however, I finally felt some relief. After making a valiant decision to stop eating ice cream with clams, my mysterious illness vanished. My body felt lighter than air, so much that I jumped for joy, landed on my bed the wrong way, and bounced out the second floor window. I ended up back in the hospital where my French doctor merely looked at me with disdain and shouted some word that sounded insulting.
I didn’t have the duck with me when I went to the hospital the second time, but I recovered it when I returned home a few days later. From there I took my duck to school—I was studying the culinary arts—and told all my classmates about the journey it had embarked on. Most of them thought it was cool, but some of them thought it was weird. None of them understood why I had it. After I told them about my visits to the hospital, however, they all agreed it made sense.
And that’s the way it was for two months. I went to class, brought my duck and learned how to cook meals without making myself sick. The course began teaching us how to make a chef’s salad, but steadily moved us into learning the realms of steak, squash, and other elements of fine dining. Although it took me some time to really grasp the concept of how to make a delicious and artistic meal, the whole thing finally clicked when I managed to turn grape jelly into a masterpiece—I spread it onto a T-bone. At that point, I was ready to test my skills as a chef.
I know that’s a long story, but that’s how I got to the café where I’m sitting now. I came here with the intention of showing the head chef my signature “Grape Crepe Su-Steak” to promote my name to the industry. I found out just a few minutes ago, however, that he wants to buy my recipe for his restaurant. As of this afternoon I am now three hundred Eurodollars richer than I was this morning, and the feeling is beautiful. And thanks to this happy ending, I can now leave the duck here in my chair and go on about my day. I hope the next person who finds it is as lucky as I am.
The Present
Johnny winced at the memory of the Grape Crepe Su-Steak, but he kept reading Ricky’s account anyway, hoping he didn’t accidentally stumble upon any of his other “masterpieces,” like Ice Cream a la Clams, for instance. Granted, he didn’t hate the dish. But he certainly didn’t love it. His only real regret was ordering it more than once. The first time reminded him of Claire, and as long as she was still out there waiting to be found, he would keep that memory of the grape jelly-covered T-bone sacred, even if it pained every ounce of him to do so. It was actually pretty poor. Having Claire sitting across from him was the ingredient that kept it from being dreadful. The other times he had eaten it, he didn’t have that special ingredient, and the dish was much worse for it.
Once he got to the end of Ricky’s account, he wanted to forget about that bloody piece of steak and get on with life in the present. He just hoped he would never cross paths with Ricky or his food again. The thought of having “Marmalade Spaghetti” or something equivalent on a server’s bad advice depressed him a little.
The problem with eating out was that someone else generally picked his meals for him, and they almost always picked whatever was special that day. He didn’t usually pick a favorite to return to until it had given him a fond memory. The Grape Crepe Su-Steak had certainly complicated things for him a bit.
At any rate, he thought it was better just to keep reading.
Megan
Hey, I’m Megan, and I found this duck when I thought I was dying. There’s a train against a brick wall for you, right? I suppose that deserves clarification. I didn’t feel some abnormal pain and assume the worst—I’m no hypochondriac. Rather, my body did something it had never done before, and it scared the heck out of me. For a solid week, my nose bled. Not continuously like a hemophiliac, but intermittently like a cancer patient, every morning when I woke up. The first time it happened, I cleaned myself up. The second time it happened, I thought it was strange. On the third time, I thought I had a problem. On the fourth time, I resolved to see a specialist. The day that I found the duck—on a park bench between two trees—I had reached my seventh day without change. The doctor put me on the list for the following week and I was scared. My life had finally shown signs of promise—just two weeks earlier, after much hardship, I moved to France—and now this cancer threatened my future. I didn’t know what else to do.
The next few days passed with the same waking routine. Sunshine flooded into my room, my eyes opened to reality, and my cheek was stained with liquid red. After wiping my face with a towel, I felt around my sinus cavities for lumps. Each day, I couldn’t find any. None of it made sense. Then, finally, the day came for me to see the doctor. First he took my blood, then he had me urinate in a cup, and finally he checked my blood pressure. When all that was over, he interviewed me for symptoms. Then, he felt my cheeks. He couldn’t find anything, either.
Another week passed without news. My nose continued to bleed, but the doctor remained silent. I was about to lose my mind when his secretary finally called me back to the office. After much anticipation, I would finally know the truth. Only, as I listened to his diagnosis, I was shocked. He sidestepped my main concern. It wasn’t the nosebleeds that bothered him. It was my blood pressure.
It didn’t make sense. My nosebleeds had nothing to do with my blood pressure, yet my blood pressure was the main concern. Cancer was obvious, but it wasn’t the important thing. I didn’t know what to do. I consulted the rubber duck for some peace of mind, but it couldn’t talk—it could only squeak. I wanted to run home and cry.
The following week, I admitted myself into the hospital per the physician’s instruction. From there, he conducted a series of tests ranging from cholesterol count to hypoglycemia scans. He also tested my bloodstream for cancer, but only to humor me. He didn’t think the nosebleeds were attributed to that. I thought he was crazy, but I didn’t have the option to argue with him; I just had to accept his opinion.
Finally, after a full day’s worth of waiting, he told me I could go home. It turned out my bloodstream was fine. As for the possibility of cancer, there was nothing to support it. When I asked him about the nosebleeds, he asked me if I ever bothered to check my nostrils. When I told him no, he told me that I should. Apparently, my nose was scratched on the inside. It had nothing to do with cancer. It had everything to do with someone picking my nose while I slept.
So that’s where I am now—getting ready to leave the hospital—relieved that I’m not dying. Because this was the greatest news I received all year, I figured this was the best place to pass the duck off to someone else. Of course, when I leave the hospital, I’ll have to find a new place to live, because the thought of going home to a roommate who picks my nose while I sleep just flat out gives me the creeps.
I think I’ll just go to London and start speaking in a British accent. I have a friend near Regent Street in the West End I can stay with for a bit. She’s always looking for someone to go shopping with, and she respects other people’s privacy.
The Present
Johnny racked his brain for a memory of Megan, but he couldn’t think of any. She seemed interesting enough, certainly knowledgeable of biology, it seemed, except for the part where she thought she had cancer. But no one in his travels sparked a memory for him. Perhaps, he thought, he had found the end of his prior connection to the rubber ducky. But he wasn’t sure. He still had one more story to read, and it didn’t feel like fate was quite yet done with him.
He also wasn’t sure if he was ready to reach the end. The first storyteller, Will, had been right about one thing in particular: Most of these people had fairly dull experiences in hindsight. Tales of romance, tales of sickness, all things that made him want to vomit. To them, the stories had meant something, of course. But to Johnny, they were nothing but painful reminders of his own failed decisions—most of what they had experienced, he had missed by an inch.
But he knew he had to read on, read the final story, or, because these were listed in reverse chronological order, the first story. He just wasn’t sure if he had the stomach for it.
&nbs
p; He gulped, blinked hard, and started to read it anyway. He crossed his fingers in the hope that he wasn’t about to have his world rocked.
Matthew
Okay, this is an exciting day for me. After four years of carrying around this rubber duck, I finally get to put this plan into action. First off, my name is Matthew, and I am sending this duck on a mission to change the lives of seven individuals, including myself. Or rather, I am sending this duck to experience the life-altering moments of seven people. Since I am the first, six more shall have the pleasure of taking this duck wherever they go. Then, when the seventh body has his amazing moment, he or she will publish the entire story for everyone to see, and ultimately keep the duck. At least, that’s the hope I have. I suppose some may find the duck and choose to do nothing with it. But for those people, I hope they will leave it where they’ve found it. I hope the duck’s journey will be accurately recorded and leave behind no gaps in adventure. I will also attach a README text file to clarify the instructions in case anyone who reads this still doesn’t know what to do.
Regarding the means for chronicling the journey, I had thought
The Celebration of Johnny's Yellow Rubber Ducky Page 7