recommend seeing a therapist and stop taking this out on the burritos in your life before you end up alone.” The duck says nothing because he is a duck and I decide to stop projecting.
Dan McKeon is a Long Island exile living in Buffalo, usually writing about buildings or lawn gnomes in his spare time to avoid having to learn how to ice skate.