Duck (standard:other, 4501 words)
Author: J.A. Aarntzen	Added: Oct 30 2005	Views/Reads: 3667/2372	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An aging biker contemplates his relationship with his neighbor, a retired immigrant.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

feet. 

Lisa's breathing started to get real shallow and you could hear the
water in it.  I started to get scared.  Lisa was no spring chicken.  
I've been to the hospital with her before because of her heart.  The 
doctor back then had said that she would never be as strong as she was 
before she had the attack.  He had also told me privately that her next 
one might be her last one. 

I had to get her to the hospital.  I jumped out of bed and heard this
screechy ‘Nyeow!'  If my wife's ticker hadn't been acting up before 
that, it certainly took a pop then.  My own did too. 

I threw my work boot at the thing.  The boot smacked it square in the
head.  The cat never knew what hit it. 

I felt bad at what I did to it but I didn't feel bad for Joe when I
brought the carcass to his front door and left.  For all that Joe knew 
his cat died of a heart attack while it was trying to scratch its way 
through the door. 

The next day I complained to him about his cats messing up my garden.  I
might have said that if I ever caught one on my property that I would 
kill it without a second thought.  You should have seen Joe's face!  
Hell, if I had my camera then!  But Joe didn't know how his cat died.  
He just didn't know. 

When I got home I started to think about what I didn't know that Joe
knew.  How many things of mine had he destroyed or taken without my 
slightest inkling?  Neighbors like Joe and me have a lot of secrets 
that we keep from each other.  Countries must be the same too.  No 
wonder there's no such thing as true allies among the nations of the 
world.  Every land has got something that the other one wants and every 
land is not willing to share what it has got with any other. 

I remember the Second World War.  I was a Machinist Second Class
stationed in Sussex with the Canadian regiment there.  There were 
Americans there as well.  And there were always the Brits.  My job 
assignment was to overhaul these old tanks that the Canucks got from 
the Yanks.  These rigs were not fit enough to go a mile without their 
engines seizing up.  I did my best though and it's thanks to that time 
that I got interested in tinkering with old engines.  Still though, I 
could have had a lifetime of experience and still not get those bloody 
tanks to run.  They just simply had their day and were ready for the 
scrap heap.  We worked our damnedest and took a lot of flack from the 
higher-ups but it was all no use.  The Canadian army simply got burned 
by the Yanks who were supposedly our best allies.  Later I was to learn 
that in order to get those tanks our government had to give up two 
destroyers and its interest in an iron mine in Quebec to those bloody 
Americans. And the damnedest thing was that we Canucks never sought 
retribution.  We just in effect gave up two ships and a mine for a few 
tons of scrap.  We got burned royally and ever since then I haven't 
trusted anybody from south of the border. 

Joe's got relatives in the States.  I think Pittsburgh.  He and Maria go
there religiously every two years for their summer holiday.  On the off 
years those American cousins of his come up here.  When Joe's the 
visitor, I have good summers.  I can stand watch over my lawn without 
having to look at his blubbery puss.  It's a time of peace when I can 
do all the reflecting that I want and nobody's gonna go pooh-pooh over 
my garden. 

Then on those years when all of those imbeciles that he calls family are
screaming and yelling outside, I'd just as soon go to Pittsburgh 
myself.  There's about ten of them sitting on lawn chairs in Joe's 
backyard.  They're gabbing away in that foreign language of theirs not 
paying any attention to their kids who seem to prefer to play on my 
lawn instead of Joe's.  The brats are always climbing up on the old 
bikes that I keep on my driveway.  They've got no respect for these 
machines and more than once one of the little buggers managed to knock 
a Harley off of its kickstand and send the vintage chopper smashing to 
the asphalt. 

The last time this happened the kid got caught underneath and got an
ugly gash on his leg.  I was inside at the time and when I heard the 
crash I came running out as fast as I could.  I was confronted by Joe 
and his nephew who was the father of the reckless brat.  They were 
swearing their heads off at me and saying that they were going to sue 
me for damages.  I told them to eat shit.  That kid had demolished my 
bike that was on my property.  I was going to sue them.  Joe didn't 
like this at all.  He threw a punch at me and called me the type of 
vermin that Hitler was.  Before I could swing back at him Lisa, my 
wife, grabbed hold of me.  She held me until I cooled. 

“Mr. Lombardi, if you forget about suing us, we'll forget about charging
you with assault,” my wife said in that gracious tone of hers that was 
both nice and stern. 

Joe's head cooled fast.  He knew that Lisa did not kid around when she
talks cops.  Bruno, the lad living in the house on the other side of 
Joe, had a taste of my wife's due process.  The boy had once snuck in 
the metal shed behind my house.  What he wanted there we never found 
out because Lisa had the police over so fast that Bruno could never 
have had a chance to decide what he wanted to take.  Lisa charged the 
boy with trespass.  His Friday nights were booked up with a probation 
officer for the next six months.  I think that Bruno is a distant 
relative of Joe's although Joe would never own up to it whenever I 
asked him. 

Yeah, my Lisa, she's a bulldog.  I never did myself wrong in asking her
to be my bride.  She's a hard working woman and she guards our property 
with the territorial imperative of a tigress.  I think that I've been 
good to her over the years.  Never fell in love with another but I'm 
afraid that my fidelity did not stay in tact.  I think that it is a 
hormone thing with me.  I remained true to her until I started 
realizing that I was getting older.  It made me think that I was lesser 
than I was.  I had to prove to myself that I didn't lose any of the 
virility and the prowess that I had when I was a horny Canuck in 
Sussex.  Did myself really when I was in England.  Those young Brit 
gals swooned over me because of my backwoods charm.  I was a rarified 
womanizer and had the reputation with the fellows of being a lady's 
man. 

When I got back to Canada I met Lisa and put all of that macho stuff
behind me.  I did good with the gal that I married until those restless 
male menopause hormones got me in middle age.   I started spending a 
lot of time in the ‘Ladies and Escorts' rooms sizing up my potential.  
It didn't take long for me to see that the Old Duck hadn't lost a thing 
with his hair.  I don't know how many times that I was unfaithful to my 
Lisa.  A count like that shouldn't matter anyway.  You could do it once 
or you could do it a hundred times, you're still just as guilty. 

And guilty I felt when I'd come home stinking of whiskey and perfume but
Lisa never said a thing.  She either understood what I was going 
through or she just pretended not to notice.  We never talked of my 
indiscretions to our marriage.  It's a thing that's been eating me for 
many years.  For a while I wished that I could have it out with her.  
Lay my soul on the line and let her beat it until she felt rectified.  
But now I don't look at it that way.  It was a thing from long ago, a 
thing that I have fortunately grown out of.  There's no reason to dig 
up these decaying bones, they're not going to come back to life. 

I wonder if Joe ever cheated on his Maria.  He's Italian and therefore
must thrive on lechery.  But I don't think that he has ever laid a hand 
on another woman.  He might be Catholic but he's got that Protestant 
work ethic ingrained in him so deep that I bet he lies awake at night 
feely guilty that he's not fidgeting at his work bench or plucking 
weeds from his garden.  Retirement's gonna kill him if he lives so 
long.  He'll just end up sitting around the house trying to decide if 
he's got cabin fever or just is getting stir crazy.  That garden won't 
be able to take up all of the time that he's got and there's only so 
many times that you can redo a kitchen or a bathroom.  He just won't 
have the extra bucks for any projects like that.  Or so he will think.  
He's a real tightwad, that Joe, and a real money grabber.  I bet he's 
worth half a million but he won't ever enjoy any of that money.  He 
just takes it in and takes it in.  No one has ever told him that you 
can convert money into pleasurable experiences.  He'll just die and 
have that no good son-in-law of his squander it away. 

It's funny how the generations alter.  Your granddad might have been a
twin but you know that your dad wasn't.  And you know that you are one 
because there's that other guy always around that dresses just like 
you.  So it must be with other things too.  If your Dad was wild and 
your kid is a maniac then you have to be a complete bore.  It's the 
balance of the generations, the ebb and flow of characteristics. 

I only met Joe's father once several years ago when he came for a six
month visit from the old country.  The guy was near ninety but he was 
as spry as a thirty year old.  He was loud and obnoxious and full of 
life.  It was hard to believe that staid Joe was his son.  The old guy 
would stay up late and sing Mediterranean folk songs from his youth.  
He'd dance around and laugh and clap his hands.  Must have drove Joe 
nuts.  Joe's usually in bed by ten and I've never seen him sing and 
dance in all of the years that I've known him.  When Joe drove the old 
man to the airport after a half a year you could hear that whole house 
sigh.  I wish that Joe's father had stuck around.  I liked the idea of 
having someone next door who didn't have a stick stuck up his asshole. 

I wonder what Joe thinks of me.  Look at him standing there sizing up my
yard.  Must think that my yard is the yardstick to measure me by.  I 
know that he disapproves of motorcycles and the type of people who ride 
them.  He must think that Lisa and me only care for ourselves.  We 
never had children.  All the money that we ever made never found its 
way into diapers and school supplies.  He must think me an immoral 
bastard.  I never go to church and there's not a single crucifix in my 
house.  Go into Joe's house and each room seems to be a shrine to the 
Madonna or Jesus.  I'm surprised that there's no holy water crucible in 
his home.  Religion is very big to him.  It is the thing that gives 
meaning to his life.  He's saving it all for the hereafter, that's when 
Joe's gonna party.  I don't think that God gives a good party.  He'd 
only make you play his games and his records and as far as I can judge 
they don't seem to be too fun at all.  I'd rather howl at the old moon 
in the sky than play the harp at the Pearly Gates. 

I don't know about Lisa though.  When she was younger she was as
rambunctious as anybody.  She was a real dynamo back then and it would 
widdle my wits just to keep up with her.  Nowadays she's not quite that 
way.  She's slowed down a lot and I think that she's seriously looking 
for a meaning to life.  She's free to choose whatever answer she may 
discover but I sincerely hope that she doesn't become a church frau. 

I've never had any one pontificate to me my whole life and I don't need
anybody doing it now.  I'm set in my ways.  I don't expect much more.  
When I die, that's it, swansong farewell, I'm not gonna give myself an 
illusion because I never had an illusion before.  I'm straightforward 
and I see things the way that they are.  Never had I delved into 
religion or into science.  I don't think that I need to know any basic 
truths because whether I know them or not won't matter a good goddamn 
to their validity.  Life's too complicated at the personal level for me 
to get mixed up in those finer points that in no way have anything to 
do with how I treat my wife or how I rebuild an engine. Leave the heavy 
thinking to others.  Some people have a real need to know but I don't. 
I'm satisfied with the lot I've been given. 

I don't know if Joe can understand that of me.  Maybe if he did, he
wouldn't think of me so harshly.  I know that he does think that way.  
It's not that I really care what he thinks but you feel more 
comfortable when you know that your neighbor isn't counting up points 
against you. 

Maybe he's afraid of me the same way that I'm afraid of him.  The biker
image is not a very positive one with the people of the neighborhood.  
You think bikes and you think of drugs and rebels and anarchy.  I've 
never done anything purposefully to downgrade the value of the homes in 
this subdivision.  I've tried to be as respectable as the next guy.  
But since my driveway's always got a Hog or two resting upon it while 
all the others have the latest GM product, I guess that I'm making a 
statement that I'm different. 

But I am just an old geezer like Joe.  I'm about as harmful as a
butterfly.  Still people just don't see me that way.  They think me 
evil and godless.  I shouldn't care what they think but deep inside I 
can't deny that it hurts.  I'm not asking to be one of the guys that 
coach the little leaguers or head up the Boy Scout troop.  All I'm 
asking is to be given a little respect, a little dignity.  Lisa gives 
it to me and I love her a lot for doing that.  I just wish that the 
others would give it to me as well. 

Joe lived in this neighborhood long before I did.  It was the first
house that he ever owned.  He worked hard at it and made it a beautiful 
home.  He had dug in his roots so deep that their tips were dangling in 
the magma way down below.  But he was ready to sever his ties with it 
when Lisa and I moved in.  It scared the bejesus out of him to have 
bikers live next door.  He even went so far as to contact my real 
estate agent and put in a higher offer than my bid just to keep me from 
moving in. 

But it was too late for Joey, the deal was closed.  So the day that we
were unpacking our gear into the new house we saw a ‘For Sale' sign on 
his front lawn.  The cheap bugger didn't even try to go through real 
estate.  He was hoping for a private sale.  I don't think he had too 
many people call on him and there was nobody willing to take a bite.  
He had priced himself too high for the market.  His asking price was 
twice the amount that I paid for my house.  Joe's house is good but 
it's not nowhere near worth twice mine.  After about two months the 
sign came down and Joe was stuck living next door to a biker.  To this 
day he maintains that the only reason no one bought his house was 
nobody wanted to have a motorcycle bum for a neighbor.  If that is what 
he thinks, I'm not going to stop him. 

I'm tired of him.  Look at him standing there thinking that he is king
shit.  Everything that he is king of is falling apart.  It'll all go 
when he dies and that day is soon.  I wonder what's gonna happen to 
Maria, his wife.  One thing for sure, she'll wear black clothes the 
rest of her days.  Her English will get worse as she slips more and 
more into her widow shell.  She'll be just a displaced woman wishing to 
go back to the old country.  Maybe she will go.  Sell everything and 
move back to her native Italy.  She'll say piss on Canada.  It doesn't 
have the richness of culture and heritage that her homeland has.  This 
is just a pioneering country, the people are barely homesteaders.  
There's no character here, she'll think.  But when she is back in Italy 
she'll soon see that it isn't the country that she had left.  All the 
gadgetry that she thinks makes Canada shallow would be just as 
engrained in Italia.  She'll feel more a stranger there than she did 
here.  At least here she had built a life and a family.  She's got 
nothing there in Italy.  The people that she had visiting her over the 
years and that she had reciprocated will not be in that festive mood.  
They have lives of their own which they had built without her being 
around.  Sure, they'll be cordial enough to make room for her but she 
and they will soon learn that she doesn't fit.  Before you know it, 
she'll be coming back to Canada and planting herself into one of her 
children's homes.  They'll fuss over her and try to make everything 
good for her but she won't feel right.  She'll be missing Joe and be 
thinking that life's not worth living without him.  She won't suicide 
but she will let things go.  Her health will deteriorate rapidly.  
She'll be in and out of hospitals until she's in for that final time.  
Then Maria will be back with Joe. 

I like the woman.  She's been decent to us.  Her and Lisa are friends,
not he greatest of friends mind you, but there is camaraderie there.  
They share little anecdotes about their husbands and think it silly 
that Joe and I have never warmed up to each other. 

When Lisa tells me this all that I can say is how does she expect me to
relate with someone who is as pigheaded as him?  I throw in lots of 
examples to prove Joe's less than human status.  But what Lisa tells me 
is that I'm just as pigheaded as him.  Never had I tried to be amicable 
with him.  Friendship only starts when one person makes a move onto the 
other.  Joe won't take that step she says because he is afraid of me.  
He feels inferior to me because I've allowed my wishes to express 
themselves.  Joe's just kept everything locked up inside.  He wishes 
that just once he could ride my Harley and feel what it is like to be 
free. 

I never have an answer to this when Lisa says this to me.  She's right
of course but how can I even begin to relate with that man.  I get 
nothing but negative vibes from him.  He's the antithesis to everything 
that I have always stood for.  He's a miser, he's a glutton, he's a 
gloater and he's a braggart.  These are not qualities that I look for 
in a friend. 

But aren't I the same to him?  I don't share anything with him.  When I
come home from deer hunting never do I offer him any of the meat.  So 
often I've had to throw meat away because Lisa and I just can't eat it 
all.  Don't I get a charge of watching him sink in his shoulders when I 
rev up my bike for the little tours that I take now and then while he's 
stuck at home doing the same mundane things that he has been doing for 
years.  And aren't I always shooting my mouth to friends when they come 
over about how much better my life is than Joe's, even when he is in 
earshot.  I'm no better to him than he is to me.  Lisa is right.  I 
should try to make friends with my neighbor. 

Him and me see each other often enough especially lately where the both
of us seem to have the need to stand out and look over our yards.  Him 
and me could get into a lot of conversations about everything under the 
sun.  We'd have the time to do it.  We're both old men and we have 
entire lives which we could talk to each other about.  It's kind of 
silly the both of us standing out here and not saying a word.  Both of 
us cooped up in our thoughts instead of our mouths yakking.  Hell, 
we're both near the grave and we'll be alone enough then for our 
thoughts.  This is no time to be musing. 

“Hey Joe, do you want to go for a ride?” 


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