The Drake of Drake Avenue

“Lookee there!” a toothless old fisherman yelled to me. “That’s a biggun!” He cackled at his own sarcasm. Anyone could tell that the Perch on the end of my line was no bigger than half a slab of bacon.

“Listen ‘ere: I know of a man named Cletus, well, ye can barely call ‘im a man, he’s more of a gorilla!” he let out that low congested cackle once more. “He’s an expert in photography, an’ if ye happen to take a stroll down past ‘is place, he’ll make it look like ye never caught a bigger fish in yer life!”

Though I knew this man was obviously deranged, I couldn’t help but take interest in he and his gorilla-like acquaintance’s shenanigans.

“Where can I find him?” I asked in a jovial tone.

“Down along Drake avenue! Ye can tell Cletus that Ol’ Jebediah sent ye.” He winked and twisted his face into a toothless grin. “Oh, and remind him,” he was struggling to contain his laughter. “three quarters is always more than four dimes! Ha!” He burst out laughing and nothing I could do or say could subdue the peals of true joy escaping from his chapped lips.

I walked away, confused at Jeb’s last statement, breathing in the Saturday morning air. It smelled like apples. Apples always reminded me that fall was sprinting towards us at an unfathomable speed, running from his reckoning: the blistering cold and darkness of winter.

Drake Avenue was known for the grouchy Mallard who sat on the steps of the pub and snapped up the leftovers of the stumbling drunkards. Because of this, it was my least favorite place of town. Aside from the hissing duck and angry drunks, there were ramshackle houses and people like Jebediah the fisherman who would never let you out of a conversation once you entered.

The invisible wall between the rich and the poor was easy to see, for those who opened their eyes. The rich deny its existence, the poor loathe its existence, and everyone else looks the other way. Few people address the division between classes because they know the affluent will always have the upper hand.

I walked towards the hissing drake, side stepping around him, and then proceeded up the steps of a dark cabin with an oakwood sign hanging from the rafters. The sign read: GET YOUR PICTRES HERE. The misspelling of the word, “picture” only confirmed the common conception that Drake Avenue was the poorest and least educated part of town. Up the steps I went, the stairs groaning in their old age, and into the shop. Immediately after I opened the door, A burly man with a scraggly beard opened the door and grunted a hello.

“He wasn’t kidding.” I thought to myself, recalling Jebediah’s comments on the gorilla-like shop owner.

I followed Cletus to the back of the shop, where he proceeded to tell me about his business. Well, at least I think that’s what he was telling me.

“A man named Jebediah sent me here,” I began, but before I could continue, Cletus the cameraman cut me off with a series of vulgar expletives directed at Jebediah.

I grimaced and tried to continue, “He said you could help me get the right angle on this fish.” I talked while I pulled the perch out of my pocket. Cletus grumbled about Jebediah and then mumbled a response that I think was a word of confirmation. I handed him the fish and said, “Oh, he also said to remind you something,” Cletus narrowed his eyes, I looked at his knuckles; they were white. I took a big step back and to the left. “He said to say that three quarters…” I didn’t get to finish. Cletus howled profanity and hurled a barstool at where my head used to be. I ducked around the corner and hid there until I heard his rage subside.

“So, can you help me?” I asked carefully, my hands ready to fly into defensive mode if needed. Cletus the cameraman glared at me, twitched a few times, and said his first intelligible word since I had met him. “Yes.”

Cletus was a few brain cells short of intelligence, but he was the most skilled photographer I had ever met. He flew all over the room, adjusting lights, switching lenses, changing backgrounds, and preparing the scene. When he was done, he gestured for me to grab the fish, then he directed me to the center of the room where he put a fishing rod in my hands. Cletus grabbed the creature, who was now dead and stiff from the ride inside my pocket. I think Cletus may have hit the fish with an unidentified object during one of his anti-Jebediah rages, because there was a small gash that ran along the side of the poor perch’s body.

For such a big man, Cletus moved fast, moving the cameras and lights to create the perfect setting for a fishing trip. The cameraman ushered me over to my spot and struck a pose. It took me a second too long to realize that he wanted me in this pose. Cletus had an annoyed look on his face after I finally grabbed the rod and poised myself in the correct position. In a matter of seconds, Cletus had snapped the pictures, handed me a piece of paper, and slammed the door on my back. I looked at the paper.

The paper read: come bac in an our.

I grimaced at his grammar, then wandered down Drake avenue, hoping to kill some time. Seven children came romping down the road with the drake in front, running for his life. I almost felt sorry for the cranky old duck. Almost.

I bought a few Honeycrisp apples at the store about a half mile downtown, then slowly made my way back towards the shop. I finished off an apple, and threw the core to the duck, who gratefully snapped at it with his beak, then quacked in disapproval when he realized he could not swallow it whole.

The bartender was sweeping the entryway to his store, when he looked up and wheezed in annoyance, “I’d rather ya killed the duck than fed ‘im!”

I looked back at him apologetically, “Sorry, I figured it would be better for the drake to have it than for it to go to waste.”

The duck made one last attempt to swallow the core, but he had made a grave mistake. The duck wobbled, his chest pumping in and out, but no air made it to his lungs. He pushed out a last: “Waaaaaak!” Then he fell dead as the perch in my pocket.

“I take it back!” The barkeeper nodded his approval, “Feel free to feed the ducks anytime!” Then he laughed at his own joke and went back inside the bar.

I hurried away from the dead drake and the crowd of people that was growing around it and jogged towards Cletus’s shop. The burly photographer once again greeted me the moment I opened the door and handed me my pictures. I gasped, then laughed until I cried. The cameraman had worked a masterpiece! The fish, which he had placed on a small stand, looked as if it was nearly crushing me under it’s weight, and Cletus had photoshopped both myself and the perch into a lakeside scene, with four other fishermen staring at the huge fish with their mouths agape.

I handed Cletus some cash and waited a few moments while he attempted to count the money himself. Eventually he resorted to a calculator. For the first time, Cletus the Cameraman smiled. He even shook my hand and grunted something that sounded happy. I am assuming he was happy, because if he wasn’t, then he was constipated. He obviously did not converse with others often. The happiness ended abruptly, however, with Cletus grunting a farewell, and slamming the door on my back for the second time that day.

I took the picture back down to the docks and showed it to the crazy fisherman Jebediah. He laughed long and hard until he started to cough and wheeze, then he laughed even longer and even harder.

“Great Gulper Eels boy! Ye better take that pict’re on a-down to the city paper! Aye! See if ye can get an article printed!”

The idea was very intriguing, so I thought I would give it a try. I left the giddy fisherman and headed towards the Gander Gazette.

“This town is obsessed with waterfowl.” I muttered to myself.

I walked by the bar, where a very large crowd had gathered around the goose. News reporters were filming live, and police officers were inspecting the area. The bartender stood outside his shop wringing his hands and grinning nervously at the cameras.

“What?!?” I put up the hood on my sweatshirt and snuck through the crowd to the Gander Gazette. I handed the picture to the receptionist at the desk and explained what it was.

“I caught this massive fish, “I began, feeling a bit foolish, “I was hoping you might print a story on it in the paper. It’s probably a city record or something.” The receptionist did not seem to hear anything I said. She just stared at me, both wonder and horror evident in her expression. She leaned over to the man next to her who was fixed on his computer and pointed at me. He lowered his glasses down below his eyes and squinted clueless for a moment, then his expression changed to a dawning comprehension. They both stared with their mouths agape until I turned and walked quickly out of the building.

Very worried and very confused, I ran away from the Gander Gazette as fast as my long legs would take me. I looked back over my shoulder, expecting to see a swat team or police force or army of ducks. Instead, I turned back around just intime to run face first into a big man in a suit coat. He was wearing a badge labeled: Detective Quill. He grabbed me and stared me in the eyes, breathing through his heavy mustache and chewing on a yellow toothpick.

“It’s him!” someone yelled, and the whole crowd rushed towards Detective Quill and me. The investigator held up his hands and spoke in a low southern drawl, as all small-town law enforcers do. “I need all y’all t’ jist calm on down. I got ‘im, so he ain’t getting away now.”

The crowd backed off and he leaned in close to me, his hand on my collar and his mustache brushing my nose. I smelled tuna and garlic on his breath, but that wasn’t what concerned me at the moment.

“Did you, or did you not,” Quill began, “murder this here drake?” The whole crowd leaned in towards us. I glanced around and answered, “Well, not on purpose.”

“So, he admits to it!” A lady in gray yelled.

“Throw ‘im in the clink!” proclaimed an old man.

“Ducks are people too!” Cried a young woman indignantly.

Shouts of agreement went up and then the crowd began to chant, “To the stake!”

I was flabbergasted. I had lost all knowledge of what was right or wrong, what was up or down, or what was a duck and what was a person. I had attempted to feed a nasty drake, and accidently killed it. Now the whole city was rioting and petitioning Detective Quill to burn me at the stake!

I desperately tried to deter the people from violence, “I thought nobody liked this duck anyway?” More shouts of anger went up from among the crowd.

A homeless man shrieked, “That duck was all our city stood for! You destroyed our popularity!”

The mob mentality had obviously taken the people past the point of reason. They slowly moved closer to the detective and I, their shouts of rage and ducks drowning out the sounds of a beautiful fall day.

Detective Quill held up his hands again and shouted at the mob to back off. “I have looked extensively into the laws regarding waterfowl,” he paused and glanced in mock annoyance at me, “and unfortunately, there is no clause or loophole that justifies us burning this here man at the stake.” He leaned in close again, this time his breath smelled like sauerkraut. I was wondering how he had eaten so fast, when he growled loudly enough for the crowd to hear: “You done got lucky I let you off the hook this time!” he leaned in closer and whispered, “Actually, I can’t stand that goose thing, or whatever it was, so, you just did your country a service.” I stood watching Detective Quill with my mouth wide open as he backed away from me and into his car.

The next morning, I woke up and found every article in the Gander Gazette to be laden with duck propaganda. The headline read: Duck Murderer gets off easy. On the last page, I found an article that was titled: Guy Catches Little Fish, Cletus’s Editing Unparalleled. I sighed and threw the paper in the trash. I had intended to gain popularity by catching fish, but instead I had become nefarious for killing the town Duck. From that day on, I was known as only: The Guy Who Killed the Duck. Despite my many attempts to redeem myself, our small town has never acquired a mascot quite like the Drake of Drake Avenue, leaving my popularity about as alive as the Mallard on the street and the Perch in my pocket.