Just Wing It!

Once I arrived at the one-star motel that advertised having working televisions as its greatest amenity, I tossed my suitcase to my bed. Then myself. My lack of forethought resulted in my face smushing into the sludge-covered plastic.

It was freedom. It was exhilarating. It was the end of the burnt taste of Starbucks coffee beans, since no other coffee shops were open when I went in for my shift.

I rolled onto my back, not caring to wipe the grit from my beard. I had spent the last night in the coach car of the California Zephyr, taking it all the way to Emeryville then catching a ride down south. The next morning, I would take another train down to Hollywood to finally pursue my dream of acting. It was stupid, I could barely afford a shitty motel room, much less a California apartment, but my dreams had been so thoroughly smushed that I had lost all sensation of caring. The only reason I could afford to jump on a train and not a Greyhound bus was because of a special ticket deal my mom had caught for my birthday.

I graduated from high school with mediocre grades and no photo evidence of my participation in the basketball team or graphic design club, as I had been sick every photo day. The week after I left, I got a job at a factory molding rubber ducks.

The smell of burning plastic stuck to my clothes, my walls, even my food. Our boss insisted we were a family and tried to get us to bond over his shared passion for “All-American made, durable rubber duckies—no quackery included!”. He gave us rubber ducks as rewards for high production days. All of our badges, lanyards, uniforms, patches, everything had rubber ducks. He even organized his wedding at the factory with him and his wife as customized ducks on their cake, which had bright yellow icing. I never learned if he had any children, but part of me felt he would still love his rubber ducks more.

“Is this…normal?” I had asked a coworker on my first week of work, when we had a plastic table set out with duck-covered cookies and cupcakes.

“It’s just meant to be a little fun for the first Friday of every month, I don’t think it’s too big of an expense for Daff—, er, Daniel,” she said, her tongue and lips already stained yellow by the icing.

“No, I mean his whole obsession. I get being passionate about your work but I was surprised that our toilet paper isn’t yellow.”

I had spent ten years working at the factory. Ten damn years of my life molding rubber ducks, the same exact shape with the same exact standards for thickness and weight each time. If we were lucky we might make a green batch for St. Patrick’s or pink ones for Valentine’s. I had taken classes at community college, but my pay grade always stayed just enough to keep me afloat but prohibit pursuing higher education. I settled for taking some courses on marketing and hoping I could upgrade to the offices for a shiny, new eternal recurrence. Unfortunately, I never was permitted by the great latex waterfowl in the sky to leave the factory floor.

The Coast Starlight would depart in the morning, so I had little opportunity to do much else than finding dinner and catching up on sleep. I turned my head to my suitcase. The bedding was already stained by the mud. For my hero’s journey, I had sold or tossed away everything that I could not fit into the single bag. It was not an emotionally taxing decision, God knew I didn’t need to see those prom photos ever again. Many of my basic supplies were factory merchandise I bought at a discount, to the point I was so sick of the color yellow I nearly spray painted everything black like I was still a teenager going through his emo phase.

My boss was very pleasant when I told him my decision, although he expressed a hope I could return to be the face of his advertisements once I made it big. He had said nothing like that during the numerous times I showed him my graphic design portfolio, but I kept my mouth shut and simply told him I would consider.

I felt at the left pocket of my vest. Behind my phone was a crumpled envelope, given to me by my coworkers on the day of my last shift. I had intended to open it while I was on the first train but got lost in the scenery, more specifically trying not to throw up as the peaks of the Sierras rushed past the windows while the conductor spoke in excessive detail about the history of the Donner party.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a card, branded with the factory’s name and covered with a pattern of little ducks.

Dear Jeff,

Thank you again for your ten years of DUCKING hard work at our little factory. While I personally think Hollywood isn’t all it’s QUACKED up to be, I hope you’re DUCKY and don’t have a FOWL experience with those agencies.

Remember, you will always have a home with our little flock if you’d ever like to return, as QUACKY as we may be.

Good DUCK!

-Daniel

P.S. I hope you don’t mind, but I noticed you brought your suitcase in with you. Each of us snuck a little gift in there.

I frowned, tossing the card to the bed and struggling for five minutes with the zippers on my suitcase. The entire time on the train, I wore the same clothes and used travel toiletries I had picked up during a stop because I forgot to pack them. The case had been unopened since I had boarded.

The case popped open, and I was sure I heard the zipper tear. Inside were dozens of happy, American made yellow ducks.