Pink Flamingos

“This is crazy. This is insane. Why now? It's summer for God's sake and those Robinsons won't even have a pink flamingo on their lawn.” huffed the old man to himself. He stomped up his perfect little concrete walkway. It was a hot summer day and according to Mr. Falcia, it was the most perfect day of summer. It would be a nice 80 degrees Fahrenheit, just a few clouds in the sky, the birds and bees would be out, there would be no chance of rain, and, as he had thought previously, no chance of some unexplained disaster.

He scaled the white steps onto his porch and carefully went straight through his freshly painted red door. He took pride in that door. He painted it himself every year on the same day at the same time with the same color paint. The door handle was changed every leap year on the leap day to ensure it never looked worn. And that had to be where the problem lied, or at least that's what he thought. This year being a leap year he had changed that handle, but not on the leap day. He ended up having to go to the doctors that day, so his handel had been changed the next day. That must be why this new family moved in across the street. He had done something unprecedented and changed the course of history, that was why the whole neighborhood was falling apart.

“No.” he thought, “It can be fixed.”. He sprung across the dining room and into the kitchen. “Third drawer on the right.” he thought to himself happily, tapping on each drawer till he reached the third. He pulled open the pristine white drawer.

Inside was everything the third drawer on the right should have. His knife sharpener, lighter, and a pair of scissors. What it shouldn't have had however was a 6 by 5 by 1-inch space where the neighborhood guidelines should be.

The old man didn't believe it; he even closed the drawer and opened it again just to make sure. “MARIA.” he shouted, “WHERE'S THE BOOK OF GUIDELINES ?”. Sweat formed on his brow, he began pulling drawer after drawer out. “Knife, spoons, forks,” he said to himself. “WHERE IS IT MARIA.” he cried again. Still no response. He whipped around back towards the dining room. And there on the dining room table laying beside the freshly picked vase of dandelions was a small book.

A weight was lifted off the man's chest. He scrambled over to it and began flipping through its thin worn-out pages.

“What a rude man.” scoffed Mrs. Robinson at the man across the street. “I mean we just moved in and he had the audacity to tell us we aren't welcome here. And threatening us and mumbling about flamingos, and-”

“Honey he's a kooky old man. He's probably just upset to see his old friends move out of their home.” Mr. Robinson said reassuringly.

Every single time he defended someone else she couldn't help herself but give him a leering eye. But that's why she married him. He could sympathize with a fly landing on his burger. Saying ‘Oh well he was probably just hungry.’ of course in this case he could sympathize with a crazy old man threatening her and her kid.

“Come here Johnny,” she said crouching down and picking up the young boy.

“But but.” he tried to say, reaching for the rocks and twigs he was playing with. Currently, the rocks were winning the war but the twigs had prepared a counteroffensive that was sure to catch the rock empire off guard.

“Come on baby let's look around the new house while daddy brings in all the boxes.” She walked across the cracked cement pathway and up the creaky old porch giving her husband a look.

  Mr. Robinson sighed and looked around at all the cardboard boxes they stuffed into their little Prius. The whole car had practically exploded when they got here. Boxes laid strewn about all over the overgrown yard. He began making his way over to one of the bigger boxes, but he caught himself staring over at the house across the street.

The grass was the perfect shade of green, freshly cut, with a pink flamingo set up and tilted at a 45-degree angle facing the street. It looked exactly like the house from the brochure. In the sense that it almost looked fake.

“I see you've met Mr. Falcia.” said a man's voice.

Mr. Robinson turned, leaning on their worn-down white picket fence was a middle-aged man. His wrinkled face was smiling and his gut was pouring out between the slits in the fence. “Is that him?” he asked pointing across the street.

“Yes, it is. He's kind of the grouch of the neighborhood.” the man chuckled, “Ben.” he said, extending his hand.”

“Steven,” said the younger man, shaking it, “He’s got a really nice house. Looks very um.. picturesque.” 

“Oh yeah, that house is his life. Ever since his wife died I don't think he’s stopped working on it. Remodeling or painting, cutting the grass every other day, taking care of the garden. You name it he does it.”

“Oh well. I guess everyone grieves differently.”

“Suppose so. But don't pay him no mind, he bugs everyone about the community guidelines. The only ones really enforced are the seasonal decorations.”

“The uh flamingo?”

“Yeah, the flamingo.”

“Yeah I think that's what he was upset about.” nodded Steven. “Well nice to meet you.” he smiled turning towards his boxes.

“You too. Do you need a hand with those?” Ben gestured to the boxes.

“Uh. Yeah, that'd be great.”

Ben was already walking around the fence.

There was a loud knocking at the door. Mr. and Mrs. Robinson gave each other a look. Neither moved. Ra tat tat tat rang out into the dining room. Steven slurped his spaghetti into his mouth and left the dinner table and went to open the door.

“About time.” snapped Mr. Falcia, his fist was extended in the air ready to give another knock. “You have 24 hours to get a flamingo on this lawn or I'll be calling the city.”

Steven nodded, “Good evening Mr. Falcia. Is there a specific brand of a flamingo?” he said, trying to be as courteous as possible.

“I prefer a Plutus brand flamingo but anything Fuschia pink will do.” said the old man as if they were discussing fine wine, “I find hot pink too aggressive but a magenta too dark. Plus.” he leaned in and looked around, “Its Maria’s favorite color.” he said.

Steven bowed his head a bit, “Of course sir. I’ll get a fuchsia pink flamingo by tomorrow. And uh sorry about your loss.” he finished solemnly.

Mr. Falcia’s tone shifted again, his brow furrowed and he hunched back over. Then he turned and walked back down the cement walkway. Steven heard him mumble something about the grass right before he shut the door.

“Who was it?” asked his wife as he sat back down.

“Mr. Falcia.” he said.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Robinson with a bit of disdain. “What did he want?”

“Us to get a flamingo.” he said, taking a bite of his wife’s spaghetti, “He said he would call the city if we didn't in 24 hours.”

“This man I swear.” she shook her head, “If he wants it so bad he can get one himself. It isn't like the city will do anything we just moved in.”

“No more than likely they won't. But I don't want to upset the guy. I can ask Ben if he has an old one lying around.”

“Baby no.” she said, “Don't let him bully you around. He’ll live and everything.”

“He will, I know. And I'm not being bullied. But we did just move into the neighborhood so shouldn't we at least make an attempt to play nice?”

She gave him another look, “Fine but I’m not helping you.”

Steven smiled.

He laid the plastic flamingo down on the table in their garage. It was more white with a pink hue from the years outside in the summer sun. He shook a can of spray paint he had just bought from the store and thought about what Ben had said.

“I wouldn't worry about the city. They're just as annoyed with Mr. Falcia as you are. Just stick this old flamingo on the yard and you'll be fine.” he heard him say.

Steven began spraying the flamingo getting as many strokes as he could. He really wanted this to look nice for the old man. “He doesn't seem like he has a lot of pleasures nowadays and if it makes him happy for us to have a fuchsia pink flamingo I can get a fuchsia pink flamingo.” The store did have that specific shade of flamingo so he had to take matters into his own hands.

After a few coats, he felt like it looked nice. The pink seemed to match Mr. Falcias though it looked a little wetter. “It should be fine.” he thought, walking outside. He looked over across the street and tried to mirror the other flamingo as best he could, sticking it into the ground at a 45-degree angle facing the road.

Steven felt a bit proud of himself. He had a bounce in his step as he made his way to the lawnmower. He decided that even if that flamingo was perfect then Mr. Falcia would just get upset at the grass. So he cranked the lawnmower up and took care of it. In the neighborhood guidelines pamphlet that had mysteriously appeared in their mailbox last night, it said that a 1-inch grass height was recommended. So he figured that's what he was going for.

The sun rose in the sky and the birds started chirping while he worked. Heatwaves formed over the asphalt and bugs began flying around going about their business. Soon other families came out of their homes and got in their cars, going off to run Saturday morning errands. And eventually, the infamous Mr. Falcia too came out of his home and stood on his porch.

He looked over at the younger man, squinting his eyes trying to see what he saw doing. Steven looked over at him and waved. He nodded back seemingly approving of the mowing. He turned his gaze to the flamingo. His brow thickened and he rushed off to his garage, making sure to take the pristine stone walkway to the side door.

Steven noticed him rush off and he turned to his flamingo curiously. To his shock, the flamingo was bleached again. Barely any pinker than before. How was that? He had just had it all shining and fuchsia-y pink. 

Mr. Robinson hurried up and finished the last corner of his yard. By that time Mr. Falcia was hobbling his way across the street as fast as he could, carrying a can of something in his hand. Steven walked over to the curb to greet him.

“Good morning sir.”

“Did you paint that?” he pointed to the flamingo.

“I did and now it seems to have unpainted itself.”

“What kind of paint did you use?”

“Just some fuchsia pink spray paint I found at the store.”

The old man nodded his head. “That wasn't plastic paint.” 

“They make plastic paint?” thought the younger man, “Oh my bad, I didn't realize. I’ll go get some from the store.”

“No, you won’t. They don't sell fuchsia paint there. The closest place that does is about 50 miles away. Here.” he said holding out a can of spray paint. “Three coats of this, let each coat dry before you do the next. And for god's sake don't get any on the grass.”

“Um. Of course sir. Thank you, sir.”

“The old man didn't say anything he just hobbled back across the street.

Steven sprang to it. He pulled the lawn ornament out of the ground. And laid it on the concrete. He sprayed a nice even coat on it and went inside to eat breakfast. He repeated this process throughout the day. He ended up needing 4 coats of paint at the end of it all. But he triumphantly stuck his fuchsia pink flamingo into the ground and started going back inside.

As he was walking up the steps he heard a loud bang. He turned around to see Mr. Falcia across the street cursing to himself. He was leaning over a fallen bench. It looked like he was trying to attach a chain to a hook on the roof. He bent down slowly bracing his arm against his knee. Grabbing one of the metal chains he raised it into the air and somehow got it to grab. Then he took a breather and braced his back with his hand.

Steven grabbed the pink spray can he had lent him earlier and rushed over. Up the perfect cement path, up the white wooden steps, and onto the man's porch. “Here let me.” he said, reaching down and grabbing the chain. Effortlessly he latched it onto the hook in the ceiling.

“Thank you.” said the old man breathless. He took a seat on the bench and started catching his breath. Steven watched him wheeze and breath in and out, his chest getting bigger and smaller. His normally rigid brow was at ease. He gestured to the empty seat beside him. Steven took it.

“Here's your paint sir.” said handing it to him, “3 coats just like you said.”

The old man smiled, ‘Keep it. I bought 20 of them so I wouldn't have to make another trip.

“Oh thank you.’ he said sitting the can down on the ground.

“You know you remind me of my son. Always trying so hard, a sweet gentle face, but didn’t know anything.” said the man somberly. He was staring off at the Robinsons flamingo.

“Where's your son now?”

“He's visiting Maria. He’s much older than you though, 53 in two weeks.” he put simply.

“That is quite a bit older. How long has he been visiting?” asked Steven, trying to sound normal.

“53 years in two weeks.”

“Oh and is that how long Maria has been gone too?”

“Yeah. They took a trip together.” he said turning his gaze to his fuchsia pink flamingo. He smiled a bit, a bittersweet sad smile, but genuine.

“Say does my grass look fine to you?” said the younger man trying to change the subject.

The old man gazed over happy to have something else to fix. “It needs to be greener but that'll come with time. Your concrete on the other hand needs to be fixed.”

“And how do I do that?”

“I'll tell you.”