by David Jester
She caught me staring and she turned away. “I don’t think she’s interested,” I said, wiping the smile off his face and wrapping my arm around him again. “Sorry, it just wasn’t your night. Or mine for that matter.”
“You got a number, didn’t you, on the napkin?”
I nodded. “The irony is that if she had kept it, she could have used it to wipe up the sick dripping down her legs when she left.” I released an exhausted sigh. “Never mind, though. You live and you learn.”
I left Marcus loitering by the bar and returned to the table where Matthew sat, a smug smile on his face. He still had his phone out, and as soon as I sat down, he threw his arm around me, leaned in close, and then took a selfie of the both of us.
“I had to get this on record,” he told me when the picture was taken, his eyes beaming as he checked his handiwork. “The time that poor little Kieran tried to become a man and failed.”
“You were right,” I told him. “It was a bad idea.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “It’s Marcus. He’s useless. I couldn’t find him anyone, you couldn’t find him—” He paused, his lower jaw almost hitting his chest. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
I followed his gaze to the bar, where I saw Marcus locked in an embrace with the timid girl from the corner. He was so deep into her mouth, he looked like he was trying to eat her from the inside out.
“Holy shit,” I said, laughing. “Way to go, Marcus.”
The club was emptying, the lights turning on, and the music dying, and as everyone began to leave, stumbling over themselves and needing the support of their friends to remain upright, they all passed Marcus and the timid girl and they all cheered them and clapped them. The same girls that had turned their backs on him gave him catcalls, pats on the back, and as they departed, he looked like he was about to lose his virginity on the bar.
“Amazing,” I said. “Just goes to show. Maybe he didn’t need our help after all.”
Matthew nodded, his shock turning into pride. “Do you think we should stop them?” he said. “Before they, you know …”
“Give him a few more minutes and—” Marcus stepped back and removed his pants, clearly lost in the moment. “—actually, yes, now’s a good time.”
It was a long night, but one that ended successfully, at least for one of us. Marcus went home with his new friend and couldn’t keep his hands off her throughout the taxi ride. Matthew and I managed to stop them from going at it in the back of the taxi, but after we got off at our respective stops and left them to it, we knew there was a good chance Marcus wouldn’t be a virgin by the time he made it home.
It was nearly three in the morning when I returned home, something that Lizzie was waiting to tell me. I’d been so caught up in getting Marcus laid that I had completely forgotten I’d told Lizzie I would be back by midnight. I’m sure it was in the back of my mind, just as I’m sure I had ignored it in favor of drinking and third-party flirting, but as I stood in my home, with an angry Lizzie in front of me, I remembered it all. I also remembered that I was a stupid idiot. Although Lizzie was keen to remind me of the fact just in case I’d forgotten.
She was wearing pajamas and a permanent scowl, and as soon as I stepped into the living room, she set about tearing me a new asshole. Ben was asleep upstairs, but Lizzie had mastered the art of shouting in whispers, so she could give me what for while ensuring that she didn’t wake the baby.
“I’m sorry,” I pleaded time and time again. “Things got away from me and—and—” I was tired and drawing a blank. I didn’t want to tell her the truth, that I had spent the night hitting on women, and I was too tried to think up a decent lie.
“You’re a married man, Kieran, and you’re a father. You can’t go gallivanting late at night anymore.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“I texted you. I asked you to come back.”
That was the problem with her “Please don’t, but if you don’t mind” texts. It didn’t matter which option I chose, it was always wrong.
“You mean the text about your friends?” I said. “I got that, but my phone died just as I was sending a reply.”
Genius. I was impressed with myself. Something on her face suggested she knew I was lying, but that I was also too stupid to think of anything so believable so quickly.
Thinking I was on a roll, I decided to prove to her that my phone was dead. I pulled it out of my pocket and turned it so she could see, not willing to give it to her in case she tried to turn it on.
“I don’t care,” she said. “You said you would be back at midnight. What time do you call this?”
“Well, I don’t know. My phone is dead and I don’t have a watch.”
Judging by the homicidal look on her face, I realized that that was one lie too far.
I made a move toward her, my arms outstretched in the pose of a hopeless and pleading husband who thinks kind words and cuddles can make everything okay.
“Get your hands off me,” she said, slapping me away. “Take your coat off and get ready for bed. You stink of cheap booze and cheaper women.”
I knew better than to respond to that remark, trying to defend myself at that moment would be suicide. It was what she wanted, and as soon as I did it, she would try to push me further, so instead I remained silent. Unfortunately, although my mouth was shut, there were other stupid parts of me that were very much active, and as I took my coat off, the napkin that the drunk women had given me fell out of my pocket.
I saw it out of the corner of my eye at first, a flash of white streaked with red, and when I realized what it was, my world fell still and silent. Time moved slowly. I grabbed at it, but it was already out of reach, already heading for the floor. My heart froze, and as Lizzie bent down to pick it up, I closed my eyes tightly. I knew in that instant that the whispers would stop and that I wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”
5
Mickey the Duck
“Kieran, for God’s sake!” Lizzie yelled from the kitchen, her shrill shout cutting through the house and making me jump out of my skin. I was in the living room at the time, eyeing the patio door and trying to look as inconspicuous and unthreatening as possible. “I’ve told you before! Use a bloody coaster. You’re leaving rings marks on the counter. I’m sick to death of—”
“I’ve told you before. Blah blah blahblah.” I mocked quietly in a childish voice, rocking my head from side to side.
She stopped yelling halfway through her rant, which was never a good sign. I felt a pang of dread in my chest, felt my eyes widen and my pulse quicken, as I heard her storm through the kitchen and into the living room, where she found me standing near the door pretending to admire the backyard.
Ever since the night after the club, she had been on edge, ready to destroy me for any minor mistake. I had told her the truth, but in the beginning, the only person I had to back me up was Matthew, and few people believed anything he said. Marcus had disappeared for the first few days, and we later found out that he had spent that time with his new girlfriend, catching up on all that he had missed. He did help me settle Lizzie’s anger in the end, but she was still annoyed. Lizzie wasn’t the easiest person to reason with when she was in that state, and “that state” was heightened when she returned to work the following week.
It was hell. And it made me wonder just how annoyed she would have been if I actually had cheated on her.
“What did you say?” she said, thrusting her hands to her hips in a way that terrified me for reasons I couldn’t understand.
I swallowed thickly and lowered my eyes from hers. It’s amazing how she always heard me; through her own shouting, through her own anger, and through the living room walls, she could still hear my mumbling. I often wondered if she had actually heard anything or if she just assumed—correctly—that I was going to say something stupid. If that was the case, then that assumption formed the basis for much of our rel
ationship and for nearly all of our arguments. But even armed with that knowledge, I still couldn’t help myself.
“I didn’t say anything.” I was also a terrible liar, and she could see right through me.
She thrust a finger at me. “You’re already in deep water, Kieran. You’re treading on thin ice.”
She always pulled out the idioms when she was annoyed. I raised my eyes, frowned at her. “I can’t be—”
“Don’t you dare fucking correct me.”
“But—”
“You’re digging your own grave.”
“Really?”
Her nostrils flared and she looked like she was ready to attack.
“I’m sorry,” I said, lowering my head again.
“You better be.”
She turned around, ready to storm away, but she lingered for a moment, just long enough for me to contemplate saying something stupid and just long enough for her to expect me to. I did begin to say something, but my words were cut short by a snappy, hollow sound from behind me. I closed my mouth, silenced my attempted idiocy, and frowned in bemusement as Lizzie turned her Rottweiler-like features toward me, ready to tear me apart.
“What did you say?”
“I—I—”
I had no idea if I had said anything. It seemed like the sort of inopportune moment that I would see as an opportunity; self-sacrifice and pure stupidity were ripe for the plucking, but as sure as I was that I was about to say something stupid, and as sure as Lizzie was that I had, no words had left my lips.
“I didn’t … I mean, I don’t think …”
She stared at me, as if seeing through my soul and questioning my very existence. Then she turned around again, ready to set off, back into the kitchen to cook dinner and stew over my inadequacy. Then she heard the noise again.
She turned back toward me. “Was that a quack?” she asked, her eyes questioning my sanity as well as my stupidity.
I contemplated her question for a moment and then nodded. “Yes. I think it was.”
She raised her head slowly, her eyebrows arched quizzically. I met her confusion with a smile and waited for her to turn around and march back into the kitchen, grumbling under her breath as she did so. I caught a few words, but none of them were worth repeating, and I prayed that most of them weren’t aimed at me, but I suspected otherwise.
When she was out of sight, I turned toward the patio door and looked out onto the small backyard. Waiting patiently on the other side of the door, tilting its head to stare at me with one beady and expectant eye, was Mickey the Duck.
I had no idea why a duck had taken so well to my backyard, and I had no idea why I called him Mickey—at the time, Donald seemed too obvious and nothing else seemed appropriate. I had first seen him five or six days ago, straddling the fence at the end of the backyard and staring at me with cute and suspicious eyes as I hung up the wet laundry. I fed him some bread, gave him some water, and then watched as he flew away, content with his small meal. He came back the next morning for the same ritual, only to repeat it every morning, afternoon, and evening since.
At first he was a little unsure and would only take the food when I put it on the ground and backed away, but gradually he had grown used to my presence. Eventually he was so accustomed to being waited on that he would happily take the bread from my hand and would get annoyed if he showed up and I wasn’t there to feed him.
He quacked again and waddled away from the patio door, waiting for me to step out. There is something so hilariously sweet about ducks. About the way they stare, the way they walk, and the way they fly. They are the species that evolution forgot. They walk like they’ve only just learned how and they fly with the grace and style of drunken bumblebees. I had spent a few days learning about them and discovered that ducks prefer seeds to bread, which are a lot healthier for them. I also discovered that even though ducks really should eat seeds, no one has told them how. They take to a bowl of seeds like a limbless baby takes to a bowl of porridge—more of a violent, head-first smash-and-grab than a way to satisfy hunger.
But despite their lack of grace and their lack of style—despite the fact that they appear to be the byproduct of an obese bird and some giddy, alien toddler—I was enchanted by them. Although I had never really given them much thought until Mickey landed in my garden three times a day and demanded that I feed him. They were stupid and funny-looking creatures on the outside, but in a way they were also intelligent, and they were friendly, cute, and loving.
“Why is there never any fucking bread in this house?” Lizzie barked from the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing with the stuff?”
I looked at Mickey, who stared at me guiltily. I gave him as many seeds as I could, trying to balance his diet, but he had an insatiable appetite and preferred bread.
I bent down, pressed myself up against the screen door, and held a finger to my lips. Mickey waddled up to me and eyed me curiously as though contemplating what this invisible shield was, or why this stupid human was trying to communicate with him.
“Wait there,” I told him softly.
He quacked a few times in reply. I have no idea what he was trying to say, but I had a feeling he understood.
I rushed upstairs to get Ben. He was asleep, but he slept for most of the day. One little adventure and a missed hour or two wasn’t going to hurt him. I was also really excited to show him Mickey. I hadn’t told Lizzie about the duck, but Ben had seen him on the first day and they seemed to have a friendship of sorts. It consisted of them staring at each other for many minutes at a time, before ending with one of them pooping themselves and creating a stink that I needed to quickly clean up. In many ways, it was like some of my very first relationships.
Ben loved Mickey. He either got his love of animals from me, or he treated him as a walking, quacking version of one of his fluffy toys.
Ben woke with a smile. He often did during the day, and it was that smile that reminded me I had done something amazing in bringing him into his world. It was that smile that gave me a reason to get up every day. I may not have had a job or any prospects, but I had a beautiful child who looked up to me and gave me more than a job, a career, and money ever could. Of course, he never woke up with a smile in the middle of the night. Because apparently he is a firm believer in Murphy’s law, which dictates that he should be quiet when everyone in the house is awake, and noisy as hell when they’re not.
I spoke softly to Ben as I carried him out of his crib and down the stairs, being careful to sprint past the kitchen door where an ill-tempered Lizzie awaited.
She didn’t have anything against animals, but on the fourth day of Mickey’s stay, she had noticed the mass of duck feces in the yard and I had listened to her yelling about how inconsiderate the neighbors were for letting their cat shit all over the place. She hadn’t seen Mickey, but if she did, I was confident she would scare him away, and I didn’t want him to leave. Not just for my sake, but for Ben’s.
When I put him down in front of the window, he noticed the duck and giggled, and then the staring competition began. The first one to poop would be declared the loser.
There is never a good moment to bring up a strange topic. I tried to find one, waiting for the right TV program or the right conversation. I even tried working my way up to it and then slipping it in, but as conversation so often does with me, I invariably took a detour and ended up in a more neutral position than I when I had begun. In the end, I decided to just go for it.
I stood and stretched to act nonchalant. I then remembered Lizzie telling me that every time I stood and stretched in such a manner, she knew I was up to something, so I quickly hid it with a succession of coughs, which made things weirder. She was watching me, staring at me in anticipation that I was going to ask something dumb. Her lack of trust in me and my intelligence was unfair and made me feel uneasy, so I moved away, out of sight. Then I said the stupid thing I had to say.
“I think we should buy a duck.”
“A what?”
With the ice broken, I popped my head into the living room again. “A duck—you know, quack, quack.”
“I know what a fucking duck is.”
I walked back into the room and picked up Ben, who had been playing with his toys on the floor. I knew she would be less inclined to swear at me or throw things at me if I was holding Ben. He didn’t appreciate being a human shield and tried to wriggle free to get to his toys, but I held him tightly. He would thank me later, when Mickey was officially our pet and they could have their staring and pooping competitions out in the open.
“Well then,” I said with a smug nod, “I think we should buy one.”
She glared at me suspiciously. “Is this another one of your fads?”
“Fads?” I said with a preposterous shake of my head. “I don’t have fads.”
“What about your stint as an aspiring professional musician?”
“Learning the guitar is not as easy as it looks.” I was sure I heard a giggle from Ben at that one.
“What about the time you wanted to keep chickens in the spare room?”
“You’re complaining now, but think of all the free eggs we’d get.”
“What about the beer brewing, the Japanese cooking, the star-gazing, the—”
“Okay, okay, I get the point,” I said, feeling a little deflated.
“Or the time you wanted to start your own country?” she pushed on.
“That wasn’t a fad. That was a dream that you had to go and spoil with your rational thinking. Most parents pass trust funds and old jewelry onto their kids. I would have made mine a king!” I held Ben up like Simba from the Lion King. He was impressed. Lizzie wasn’t. He clearly took after his daddy, and I couldn’t wait until he grew up and began defending my crazy schemes.
“It wasn’t rational thinking,” she parroted. “It just wasn’t incredibly dumb thinking. You need more than a backyard and a flag to start your own country.”
I shook my head. “I beg to differ, but that’s beside the point.”
