Ducks In The Hood by Kai_Landesvatter at Inkitt

Ducks in the Hood

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission.

When Scooter Boy was wheeled off to the hospital, no one knew much what to make of it. There was shock, scandal even. But, like everything else at the time, it was tough to fully understand. Laid across the stretcher, Scooter Boy’s eyes shone like a mannequins’; uncannily wide, open and bright. We saw them as he was wheeled past us, though what they were seeing none of us knew. Then, in unison, our own pupils shifted away towards the culprit. It was the winner of the staring contest. The duck.

We hadn’t learned any of their names, if they even had names, when they moved in. Everything happened so fast, after all. Who prepares people for that? Where in the community brochures or advice columns do you find that information? Nobody expected to suddenly have to share the neighborhood with a bunch of waterfowl but here we were. And now Scooter Boy was being taken away in an ambulance. The duck beat him in the staring contest and waddled off leisurely on its merry way. It didn’t even break a sweat.

Which is when we learned they didn’t even sweat. Just stared, stared like no tomorrow. Poor Scooter Boy thought he could win because he was known around town as the guy with the death stare. You look, you die. But that taught us the grizzly truth. What was death to ducks? Scooter Boy was seriously injured from keeping his eyes open so long. Maybe he’d never walk again - some said. Whatever the case, it was severe enough that he then disappeared from the continuing story.

And in came more ducks. First one, then two, then one plus two, two plus two, until we lost count of them, and our math couldn’t keep up. Whole sections of the neighborhood were bought up in no time. For-sale signs were replaced with little duck families waddling their way across the grass lawns or over the empty lots of unused driveways.. Or flying up the stairs to open the doors to their new apartments.

At first, we watched it happen in disbelief. Who were these newcomers? We didn’t dare ask them. Who knew what would come of asking. We saw groups of ducks paying out real estate salespeople with seaweed or little bugs. We saw them disappear, in single file lines behind gated apartment doors. When it was just a few families, we treated it like an anomaly. Feelings started to change when their numbers became impossible to ignore. You’d pass a duck on the street, say hi and they’d just stare at you. They’d pass you and quack as if it was normal. You wouldn’t know if they were talking to you or not either. Their beady little eyes never conveyed those messages. And their quacks didn’t either.

Scooter Boy was the first one to be suspicious of them. So he challenged the duck who brought the duplex on Edgar St to a staring contest. He always had it especially for this. The one with the slick black tailfeathers and vibrant green coat. The one who’d always walk its little ducklings to school alongside its wife. She with the bronze feathers which could be confused for all the other females. Matter of fact the male could be confused for all the other males too now that I think about it. But Scooter Boy had his sights on him, unequivocally, after he saw him be asked by the realtor if he had home insurance and the duck just pointed his wing at the river.

So now they were staring at each other, as intense as such a thing could be. Like two competitors dying to win Or at least one was. What would the prize be anyway? The duck didn’t care. He just went along with it, tilting his head curiously and waddling up to the plate. Scooter Boy stuck his head out at the duck. He bent over in some sort of attempt at intimidation, as if to show the bird who was boss. We all crowded around them. None of us had seen the ducks do much of anything with us humans to that point in time. Some of us hoped Scooter Boy would show them they messed with the wrong block. He’d teach them to respect our ways, the community we created, humans. The duck didn’t quack or protest or even seem to be bothered at all with it. They just stared.

A few of the duck’s brethren assembled from between the feet of the humans in the crowd too. They didn’t cheer or shout though. They just stared. I wonder if his duck opponent peered into Scooter Boy’s soul. It never looked away from his eyes for a good hour, maybe more. Neither of them blinked of course. But only one of them had their eyes filled with water as the contest went on. By the time Scooter Boy collapsed to the floor, the sun was setting. The crowd had died down, pretty much to silence. The other ducks waddled off too. Then someone yelled to call the eye police. I didn’t know who the eye police were supposed to be. But soon after, Scooter Boy was being taken away. He lost to a duck. We all did.

A few days later, all of the humans, still the majority in the neighborhood of Gale Town, held a little convention. Forever Old Fred owned this little warehouse right around the corner from town hall. It was the perfect space to house us all. It was packed that night. Like every human had spent the last few days dreaming or having nightmares about ducks. And now we’d finally be ready to get it all out.

Forever Old Fred walked up to a makeshift stand with a mic attached. Everyone else quieted down in their seats. “Alright, alright. First things first, I wanna thank everyone for coming out here tonight. I don’t want to beat around the bush. We all know why we’re here, do we not? Are there any of you that didn’t see what has happened to our beloved Scooter Boy?”

There wasn’t silence from the crowd, technically not, just flooding murmurs and shaking heads. It was clear they were speaking not through their words but through a feeling. It was a shared disgust or fear at Scooter Boy’s fate. It was amazing how we all understood each other without speaking. Makes you think, right?

“I, for one, am just as baffled as the rest of you!” said Forever Old Fred, decidedly more animated now. “Since when do we have half our properties owned by ducks!?”

“You said it!” Chimed in Old Sadie. She was not to be confused with Forever Old Fred though. Sadie had once been young. Lord only knows if Fred had ever been. “There’s gotta be at least 100 of them now!”

“I’d say more!” Nodded Forever Old Fred. “And you know, we would like to welcome newcomers to our community, but only if they respect the rules and laws of Gale Town! And well, frankly, we can all agree they haven’t made the best first impression, have they?”

“Poor Scooter Boy’s going to be in the hospital for who knows how long!” Cried Old Sadie. It was interesting because she had never been a Scooter Boy fan. He must have crashed his scooter into her nail salon at least a dozen times. It was a sign of the changing times to see her support him like this. “All cuz of those ducks!”

“She’s right!” Added the man to the left of the old warehouse. It was Lawnnorder. He was known because his house featured the most elegant lawn on any block in Gale Town. Every morning he would wake up bright and trim the hedges, before the sun even came. He always believed if he trimmed each time a little less than what was needed, the sun would do the rest. Now he constantly feared that the freshly mowed grass in the lawn could, at any moment, be covered in duck droppings. “I mean, that duck had no remorse. Poor Scooter Boy just needed a break and instead, that animal broke him!”

“I hear you!” said Forever Old Fred. “I want to take a list of the grievances you have against these newcomers. I want to write it down. And then, only then, must we decide what we’re going to do about them!”

The crowd murmured amongst themselves. Forever Old Fred took the silence as his excuse to whip out a sheet of paper and a quilled ink pen. He began jotting down the grievances of Old Sadie and Lawnnorder. The people of Gale Town Neighborhood had such respect for Forever Old Fred that they patiently waited for him to finish. That’s just what happens when you’ve been old forever. We all grew up with him as a reliable old block guy. A living embodiment of our community’s integrity. What could those birds know about that?

“Alright, I want to take hands. Those who wish to raise a complaint, do it now! I want to hear about your experiences with those ducks. What have they done to you!?“said Forever Old Fred, slamming a fist onto the makeshift desk in front of him. It shook a little too hard and he had to hold onto it to keep it steady.

The people between the faded brick walls of the warehouse took a moment before anyone dared to answer. It was eerily slow. Then the first, solemn hand was raised. This was Megatooth. He was called that because he had had a boating accident a few years back. He fell off the boat and slammed into some rocks so hard, it mashed all his front teeth into one single, well Megatooth. We forgot his born name after that one.

“Well, uh, you know last week. I was down by Treesalotothem Park, and I tried to get on the boat for the little river ride, ya know.” Said Megatooth. Everyone who was anyone in the neighborhood knew that boating was Megatooth’s greatest passion in life beside dentistry. So wherever his story was going, everyone knew it would hit hard.

Forever Old Fred nodded, taking in the seriousness of what his neighbor was saying. “And what happened? What did they do to you?”

Megatooth shook his head in disgust, as if he’d til now tried hard to suppress the memory. “I paid my 5 bucks to get on board the boat, just like usual. But I looked out and some of the ducks came. Well they just hopped on the water and started swimming across themselves, without paying. Like they didn’t care!”

His comments appeared to awaken the audience. Suddenly, the silence flipped on its head. All those people who refused to raise hands were all of a sudden fighting for airtime. Hands hit each other as they traveled the air. You’d think you were in the mosh pit at a rock concert the way they swayed in the middle of a swarm of movement. Forever Old Fred smiled. He knew it was now getting to the good stuff. He used one hand to ask for a bit of quiet from the crowd. Then the other to direct the traffic of the voices.

“I hear they don’t wear pajamas!” Said Magical Mary.

“Yeah and they always have this weird look on their faces!” Said Sunlight Sucker Sonny. “They never smile at you!”

“And instead of waiting their turn at a red light, I seen some of them fly to the other side of the street!” This was Can’t buy a Carpet Carly.

“I seen the family on Strawberry Street biting each other! That means they’re dangerous!” Added Strawberry Street Sultan, Triple S for short.

“Alright, some decorum!” Forever Old Fred raised his arms high again. “I think we’ve already gathered more than enough examples now. We can all agree, these ducks are bizarre. They’re suspicious and they might just be a threat to our community! It would be irresponsible to just let them continue as they’ve been doing!”

“But what can we do?” Shrugged Rat. We called him that because he looked like a -

“That’s the question.” Forever Old Fred rubbed the bottom of his chin, lost in thought. “They haven’t done anything outright egregious yet but the warning signs are there. Beyond that, we don’t know much about them since they’re so new. So, what I suggest is, we appoint a Neighborhood Watcher!”

“Watcher? Not a Neighborhood Watch?” Triple S asked.

Forever Old Fred shook his head. “That would be normal of course. But, I fear the task is very delicate. We should only put one person at risk for such a thing. And I think I know just the guy to do it!”

Forever Old Fred pointed to the back of the hall, inviting everyone to turn their necks over the tops of the little plastic chairs. In walked Dripostotle. He used to claim he got the name because his fashion sense was the envy of everyone in Gale Town. In reality, every time you saw him, his upper body was soaked because of all the dripping coming out of his ceiling at home. He never believed in plumbing. He said it was an ideological thing. We all thought he was too cheap to fix his pipes.

Yet here he was, clad in a suit and tie unbefitting his wild black hair that was dyed green at the tips. He was a young man, kind of ostracized by some for being a tad peculiar. I think overall he was just awkward. But those sleepless eyes with giant bags laying beneath them told us he was the right man for the job. He bowed as he took a place beside Forever Old Fred. Then he addressed the audience.

“Ladies and gentleman of Gale Town, I am honored to take up this uh responsibility.” Dripostotle had clearly written the words on his forearm. He wasn’t even trying to hide it until Forever Old Fred pushed his arm down. “I will spend every waking moment of my life surveying, documenting and uh studying our new duck neighbors. I’ll report back to all of you. So you all, like know, what uh this neighborhood is really dealing with. And if they are as dangerous as we think, I will let everyone know and stuff. Our safety - my sacrifice.”

The weeks went on. More ducks moved in. The big talk the first week was how a group of female ducks gathered together to bring in a new family. This one was clustered next to them, in a little apartment on the east side of the neighborhood. Dripostotle had watched them from the street corner. He was slim enough to hide behind a lamppost. He was dim enough to fart to blow his cover. The ducks all stared at him in unison as he ran off. Early struggles on the job I suppose. He’d grow into it.

Later that week, he reported that those same female ducks returned to the house of the new arrivals one night and they all waddled on the steps together. They even shared breadcrumbs they’d spread across the ground. Dripostotle watched all night as the festivities continued. “They, they ate like, the breadcrumbs straight off the ground! It was like they weren’t even human!”

Human life did continue as well though. Everyone’s routines continued. People went to work, kids played outside. But every once in a while, things would get quote-on-quote ducky. The old men would be playing cards out front of a cafe and suddenly a loose quack would be heard in the distance. They’d all stop to listen for more. Maybe after 30 seconds, another one would ring out. We were beginning to discuss what the tone of the different quacks meant and which ones we ought to look out for.

Forever Old Fred communicated this to Dripostotle. He took it to heart as he followed a group of ducklings down the street. He was learning to be stealthy, taking great precautions not to be noticed. The ducklings seemed stuck in their own world. They all waddled along as if they weren’t being followed. It was reported later that day that they all attended a chewed-up-and-spit-out-food barbecue on Strawberry Street. What good could come from this?

The first big cries of distress came the following week. One morning, Can’t Buy a Carpet Carly stepped out of her laundromat to see a group of ducks huddled together across the street. Whatever devilish activity they were doing had already been going on for several minutes before she walked outside. One duck had its wings up in a L-shaped angle and was picking its beak into its feathers. Another bent over and pecked about the feet area. She couldn’t not look. They were all joined up, all applying beak to feathers, all cleaning themselves.

Outrage filled the veins of the ever-so-clean Can’t Buy a Carpet Carly. It wasn’t so much the idea that they would clean themselves that bugged her. That was just a necessity. Cleanliness went without saying after all. But to do it this way, with their whole bodies exposed? To do it in public? What if a child walked by? Can’t Buy a Carpet Carly’s laundromat could be losing business too if the ducks were to continue these vulgar ways. She could have washed their feathers ten times better, she thought.

And so, she resorted to unleashing her cats to teach the ducks a lesson. This was because she was still hesitant to engage them herself. She strategically let two of her 1000 pet cats out the house, hoping they’d go stop the ducks. The cats did walk across the street. And then the next, and the next. They did glance at the ducks. For one second. Then they glanced away and carried on. Carly hoped they would teach them that self-cleaning was something to remain in the home but it seemed like they could care less. And that made Can’t Buy a Carpet Carly livid, but also confused.

The cats, it seemed, looked but didn’t watch. One even walked through the group on its way back to Can’t Buy a Carpet Carly. No interaction from either species. The ducks kept cleaning themselves, preening as it was supposedly called. They did it like nobody was watching, which was of course when we watched the hardest.

Dripostotle, having missed the traumatic moment, stepped his game up later. He began to wake up even earlier in the morning, suspecting the ducks of being up to no good when they knew humans were asleep. One day, he saw a group of them, four or so, sitting atop the small lawn of a house on Northsouth Avenue. He watched from behind a trash can as they sat. And sat. And sat.

If an award should have been given for the least movement possible, these ducks would have won it. They were completely still. No quacking, no flying. Just sitting. Sitting and staring. But Dripostotle knew something was up. He decided to see if mockery would trigger them. He crouched down himself, posing as the recycling bin beside a trash can. And he watched them not move. He took notes now, in a little pocket book.

‘Ducks refuse to show capacity to move. Possible intimidation tactic. Deliberate challenge to the ways of feet?’

Hours passed. The ducks stayed still in their little spot on the porch. Dripostotle fell asleep and crumpled into the sidewalk. He had attached a piece of cardboard with the word recycling on it to his back. So, as he slept, some kids mistakenly threw their soda bottles away on him.

While Dripostotle may have fallen, another hero was coming to stop the crazy amounts of nothing going on in Gale Town. It was the weasel, Scooter Boy’s weasel, whose name most of us had forgotten. Bearing the same attitude as its owner and illegally purchased, it strutted over towards the male duck in the group. The weasel plopped itself beside the duck and began to stay still too. It was clear that it was trying to avenge its owner, who had lost the staring contest. Only this wasn’t even the same duck that beat Scooter Boy. It just had that same look to it.

Dripostotle awoke to see the weasel lock menacing eyes with the duck. It was staring while also refusing to move. And the duck just stared back. Dripostotle, not even noticing the soda bottles sliding off his shoulders, took more notes.

‘Interspecies communication? The weasel attempts to avenge its master. Escalation imminent’

But he was wrong there. The duck just sat, as the rest of the group did, for another hour. At one point, it spread its wings and almost shook the weasel out of its stillness as a result. Then the duck tucked its head into its wing to sleep. The weasel loosened up. If it could shrug, it probably would have. Instead, it curled up and slept on the lawn too. Dripostotle excitedly jotted it all down.

‘Duck falls asleep and moments later the weasel does too? Hypnosis confirmed!?’

The month came to a close. And with it, Dripostotle found the most damning evidence for his report. One morning, he was stalking Westsouth Street and came across 6 or 7 ducks. He couldn’t be bothered to remember how many honestly. What he did know, however, was that they were all together. They were walking down the sidewalk in a tight single file line. Some males, some females, some grown, some young. One in front of the other, all moving in lockstep.

Dripostotle’s jaw dropped. He immediately snuck behind them, bending over and walking on his tippy toes. He stayed a few yards behind them as they advanced. He knew he had finally found something substantial.

‘They’re organizing! Mobilizing? Must be plotting something! If my gut is right, it can only mean one thing, the overthrow of Gale Town!’

He never questioned whether they were actually going to or if they simply walked that way because they simply walked that way. Dripostotle was ecstatic. The following day, he rushed over to Forever Old Fred at his home, almost tumbling over as he read his notes aloud. Forever Old Fred listened but clearly wasn’t nearly as convinced as Dripostotle was.

“Signs of military level organization,” said Dripostotle, already out of breath somehow. “Spend whole days doing nothing. Very active in underground cleaning circles. Don’t clean up after themselves in parks. They could be doing who knows what while we humans sleep. Yet also always sleeping, regardless of location!”

These notes came off more like Dripostotle was running on fumes than anything damning enough to act on. Forever Old Fred sadly had to tell him to keep up the grind because they’d need more before they could get the relevant authorities involved. Dripostotle obeyed but thought maybe the old man was being harsh. He started sharing his notes with anyone who would listen. By the time he got around to warning the rest of us, the ducks, it seemed to me, had already forgotten we were different.

The 1 month since the meeting turned into 2, then 3, 4, 5. Gale Town was changing, though maybe not in the ways we all predicted. The first sign of change were, well, the signs. The first one that Dripostotle, our eyes, noticed was on Street Street. The little apartment there had a sign, facing towards itself, not even towards the street. When we’d twist our necks to read it, we still couldn’t. It was just a squiggly mess of lines. Quite literally scribbled with a feather I’d bet.

The sign did the rounds immediately. Everyone tried to make sense of it. Can’t Buy a Carpet Carly was irritated with the messiness of it. The spacing was wrong, she’d complain. As if whatever they wrote was concerned with the common spacing expectations used between words in the English language. Forever Old Fred was quieter, just looking and rubbing his chin, as eternally old people do. I thought immediately it could be some code unique to them. Some thought they were just learning to write and this was the sloppy start to it, but I didn’t buy it. It was deliberately off if you ask me. At least Dripostotle agreed with me.

More signs showed up then after, all over the duckier parts of Gale Town. Some faced outward, some inward. Some were even squigglier, some just like markings on wood. The signs would be stuck into the ground weirdly too. Often some were diagonal. Others leaned out over the street so you’d have to duck down to walk past them. Notice the word choice: duck down. It fed my theories. None of the signs were legible either and that made it all the stranger. Debates continued in the community.

As time went on though, things changed with it. Can’t Buy a Carpet Carly was the first to notice new signs on the ducks’ lawns. These were upright, with less scratches or dirt on the wood. And what’s more, they had things we could read. One read ‘WORMS’. Another one had ‘CRUMBS’ and the third and most suspicious simply read ‘FLAP’.

Can’t Buy a Carpet Carly, walking by the CRUMBS sign with three of her 84 cats in tow, stopped to ogle it. There was a stand behind it, with a bunch of breadcrumbs spread across the top. No bowl, no plate, just the crumbs. She shook her head in confusion and kept moving. Turning a corner, she came across the WORMS one and tried not to look. However, when she got to the FLAP sign three streets over, she couldn’t help but smile. Dripostotle was now the one confused, watching her laugh at the words and put her fist in the air as a begrudging sign of respect.

When he confronted her, she shrugged. “Their writing’s got less hideous. At least they’re trying now it seems.” She said, I wasn’t so sure.

Dripostotle continued to investigate though. He snuck into the front yard of the home to which the FLAP sign belonged. There were three or so ducks standing in the yard and, well, just flapping their wings together. The sound was atrocious. I couldn’t bear to be in the air around them. But that’s all. They just flapped and flapped. Together. I guess thinking he could survey them better, Dripostotle attempted to flap too. But the position of his elbows betrayed him. It seemed like his arms were just waving wildly, like a sort of electric shock was pulsing throughout his body. Then he got a cramp and stopped. I didn’t feel bad. What point was there trying to join in their rituals anyway?

I swore sometimes they were trying to mock us. Take for instance, the occasions where ducks would go to the supermarket. We all pushed our carts in, grabbed our stuff, you know, shopped like normal. The ducks though, they’d get their carts but then hop in them themselves. With no one to push the cart normally, they’d just hop and kick at the edge of the cart until it eventually moved. It took them eons to shop. They’d fly out, grab their thing, then fly back to drop it into the cart and stay there.

They were always blasted by stares by the time they rolled up to the checkout lanes. Those poor cashiers didn’t know what to do. They mostly assisted the ducks put their things on the counter. Then they’d take their credit cards out their beaks to pay and just hand them back into the beaks. And the ducks just kept it moving.

It was even weirder when it came to public transport. Often they’d line up like everyone else to get on a public bus. When it was their turn, the ducks would hop up and drop a few coins into the box out of their beaks. But instead of taking a seat in the bus, they’d fly through the first open window they saw, reach the roof of the bus, and just sit up there for the duration of the journey. We couldn’t believe it. I mean, no one, not even troublemakers like Scooter Boy, defied the norms like that. What were they playing at, these creatures?

Dripostotle and I disagreed on their crosswalk etiquette. See, they’d sit at the corners waiting for the lights to change. When the lights turned green and all the humans started walking though, they’d just stay in one place. Then the lights would turn red, still there. Like nothing even mattered. I believed they were trying to defy even more of our basic rules. Dripostotle thought maybe they were overdoing the waiting part, like they didn’t understand the lights themselves. But how could that be?

Even their hangout spots were becoming weirder. As we’d walk anywhere in the neighborhood, we’d come across ducks chilling in the strangest places. Under stairs, empty plots of land, wide parking lots, you name it. Like they were claiming any territory none of us cared enough to claim. And that claim alone forced us to care.

Eventually, the other animals in the neighborhood started noticing. I started to see Scooter Boy’s weasel hanging out in similar unused areas. Sometimes when ducks were around, sometimes not. He’d changed a lot. He wasn’t even visiting Scooter Boy in the hospital anymore from what I heard. As if whatever the ducks had introduced him to mattered more than his old owner. It was crazy.

One day it got crazier though. Dripostotle was watching as he did and Megatooth was out walking down Westeast Avenue. There were a group of ducks huddled around the front door to what I guess was one of their apartments. The wooden door was broken off the hinge and tilting out, clearly close to falling off completely. The ducks seemed to be trying to prevent it, flapping their wings against it in vain.

To my surprise, Megatooth came over and offered a hand. “You need some help? I can be your guy.” He said. I wasn’t sure why. We all know they wouldn’t understand. But he whipped out his toolkit and started the work regardless.

Dripostotle, lurking behind a bush, witnessed it all. I swear all our hearts raced when Megatooth’s husky came charging in. He must have thought the ducks were trying to hurt his owner. He came up to the apartment steps growling, getting into position to pounce. The ducks reacted this time. They turned around and stared. They didn’t fly away, didn’t back down, just stared. And Megatooth kept treating the door. And the husky stayed in position to charge. I was expecting it, a bite, a scratch, something. Maybe even something from the ducks. But no.

Megatooth’s husky loosened up and laid down on the first step, looking up at his owner’s work just like the ducks did. It seemed all but content to do nothing now, the confusion leaving its face. The ducks tried to help too. Some held screwdrivers between their wings. The pointed part pointing at the ducks themselves as they did. Others tried to keep nails in their beak to give to Megatooth only to learn they were difficult to hold without hurting themselves.

The weirdest part was when Megatooth tried to reach the top of the door hinge to put it back in place. The ducks, calling on others nearby, jumped atop one another, until there was a tower of ducks about 8 feet tall so that the top one could help Megatooth hold the top of the door in place. At first, I didn’t know why the image struck me as so weird. Then I remembered something; couldn’t they just fly?

Whatever the case was, it worked. A few minutes later, Megatooth had the door fixed and properly installed. He gave the ducks a thumbs up. The Husky sat up but didn’t growl, just standing beside his smiling owner. Somehow the ducks communicated to Megatooth to wait a second, through quacks and motions that he for some reason obeyed. One duck flew back into the house and came out with some small animal treat. I guess one of the processed little snacks we give them. The duck flew up and dropped it in Megatooth’s hand. He sniffed it and gave it to his husky. The dog ate it immediately.

If dogs could smile, it surely would have at that moment. Its tail started wagging and it was inviting the ducks to play. “Not now. We got stuff to do! Maybe later.” Said Megatooth. And he went on his way, waving at the ducks and still carrying that grin.

As soon as he was out of sight, Dripostotle jumped out the bushes triumphantly. “That’s it! Enough evidence! Enough! I gotta tell Forever Old!”

He ran toward the center of town. I wasn’t sure what came after. I was fixated on the ducks. They were practicing with the door, going in and out on purpose. As if they were celebrating the fact it worked again. Farther away but still visible, it was crazy how pleased Megatooth and his husky looked, on their way to somewhere else. I didn’t know what to make of what I’d just seen. As the ducks slipped into what was now their homes, it felt odd, the whole ordeal. That’s the best way to describe it.

Things entered a phase of no turning back after that. The next thing that happened was that a lot of properties in so far untouched quarters of Gale Town began getting bought up by the ducks. We saw their numbers grow and grow. We used to see lawns that were at least 15 feet wide and 15 feet long but that was changing. Now they were about 5 by 5. And, instead of grass, we’d see these little ponds all over the place. It was a big shock for us. Some of whom were still clutching onto the belief that the ducks were only here temporarily.

When the ducks started going to Can’t Buy a Carpet Carly’s laundromat to get their feathers washed, the change was clear. She was taken aback and reluctant at first. But, after confusing every duck for the ones she saw cleaning themselves outside, she took in their business. Her 1500 cats didn’t seem to mind either. Everyone kind of let it be as long as Can’t Buy a Carpet Carly seemed fine with it. They didn’t complain. They just waited.

Megatooth had the same experience. His repair shop was suddenly open to ducks. Their little webbed feet made footprints on the snowy days. They must not have been snow ready. A lot of them needed their signs fixed, or their crumb stands or worm stands fixed or whatever. Megatooth had trouble understanding their issues since he couldn’t actually speak to them but he was happy to take their money. And while he worked, sometimes a few ducks would play with the husky out back.

We used to stop and admire the neighbors’ lawns. Now, that pastime has changed too. The ponds which were once eyesores had become ordinary. They just glanced now and carried on. The ducks would be in there, floating, swimming, the dad and mom and their ducklings. People even called it cute sometimes, as if they already forgot our lawns that used to be there. Or maybe they were never ‘’cute’’ enough?

The cats still didn’t seem to care one way or another. I didn’t know if it was their free will or if Can’t Buy a Carpet Carly had taught them not to disrespect paying customers. Either way, they would sometimes sip water from the ponds. The ducks didn’t seem to mind. On what was left of the lawns, Megatooth’s husky would sometimes play. When the ducks were drying off, you could see them entertaining him. Even Scooter Boy’s weasel would be there too now, just chilling with the birds. It was like his owner never existed. Or maybe his memory really meant so little.

Dripostotle was still dedicated to his job though. I remember him reeling off his reports to Forever Old Fred every so often. “Now they try to help, hold tools. Then do nothing. They stare. Like a lot. They swim. But sometimes they are on land. Can fly. But sometimes don’t. Walk in lines. I see it. They walk places. Sometimes they sleep too! But they stand when sleeping. But sometimes they sleep when standing!”

Forever Old Fred never seemed to listen with all his heart anymore. I commended Dripostotle for his dedication but you could tell he was becoming more and more desperate and frustrated. Forever Old Fred always sent him away saying they needed more proof of the ducks’ activity before they could do anything about them. But deep down, I think he was dealing with his own doubts about everything. I’m sure he was telling himself that there didn’t seem to be anything left to warn people about. Time was passing quickly after all.

It was because the meetings weren’t the same as before. Forever Old Fred held them in the same place. We were at least 100 a week. We used to list off a whole host of grievances and concerns. But now, there would be 50 people, then 20. And Forever Old Fred would have to break a sweat to get them to name things that irked them. He started to feel more like a preacher voicing a sermon to non-believers than anything else. I think in his old age, it cost him. And it was something he wasn’t used to.

Dripostotle, who was always close to Forever Old Fred, began to take a bit of distance too. It was partially because his younger brother seemed to like hanging around in the duck parts of town. In fact, many children were now playing around the ducks’ ponds. The ducks seemed to just look on curiously. So the kids would get closer. Next thing you know, the two seemed to play together. When the weather got good, the kids would enjoy splashing about in the ponds and cooling off.

Yet no one told them to stop. So they kept going. They were so close to the ducks it was crazy. They acted like it was nothing. And so did the ducks. Many of them also stopped looking. The ponds were also popular with adults. Eventually, they’d be there too, supervising their kids, trying to chat with the ducks. They only complained that the ponds were too small. They had been designed for the ducks only, after all.

Then Forever Old Fred really hit rock bottom. So little people were coming to the meetings that he had to shut them down entirely. I didn’t understand why they didn’t fight more for the neighborhood like we all used to. In the end, Forever Old Fred resigned himself to accepting his diminishing influence over the community. He was still liked and respected. But, the days of his unquestioned authority were fading fast. Whispers got out that he was the crazy one. ‘Out of touch’ they’d say. I guess he started recoiling at the sound of them. He started to reconsider everything.

So he helped out when people called on him to build more ponds. Not just for the ducks’ homes. They were all over the neighborhood now. And they were all in them. Ducks, people, kids, pets, together. They set up park benches and picnic tables. They turned empty lots into little park areas where we didn’t used to have them. It felt so foreign and strange. Sure the areas before weren’t the prettiest in the world but they were what we knew. And now they thought they knew them better. They’d all been engulfed by this trend, influenced by birds.

I watched it all as the months bled into the first year since the ducks arrived. Life just went on. The quacks were just background neighborhood noise now. The ducks were like new neighborhood boys and girls. The little kids especially were getting close to them. I always knew that little animals were fascinating to children but this was outrageous. Oh how they loved and adored them. And that brought their moms and dads closer to the duck moms and dads. They’d smile at them, try to chat, pass time with them. I could never get it. But, I guess, they didn’t need my understanding anymore.

I was really shocked the day Scooter Boy finally came back to Gale Town. There was no fuss about it for starters. I heard he came on his own two feet. Megatooth helped him back into his home and that was that. I didn’t even know about it until a few days later. People were talking about him coming home but I didn’t see him until that day at the pond. He walked slower, he seemed to have lost that fire he had back in the day. And his eyes were clearly all stared out. They looked like they needed a pick-me-up.

He came by , through a little green path and towards the bench. He was whistling quietly, not a care in the world. But there was still something weak to him. This was one of the larger ponds in Gale Town that he came to. It was actually where the warehouse used to stand, Forever Old Fred’s warehouse where the meetings were once held. One day the grand place was there. The next day there was water instead. And ducks of course. Scooter Boy saw a group of them huddled in and around the water as he took a seat on the bench beside it.

One of the ducks looked up at Scooter Boy and he immediately stared back. I braced myself, wondering if Scooter Boy still held a grudge, wondering what he must have been thinking about all that time in the hospital bed. He leaned forward to stare deeper into the duck from the edge of the bench. It was just like he did that day. And just the same, the duck didn’t budge, staring back. Then, Scooter Boy blinked. It was a big, clearly intentional blink. And he smiled. And looked away. And the duck turned away too.

It was then that I noticed Scooter Boy’s weasel laying on the grass beside some ducks. It nestled itself next to Scooter Boy and he pet it. Scooter Boy shrugged while it started grooming itself. “Guess you like it here, huh? Glad you figured it out.”

Moments later, Dripostotle entered the scene. He sat down on the bench beside Scooter Boy and looked his way. “Long time uh no see. I heard you’re like back in town.”

“Yup,” said Scooter Boy. “Got back a few days ago.”

“It’s like different than before, isn’t it?” Said Dripostotle softly.

“Very.” Said Scooter Boy. But oddly there was no malice in his voice. He nodded his head. “Isn’t this where Forever Old Fred used to be? What up with him?”

“A lot actually,” and it must have been the first time I saw Dripostotle laugh. I couldn’t understand how the ducks seemed unbothered by this. “We did some meetings. I was assigned to uh watch the ducks. Then, well, things changed. And he sorta kinda lost it. So he just went away, you know. Retirement life. I guess he felt we didn’t need him too much anymore.”

“Wow,” said Scooter Boy leaning back, “I know I’d give him hell, but it’s kinda sad to hear he’s out of it.”

Dripostotle shrugged. “He’s still around, just not like the big boss of town like back in the day.”

“And you?” Said Scooter Boy. “So you’re watching the ducks?”

“I was. I stopped now.”

“Why?”

This is where I fastened my ears, eager to hear what kind of excuse Dripostotle could possibly have. “There’s like nothing left to watch. Forever Old Fred didn’t care about my uh evidence. After a while, neither did I.. I had to admit it, like I had nothing on them. They’re good folk.”

“I guess so.” Said Scooter Boy. And he gazed at the ducks. They were as they always were, seemingly oblivious, paddling through the water. Some were hopping about the grass. Others were grooming themselves alongside Scooter Boy’s weasel.

Then, suddenly, the largest of the male ducks started flapping its wings. That horrid sound of the air getting tortured came back into my ears. As if they had been forced to do it, the other ducks slowly joined in, flapping about, old feathers flying off their bodies. Now they were all doing it, except those still in the water. Dripostotle grinned at Scooter Boy and got up. “Oh check this out. This is good.”

My eyes widened in shock and awe. Dripostotle hunched just slightly over and began flapping his arms like the ducks. But, where before he failed miserably to mimic them, now everything was on point. Frequency, movement, rhythm. He even bent his arm as perfectly as possible to imitate the shape of a duck’s wings. It was astounding. And all capped by the same grating noise the ducks were making. And they didn’t seem to mind when he entered their area. As if they couldn’t distinguish him. They simply continued to clap. And Scooter Boy just laughed. Then he started sharing pieces of his sandwich with one of the ducks.

I watched on, waiting for a change in the scene. It was dynamic and yet hauntingly still, because they were all locked into trance-like movements. Dripostotle flapping about with a bunch of birds. Scooter Boy, breaking off little pieces of sandwich bread and tossing them to the ducks. The weasel, now helping a duck groom itself. And they all smiled, the humans that is. And it went on and on, as the sun set behind them, on where Forever Old Fred used to be. Now there was this. Humans flapping pretend wings, humans breaking bread with ducks.

And I was there too. But I was not part of that scene. Because I never, even for one second, envied them. I stayed where I was and I watched. The fuss all came and went in time but I remained there. I was the only one staring now. No one else. They all just smiled or kept on their way. Silence became our shared language of protest I guess. Nobody realized they could still watch. So I decided I would take it upon myself to do it.

Why? Because everyone else had lost the plot and someone had to keep it up. Had to. Somewhere along the way that sense was swept away I guess. Maybe it will return. Maybe it had been forever laid to rest. I remembered it, and it laid bare in the curtain of black behind every blink of mine. Even if the more time passed, the more I wondered why - why nobody saw things the way I did anymore. I asked myself, when did they exchange my eyes for theirs’. I wondered, when they would notice me.