Death, Ducks and Peyote Rainbows

by Ginger Casebeer

It all started this morning when Derek pushed a woman in front of a moving cab. Accidentally, of course. He was looking for the coffee shop, she was looking in her black book, and he knocked her off the sidewalk. A few hours later, the woman, Sara, was in the hospital with a broken leg and a concussion, and Derek was filling in as personal assistant for Darla Johnson, one of New York's most famous eccentrics, for the day.

Derek opened the black book that Sara had given him and looked over the long list of tasks, then stopped at the first one. Everything bagel, triple espresso, a dozen donuts, a list of three gossip mags and five bridal mags. That seemed easy enough. He might even be able to squeeze in a coffee for himself.

After stopping by three newsstands and a Barnes and Noble to get all the magazines, he was thankful he'd waited on the coffees, because there was no way he was getting through the crowded streets with two cups of coffee and everything else he had to carry.

It took a little explaining and a call to Sara to get him through security into Darla's offices. "No one ever sees her. Leave the stuff on her desk and check for messages on Sara's desk," the receptionist said and then answered the phone, "Darla Johnson Enterprises."

Derek entered the office and felt like he'd walked into a rainbow on peyote. Tapestries and textiles all in bright multicolored patterns, none muted and all chaotic. Every piece made an individual contribution to an unusual composition. It took him a moment to recover and find the desk to leave his magazines and now mid-morning breakfast offerings before quickly exiting and picking up the notes on Sara's desk.

Next. Pick up Max for his therapist's appointment. Two addresses and a number for a car service. Derek tried to imagine what Darla Johnson's child would be like. Had he--or she--ever seen Darla? Would she dress her child like she decorated her office? His mind whirled with questions until he stepped up to the door of the first address. A chorus of barks answered the doorbell as a casually--and normally--dressed woman opened the door.

"I'm, uh, here to pick up Max Johnson," Derek said, a little thrown off.

"He's ready. He gets a bit aggressive with strangers, so be careful." She handed him a small quivering pink tote with the signature DJ on it. Out of the opening popped the head of a blue ferret wearing a spiked collar, squeaking fiercely.

"Be nice, Max." The woman smiled and closed the door. Derek gingerly held the bag at arm's length and got into the car. Then it struck him--he was taking this ferret to therapy. He set the bag on the seat beside him, and Max popped out of the bag, baring his teeth.

"Hey there, little guy. Me friend." Derek tried to put Max back in the bag, but pulled his hand back when Max snapped at him. "Whoa!" His teeth looked sharp!

Max jumped down to the floor, and Derek tried to capture the middle end of the ferret without meeting up with the sharp end. He spent about ten minutes wrestling with the creature before he got the idea to scoop him up in the bag. He felt like he'd been wrestling with a fur-covered Slinky studded with razor blades. By the time he made it to the therapist's, he was sure that Max and therapy were a good combination.

After dropping Max off, he checked the black book for his next errand. Pick up the patterns for wedding guest tattoos. There was the name of a prominent tattoo shop. He should be able to do that while the shrink analyzed Max's aggression.

Max would have looked more in place at the shop than Derek did in his khakis, loafers and polo shirt. When he mentioned Darla to the cashier, the mohawked rainbow-tattooed hulk pointed at a tiny woman in the corner and called out, “Jinx.”

Jinx’s long grey hair was in a braid halfway down her back. She wore thick glasses that magnified her eyes 50 times normal. She had dark, leathery tanned skin and a lacy spiderweb tattoo choker and chest piece in red and black. When he explained that he was from Darla Johnson, Jinx gave him a sheet of small tattoos and said Darla needed to pick five. Her gravelly voice spoke of whiskey and cigarettes consumed in copious amounts. She also said that four artists should be enough for the day of the wedding.

"Tattoos at a wedding?" Derek asked.

"At the reception anyway. They are sending a sheet out with the invitations so people can decide ahead of time," the artist replied. "I'll need the final decisions by the 11th." Derek jotted notes down in the black book and placed the sheet inside it. He looked at his watch and groaned. Time was tight. He had to take care of Max and deal with a busy lunch order.

Max was subdued after therapy and went back without any problems. Derek had to stand in line at a taco cart for 45 minutes to get lunch, but he ordered some for himself and found out it was worth it. Her special pomegranate tea at a signature tea nook took a while as well; but, eventually, her lunch appeared on her desk as requested.

He ran rhambutan and kiwi to a photo shoot. Picked up a dress for a fitting. Lost count of the paperwork and deliveries he ran to and from Darla. He still had errands in the black book waiting as well.

Black book. Take Uncle Jeremy to feed the ducks. That seemed easy enough, though it would take some time. There was also a note on Sara's desk, with an envelope. Get yourself a suit at Bloomingdales. Wear it to deliver the envelope. Do not be late! Then an address and 6 p.m. It was 3 p.m. now. He needed to get a move on.

At Bloomingdales the overenthusiastic salesman--call me Beau--wanted to sell him the full spring line.

"I just need one suit--neutral. One that I can wear for all four seasons" Derek insisted.

"There is no such thing," Beau insisted. "But there is a middle-weight grey suit that would look great with your skin. Do you moisturize?"

Derek felt a blush rising on his face. "No." But when he tried on the grey suit, it fit well. Beau insisted on a Darla Johnson magenta shirt and tried to put him in a tie that would compete with her office in numbers of colors. Derek stopped him. "I can handle design, just limit it to four or five colors, not five thousand. Think minimalist."

He ended up with a light pink tie that looked like someone was playing 3D tic-tac-toe. A new pair of loafers and some magenta socks completed the ensemble, and he was finally ready to pick up Uncle Jeremy.

The driver brought him into a middle-class neighborhood. Kids played football in the street, and older gentlemen sat on the stoops watching people and playing dominoes. The driver stopped at a stoop that was empty. Derek rang the doorbell, but no one answered. He looked around, but no one was paying attention. He asked one of the kids, and he said, "Uncle Jeremy's on the stoop, like always." Thinking that maybe he had the wrong stoop, Derek went a couple of houses down to some dominoes players.

"Are one of you Jeremy?" Derek asked.

"No, Jesus be praised," one of the Hispanic men answered. "He is on his stoop. You are to take him to the ducks? Is Miss Sara sick?"

Derek told them the story as briefly as he could, and they pointed out an urn on the step. It clicked. Uncle Jeremy was in the urn. Of course, this fit perfectly into his day. He was taking a dead man to feed the ducks. He went over and picked up the urn.

"OK, Uncle Jeremy, let's go feed the ducks." He really couldn't believe this day. At the park, he knew he didn't have much time. He started throwing out handfuls of feed, and ducks began swarming. He accidentally spilled the feed in his lap and one of the ducks hopped onto the bench and began eating. Derek barely rescued Uncle Jeremy from tipping over, but sent the envelope flying. The birds began pecking at it, like it was a large piece of bread. It tore, revealing a large stack of money.

Derek was stunned. He froze for a moment and then fumbled to secure Uncle Jeremy so he could rescue the envelope - or at least its contents.

By the time he had gotten Uncle Jeremy to safety, the ducks had pulled some of the bills - hundreds! - out of the envelope and were fighting over them. Derek went for the envelope, trying to back down a massive competitor flapping his wings at him.

"Shoo! Go eat the food! This is my envelope!" Derek shouted, wildly waving his arms. The duck backed down and Derek got the envelope. He managed to bribe the other ducks with feed to get the remaining bills, or rather money.

Derek took everything out of the envelope and tried to smooth out the damaged bills as he counted them. Ten thousand dollars. He'd never held that much money in his hands before - knowingly at least. He'd been delivering packages all day. He might have delivered a million dollars - who knew?

But ten thousand dollars to an unemployed man who had bills to pay, food to buy and would love the chance to take time to find a good job, not just a fast job - that would be a life-changing amount of money. These people hadn't even bothered to find out his name. He could just leave, and they would never know.

He looked at his watch. It was five-thirty. Uncle Jeremy would have to come with him to deliver the envelope. If he was going to deliver the envelope.

He walked into the building with two minutes to spare. A sign said: "Orphan's Relief Fund Banquet Sponsored by Darla Johnson." He was directed immediately onstage, though a few people looked at him strangely because of the feathers and mud on his suit. When the spotlight shined in his eyes, Derek squinted. "Would you guess that a little more than a half hour ago I looked a lot better? But then I had to fight a flock of ducks to make sure this donation made it here tonight." He held up the tattered envelope with the money showing through. The audience laughed and applauded.

Derek hurried out to the car and Uncle Jeremy. "Let's get you back to your stoop," Derek said and instructed the driver to go. It said something about his day that he was conversing with an urn. Accidentally pushing Sara into traffic, taking a biting ferret to a therapist, bringing a dead man to feed the ducks and giving away ten thousand dollars. At least he'd have an amazing story to tell for the rest of his life.

He carried Uncle Jeremy and set him down on the stoop, noticing an envelope addressed to Derek on the step. Opening it he read, "Thank you for all your kindness and hard work today. I am in need of an assistant until Sara is able to come back to work. If you are interested, take your suit to the cleaners and pick it up at 6 a.m., then start your errands in the little black book. Give your address to the driver. Inside is a bonus for your integrity. D.J.”

The envelope held $10,000. Derek smiled. A job and the money. Things were looking up. He opened up the black book to locate the address of a 24-Hour cleaners.