As I sit here in the bathtub, pushing a yellow rubber duck through mountains of foaming bubble bath, I wonder how it could have all gone so wrong.
It was a hot Saturday in July. Ozark,Missouri -- a small town just outside of Springfield -- was sweltering in the heat, roasting in the heat, barbecuing in the heat, over-metaphoring in the heat. But the shade at the Finley River park was almost bearable. Air conditioning would have been better. That blissfulness wasn't for us, though; no, we were at the park to watch modern naval gladiators battle it out for supremacy over the waves.
That's right, it was time for Ozark's annual Rubber Duck Race.
I had spent many hours (or possibly seconds), researching the ducks. We had walked by the pens where the anxious competitors were assembled, waiting the big moment when the gates would be opened and the bill-gnashing free-for-all on the river would commence. I had peered into their little black eyes -- the eyes of the ones that weren't wearing sunglasses or pirate eye-patches, anyway -- and had seen the fever of competitiveness there. But in one duck I had seen more. I had seen something there that made me say to myself, "Self, this duck has what it takes. This is the Spartacus of ducks; this is the Alexander of ducks; this is the Donald Trump and Donald Duck of ducks all rolled into one!"
Quickly, I made my way back to the Adopt-a-Duck kiosk, where I laid down my five bucks and said, "I want that duck with the fire in his eyes!" The lady behind the counter raised her eyebrow, took my money, and handed me a card with my duck's number: #B 0440. "Is this the one with the fire in his eyes?" I asked.
"Um, sure," she said.
I nodded and went back to the holding pens. Just beyond, the waters of the Finley River were being churned up by a hot breeze blowing out of the south. In fact, the river seemed almost to be flowing backwards.
"This isn't good," I told my companion. "The ducks will be going the wrong way. My lad will wind up in those lily pads over there, prey to killer frogs and plastic cup debris."
"We could put a little propeller on him with a remote control," she replied.
"I like the way you think."
"Do we have a little propeller with a remote control?"
"Um, no."
"Steroids?"
I nodded. I always have a few hypodermics filled with steroids on me; you never know when a football or baseball player will come up to you and want to bum some. So while my companion distracted the event staff -- we won't get into the specifics of how -- I slipped into the water and dosed up #B 0440. While I was at it, I fed the rest of the ducks chocolate. That'd keep 'em sluggish.
Task accomplished, we wandered away from the pens so as to not arouse suspicion ... and also to get some lemonade, because it was really hot (See Paragraph 2). Soon enough, though, it was time for the main event. We made our way up to the Finley River Bridge to get a better view of the action.
Just as I'd feared, though, the wind was causing all of the ducks problems, not just mine. In the end, event staffers in kayaks had to ferry the ducks out into the middle of the river and down the course, all of the ducks gathered together in a clump.
That's when the fighting broke out. Rubber ducks were snapping at one another left and right; there was yellow plastic everywhere! This could only mean one thing, I thought to myself. ALL the ducks had been dosed with steroids! I'd wondered at the time why there were so many other festival-goers wading out in the water with hypodermic needles. Now I knew.
"Cheaters!" I cried. But it was too late. Despite the carnage, the ducks were approaching the finish line, all vying for a better position to approach the trough that would mean victory for one valiant duck and fourteen runners-up. Then the first duck was in, followed swiftly (well, it took time for the mayor to pluck them up out of the water; he nearly fell in once) by the others! But was #B 0440 among them?
As it turned out ... not so much.
Racked with disappointment, we turned to our cotton candy for solace and left the race grounds. Later we heard about #B 0440: he'd been found upstream, picking fights in a riverboat casino, out of money and renting himself out to kids with plastic pools in their backyards.
What else could I do but take him in, put him into rehab, and try to be supportive?
I mean, I know I shouldn't, but I feel a little bit responsible.
[Photo Caption: "The ducks assemble before the race."]
[Photo Caption: "There's fire in their eyes!"]
[Photo Caption: "Because of high winds, the ducks must be aided by kayakers."]
[Photo Caption: "The winning duck enters the finish trough!"]
