Bitch of a Duck Run

"This will go good with the duck" dad said. "I'll go have Bobby buy the duck."

I'm here, aren't? What the fuck do I sit here for? To watch in dismay as Bobby gets a pat on the head for running piss-ant errands?! "Good boy, Baby Brother Bobby! As long as you go get the duck, you don't have to be responsible for your own fuck-ups."

"I'll go get the duck" I said defiantly.

The padre drunk stood wavering, a shaky tower dilapidated by alcohol & arthritis. He balanced himself with a hand on the counter of the kitchen stove.

His reply? "Then you go buy the duck . . . if you have the money."

I, a man of zero income, can own own up to my destitute meandering. I am the loser you laugh at to feel better about yourself. I am the one defeated, my pride buried long, long ago. I'm everything you don't want to be. The walking shame. The living embarrassment.

". . . if you have the money."

Ama.

What did you just say? To speak as though Bobby is a man of many riches, as if he does your food & beer runs out of his own pocket? It is he who bears his pockets empty. It is he who begs to keep the change. And yet you speak as though he is better than I, holding Bobby's proud flesh above my grave nigh.

Dad walked and wobbled away, unaware of the hurt he just caused. As he entered another room, my voice trailed on, echoing the pain I just felt. I sat angry. I sat wounded. In an attempt to deflect the verbal sword thrust into my fraction of dignity, I mouthed off to my brother beside me. But he cares not.

"Fuck this," I said, "I'll go buy that god damn duck."

Just then, Bobby entered the kitchen and searched for the key to the car. He was given the orders from dad. He searched desperately for that pat on the head. Irately, I stepped outside and asked dad if the duck is all he wanted. It was. As I headed toward the garage door, I told Bobby I'll get the duck. I asked him if he wanted anything else without waiting for an answer. I got in the car, started the engine. Bobby chased me and tried to hand off the money that came from Dad. It's too late for that. I sped out of the driveway, away from the hurt and away from the cause.

I may not have money, but I have something saved. What little I do have, I spend on the $16.33 worth of roasted, chopped duck. As a vegetarian, it's not even something I'll partake of. I was composed when I bought the duck. I was in such a mad hurry when I left the house that I ended up tying my boots at the Chinese restaurant off of Jackson & Mckee. The people behind the counter were nice. Anybody who isn't Bobby is somebody I'd rather see.

I went home less furious but still affected. I lifted the plastic bag of duck so that dad could clearly see it from the other room, through the multi-pane windowed slide door. I put it on the table. I go toward the other room and opened the slide door. Bobby is hiding, sitting on the floor, away from view. He knows what's up but like everything else in this world, he doesn't give a shit. But I made god damn sure he gave the duck money back to dad. Dad reached for his pocket, with few words, in an effort to pass the money to me.

I looked at him straight in the eyes and all I said was "No. No."

The damage was done. This bitch of a duck run.




I have no doubt in my mind that dad would sacrifice me to pull his brother Bobby up. If to the fire I must go, then at least I wouldn't see the fucker anymore.

I'm going to go away now. Take a little drive away from the mess that I see. I need a different view. Though I fear when I come back, HE will still be here. And he will be. As sure as the sun sets, he will be.

The cruelty that my mind absorbs is tiring. Bobby's broken face is all that it sees. The hole in the wall. The anger. It consumes me. To feel so much is not healthy. There are times when I just want to scream in his face. There are times when I just want to knock the fucker out. What I end up doing is write. Allow me the ill word. For without it, I would expire.