The Duck Hunter

A portly gentleman in a tweed overcoat chats in the elevator bay with two women, waiting for the next downward car. I hear him say he’s headed for Louisiana to go duck hunting but that his wife has threatened him bodily harm if he doesn’t turn up on Thursday with a turkey in the crook of his arm.

Thanksgiving is in a few days’ time.

As the elevator softly croons of its arrival, I step on, holding the doors for the self-proclaimed hunter to enter for the descent. He has an enamel lapel pin, shining blue, that I can’t distinguish but I imagine it’s something to do with military service. “One, please. Thank you,” he says. His wispy white hair is thin on a mostly bald head, downy, even.

“We were just talking about ducks over in my office,” I say, revealing myself to be an eavesdropper and one to talk to strangers on elevators. “Our hopes were dashed when we couldn’t seem to find any fresh fowl for sale locally.”

The gentleman’s eyes sparkle, pleased to continue the conversation. “Oh! Well next time you have a hankering, come across the hall and talk to me. I’ll bring you a fresh, plump female mallard.” He pauses as the elevator nears our exit point. “You’ll have to pluck it yourself, of course.”

We walk into the golden light of late autumn afternoon, the breeze twisting the leaves in the evergreens as if trying to play them like piano keys. I say, “My husband and I want to raise chickens one day, but I’ve heard ducks are a whole other battlefield. Need their little lakes and pastures, like miniature cows.”

The betweeded gentleman smiles, the blue lapel pin glinting now as we pass over the street below upon a pedestrian bridge. I daresay he waddles in his old age, in no hurry to get to his destination now that he’s officially off the clock.

“That they can be, that they can,” he chuckles, and I see him ruffle himself as if he were the very waterfowl on the waves of a lazy Lousiana lake. We descend into the parking garage and he offers yet again to bring us a fresh duck come Monday.

“I will let my co-worker know the offer stands! Have a happy Thanksgiving,” I say, waving him off. I have no idea if I’ll see him again, despite working in the same building downtown. Seventeen floors make a hell of a marsh for finding a nameless duck hunter.

As I pull out from the cool shadows of the garage onto the sun-streaked street for my lunch break, I spot a plump little duck waddling across the street to the small retention pond the city has deemed quaint enough to be named Lake Drake. Its feathers are remarkably tweedlike and its feathered head shimmers a playful blue.