And Then He Was Hit By That Truck

“I am a park ranger. Now, before you get excited, I’m not a ranger for one of those big famous parks, rather, you’re more likely to see couples enjoying a stroll together or a family having a picnic and making a mess I’ll probably have to clean up when they’re done instead of campers in my park. Instead of bear, you’re probably going to see a dog chase after a Frisbee or maybe a stray cat chasing after some squirrel in my wood if you’re looking for wildlife.

My park is surrounded by major suburb and is considered an oasis to the children who love to play in its wood or the people who love long walks with their dog. It’s a nice place but it’s really small though there are enough trees and the land is owned by the government so that makes it a national park that needs rangers apparently.

I’m not even one of the cool park rangers with the brimmed hat and the shorts. I wear my normal clothes which are usually a nice enough shirt and jeans. It makes me look like a citizen and it makes it kind of hard to enforce the park rules when I see them being broken. I have made numerous requests for a uniform because of this but so far, no good in getting a response. Rather, I spend a lot of my time at a desk looking at and filling out paper work on behalf of the park, mostly money-based, whether it is permit based—the public wanting to use our space for small events like farmer markets or similar, or budget stuff, like allocating money for equipment to make things easier on the rangers with actual uniforms. My most important role seems to be holding onto the petty cash box which sits in the bottom of my desk drawer. I’m more accountant than ranger which is not really what I signed up for though because my background was tailored for it, they gave me the role. Prior to becoming a park ranger, I worked on Wall Street until I no longer wanted to and left that life for something better—before it screwed me up more than it already had. I grew up in this area and I remembered this park and they needed someone and so I volunteered-- simple as that. They considered my lack of experience risky until the remembered how small the park was and figured I wouldn’t get into much trouble.

The only time I get to go outside and explore the park is during my lunch break or when I would volunteer to get coffee for the other rangers. They would remind that they don’t mind taking a turn fetching coffee but it was one of my only times away from my desk and wouldn’t dare give up the opportunity. I would grab a wad of cash from the petty cash box and make my way to the local coffee house which was only a few blocks away. It was essentially a Starbucks down to the over-priced coffee which was not worth the price of admission though it was the only place with the stuff close enough to the park. I would always buy five cups of coffee—one for myself, three for the other rangers and one for Donald.

I like to watch the ducks swimming in one of our pond while I have my lunch, usually a chicken salad sandwich that I’d pick up from the same place I was tasked to fetch coffee from. That’s how I met the old man, Donald. One day, he was just sitting on that bench, staring at the ducks in the same way I usually did. In fact, he was sitting in the seat I usually sat in which was slightly irritating I didn’t let that bother me. I just sat down next to him and started to eat my lunch until he started talking to me.

The first time we met, he asked me what I was eating and what I was drinking and after I told him, he asked me for some. Splitting my sandwich was easy enough but since I only had one cup I just went ahead and gave it to him. He took a couple of gulps before he offered it back but I refused to drink from it any further. Call me old-fashioned.

He would mostly talk about those damn ducks and how he named them all—-Scrooge, Huey and the other two of the trio, and Launchpad too. A lot of the names came from cartoon ducks. It made me curious, though not enough to ask why. I knew the names because I watched the cartoons when I was young. He would have been at least in his fifties when Duck Tales was first airing. I never asked his age so that was just a guess. He also didn’t seem like the type who would catch reruns of these shows now. Maybe he became a fan of the new reboot, I don’t know. Again, I never asked him. When I pointed out that he himself shared the name of a famous duck he shot me the most disgusted look a person has ever shot me. It was the last time I mentioned it.

The weird thing about all this was that as he put a name to duck he would also pull out a black Moleskine and jot the name down on one of its pages and later on, he would assign random numbers next to those names. I asked him about it once but he never gave me an answer—he just ignored me and so I just assumed it was a force of habit thing- maybe he was an accountant or a bookie or similar.

Meanwhile, the old man would listen to me talk about my bullshit and so I did. I talked about my days on Wall Street a lot. For a person trying to escape those times in my life I sure did talk a lot about them. I would mostly talk about how miserable those days were and that I never missed them. The old man wouldn’t say a thing while I moaned—he would just listen. That’s what I liked about him the most. It never really occurred to me whether or not listening to me complain about my former life annoyed him. It didn’t seem to. Maybe it was fine by him as long as I kept him company. I didn’t feel too bad about it either. I considered him listening to my bitch and moan was the price he would have to pay for his coffee. Seemed fair enough to me.

After we were done talking, I would give him the change from the coffees—he looked like the type who needed it and I would give it to him every single time, whether it was a dollar or five or sometimes ten, he would get it. He would never say no. I didn’t mind, it was cheaper than a therapist. That’s what he was for me. Maybe that’s what I was to him too. Instead of a couch we were both on a bench. We had the confidentiality of quacking ducks named after cartoon characters.”

And then he was hit by that truck.

The two government agents looked at each other and then back at the ranger, “I still don’t know what any of this has to do with the $20,000 you embezzled from the park.”

The ranger continued, “you would think spending most of your day in wood would make your chances to be hit by a car less likely. You have to remember though that this was not ordinary wood we were in—this was wood surrounded by absurdity known as suburb.”

“Near the pond with the ducks there was this dirt road. It started with kids dirt biking on it, which we didn’t mind. They were kids and as long they wore helmets and didn’t bother anyone they were okay. Soon however, those kids grew up. One of them got an ATV for Christmas and then soon they all got ATVs. The other rangers and I had discussions on what whether that was worth doing something about. In the end, we all decided that as long as they were safe and they didn’t bother anyone, it was fine. Those kids then grew up and then they got trucks. Loud trucks. Trucks that were not safe and trucks that made enough noise to make everyone miserable. That was the last straw. We would ticket when we caught them, which was really difficult without a uniform, might I add. We would plead to the community when that didn’t work. When they kept at it that’s when we decided it was time to pave over that dirt road with cement.”

“The audit in order to find the money to do so is how we found out the $20,000 was missing.”

The ranger continued, “before we had the chance to pave the road however, there was an accident.”

“What happened?”

“Old man Donald was sitting on his bench like he always did, watching his cartoon ducks do what they did. Maybe it was because he was lost in those ducks but he never saw that truck coming.”

“And the black Moleskine with the names of cartoon ducks?”

“His last will and testament. He really loved those ducks. The old man wanted to leave them that money which also explains the numbers. It was my job to see that it went to the park on their behalf.”

The two agents looked at each other, “even if the old man left you enough money to make things right you still committed a crime—we’d still have to prosecute you.”

The ranger continued, “you see, over the years since knowing Donald, I had been giving him the spare change from all the coffee runs. Out of the kindness of my heart, because I thought he needed it. Never knowing that he actually never spent any of that money and that he was instead saving all that good will. It added up to a big chunk of change--$20,000 in fact. This is the “embezzled money” from all the coffee runs which I’m returning now. It seems only fair.”

“You realize we can check up on this, especially if you’re lying.”

“I wouldn’t want anything else! Of course, old man Donald was recently shipped back to Glasgow where he was born, to be buried with his wife and other family.”

“Isn’t that where Scrooge McDuck is from?” one of the agents asked.

“Huh. I never knew that. You think that’s why he gave the ducks those names? Some sort of pride thing? I guess you’ll have to travel there and find out.”

The two agents looked at each other before taking the briefcases of odd bill with them, leaving the ranger at her desk. A few moments pass before her colleagues join her.

“What pond?” asked one of her co-workers.

“Who wants coffee?”