Parrot Eyes Lost
Barton Grover Howe
Barton Grover Howe Publishing
Lincoln City, Oregon
http://www.bartongroverhowe.com/
Other Works by Barton Grover Howe
Beach Slapped: A Novel
Smashwords Edition of Parrot Eyes Lost. Copyright © 2011 by Barton Grover Howe. All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact Barton Grover Howe Publishing, bartongroverhowe@gmail.com
Cover design by Sharalyn Hay
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every attempt to provide accurate contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Chapter 1
Gypsy
As spectacular events go, what happened to Gypsy at 10 a.m. that Sunday morning wasn’t even the most interesting thing to happen in town that month. That label went to Kinkel McGuire’s awkward afternoon when he got his nipple caught in one of those machines that smashes pennies into souvenirs. It wouldn’t even be called the event that left the most lasting impression. That title, too, went to Kinkel, who would spend the rest of his life with a tiny Lewis & Clark embossed on his left breast.
Certainly, in the niche of highly visual brawls in public spaces, it was noteworthy. When Gypsy suddenly found herself in the grip of a seeming vice clamp with daggers, it was the beginning of something that coastal Surfland, Oregon, had never seen. Being honest, however, the fight last week at the pizza place began with far more excitement. Tired of the owners of the pizza place insulting her husband on their sign board, the high school principal’s wife went through their drive-thru window at 15 mph — in a boat.
Gypsy’s fight wasn’t even the most protracted, although if witnesses were to testify later that they thought it was, they would be forgiven for doing so. With Gypsy clad in the colors of the rainbow and her attacker all dark brown save for a shock of white atop the head, it reminded many of a gay pride flag wrestling a very drably dressed Anderson Cooper. Unfortunately their fight would only clock in at 48 seconds when it was all said and done. Nothing compared to Evan Kelstrup and Matthew Reider, who were still in protracted combat after 31 hours. Normally friends and partners, they had been actively jamming each other’s websites with QVC-related spam until one would concede to the other who had coined the term “Macebook,” their new anti-dating website.
But what Gypsy’s fight lacked in interest, origins or duration it more than made up for with its ending — when the brawlers shot forty feet straight up into the air.
Chapter 2
Penny Flett
As the proprietor of Surfland’s only beachside Tiki bar, Penny Flett’s morning had started off spectacularly well. From the minute her bamboo curtains parted at the walk-up window for customers at seven, she’d been busy. Her first customer ordered enough food for two, and perhaps he had reason to. Taking his to-go bags back to his giant black Hummer across the street, she presumed he was eating in the car with someone. Strange; you’d think he’d know better than to eat the special in closed spaces.
Like half her customers would that morning, he’d gotten her famous fiery bean breakfast enchilada. Made with a secret combination of Tabasco sauces she had a friend bring in from Louisiana and Oaxacan Pluma beans grown in a local greenhouse, the locals called it “The Explosilada,” for the fire it produced both going in and coming out. It took longer to prepare, certainly, but that didn’t bother most folks; it just gave them more time to hang out on the picnic benches and tables that lined the bamboo fence along the dunes on the shore.
Most importantly, however, it gave them a chance to partake in the reason people had been coming here for decades: Penny’s Parrots. Both the name of the business and her family passion since her literal birth, the protracted serving time gave her patrons a chance to mingle with the birds, many of whom sat on their stands free of cages. Most popular — and Penny’s favorite — was Gypsy, a nearly four-decade-old parrot that had seen more of the world than Penny had.
Covered with brightly colored feathers that seemed to span the rainbow — most parrots only had a few colors — she was unlike any parrot anyone had ever seen. Throw in her ability to mimic just about anything said to her — cussing at Penny’s was strictly prohibited — and it was no wonder generations of families had been making the trip to Surfland for to see her. On a busy summer day it wasn’t unusual at all to see a father telling his kids how Gypsy used to talk to him when he was their age.
Happy guests, happy tummies, happy birds: All were standard fare at Penny’s Parrots. Throw in a costumed parrot mascot that was spending the morning making animal balloons in the courtyard, and everyone was happy. As a businesswoman, this was what kept Penny going. Which was good, as everything behind the scenes seemed to be going to hell; it had been a very long week.
It had started last Tuesday when a bald eagle swept down out of the sky and plucked one of her baby parrots right off the stand. Horrified, Penny didn’t even have time to try to get her bird back, so quick was the attack. Not that speed really mattered; how exactly would anyone get the prey back from a bird of, well, prey?
Penny tried to take some comfort in the bigger picture: The return of bald eagles to the coast was a good thing after the species had nearly been wiped out on the ‘60s and ‘70s. Their massive nests topping the trees just on the other side of Highway 101, she saw them often circling above nearby Lenobar Bay looking for salmon, small rodents and now, apparently, parrots. It certainly wasn’t unheard of; parrots fell prey to raptors all the time in the wild.
That didn’t change how sad she was. Trained ornithologist or not, the birds were still her friends. Resolving to move their stands and perches closer to the walk-up window, she began humming Elton John’s “The Circle of Life.” Gypsy’s stand she moved first and especially close.
That was five days ago, and although Penny still pained at the loss of her parrot — she hadn’t even named him yet — there had been no more incidents. Which gave her time to focus on the other macro-glitch in her week: Kinkel McGuire. Whatever had possessed him to put his nipple into her penny-stamper, she had no idea.
Making 50 cents on every penny the machine smashed and then stamped a tiny Lewis & Clark on, it didn’t bother her a lick Lewis & Clark had never actually gotten this far south. Every dime counted, and if tourists wanted a completely irrelevant souvenir, Penny could live with the half-dollar dent to her karma.
Kinkel, however, was another problem. Not the medical bills; it was definitely not workman’s comp. Rather, Kinkel was her backup help at the window on weekdays and her all-star omelet flipper on Sundays. His absence had made the week an exhausting one, and this morning at the omelet bar a near-disaster. Not everyone wanted an Explosilada to start his or her morning.
As a result, nearly half of Penny’s customers on a Sunday morning came for the omelet bar beach-side, and on a normal morning Kinkel would have them coming up and sitting down within about five minutes. Throw in his ability to make three omelets at once, and even on the busiest of days there was almost never a line.
With Kinkel, however, still in the hospital — (Couldn’t he have at least picked the right nipple? No heart muscle there.) — she was making do with Ryan Nordin. On loan from Bendovren Coffee in the center of town, he’d offered his help when he heard what his high school peer had done.
What speed he possessed in volunteering his services, however, was not replicated at the omelet pan. Painfully slow, Ryan was so intent on doing a good job he failed to notice the growing line. By 10 a.m., the courtyard was jammed with waiting customers, and watching from the walk-up window across the courtyard, Penny worried they might be getting impatient.
She took some relief in seeing it was quite the opposite: Gypsy had worked her way across to the growing crowd along the fence to provide her unique entertainment, leaving everyone smiling. The mascot had even stayed late, ensuring every child had a balloon parrot. Throw in Ryan’s polite and apologetic demeanor, and things were actually going quite well. Even the tip jar — all the proceeds went Chilean earthquake relief, since Ryan was making $10 an hour — was full.
For what seemed the first time all morning, Penny took time to exhale — just as a bald eagle swooped down out of the sky and sunk her talons into Gypsy’s side.
“Noooooooo!” Literally springing through the walk-up window, Penny hit the ground at a roll and sprang to her feet already at a sprint. Still screaming, she ran for Gypsy who was desperately trying to hang onto her perch to keep from being yanked into the air. A twisting mass of colored, brown and white feathers, the two birds writhed atop Gypsy’s stand for nearly a minute. Had Penny not had to fight her way through the crowd of stunned onlookers, she might have made it to Gypsy in time.
Instead, when she was nearly close enough to grab for Gypsy, the 38-year-old bird could no longer keep her grip. Finally succumbing to the eagle easily twice her size, Gypsy’s talons tore from her stand and she shot into the air.
Still fighting the crowd, Penny could only scream as the eagle, suddenly unencumbered, shot above her head. Watching in horror, the crowds’ eyes seemed to be both on the eagle above and Penny, screaming at everyone and no one in particular: “Oh, God! Someone do something!” The crowd, however, could do nothing; even the mascot seemed to be frozen in place, all of them rendered helpless as Gyspy went up farther and farther into the sky: 10 feet, 20 feet, 30, 40… It was too late.
Until it wasn’t, as a hero like no other stood atop the sand dune, his command like the word of God himself: “I need an omelet with everything, damnit!”
Chapter 3
Jackson Poe
Jackson Poe was mostly kidding: “If you say I’m compensating one more time, you’re going to get an omelet enema, large ingredients first.”
As they did every summer Sunday morning at about a quarter ‘til 10, Poe and his buddy Rip Rockford were walking down the hill towards Penny’s. Aside from keeping them clear of the parking madness at the beach, it gave them a chance to have a coffee, stretch their legs and talk about things both great and small — and repeated.
“Poe, you’re taking this much too personally. Besides I didn’t say you were compensating — even though you do drive a $100,000 sports car. Come on, admit it, that has to say something.”
Poe had to admit the factual part of Rip’s statement was true; a sudden windfall a while back had put him behind the wheel of a brand new Jaguar XJR. That didn’t mean Rip was right about everything. “It does say something: I’m an irresponsible jackass with money.”
“Nothing else…?” Rip said, still trying to lead Poe on.
“Sure it does, just nothing to do with what’s between my legs,” Poe said. “I mean look at your car. You drive a beat up gold Pontiac Firebird Esprit just so you can feel like you’re on the set of the ‘Rockford Files.’ I don’t assume you want James Garner’s penis.”
Rip laughed so hard he blew coffee out his nose.
“Besides,” Poe went on, “you’re a P.I. of sorts. You and your employees investigate people for a living. You of all people should know while just about every choice people make means something it’s not something so simple as the junk in their pants.”
“OK, smart guy: That Saab over there, what does that say?”
“I’m a mean S.O.B. but I have no idea how to spell.”
More coffee shot out of Rip’s nose.
“Seriously…”
“A Saab says: I need to drive something different than everyone.”
“What about that new Charger…”
And so it went as they walked down the hill: Rip would point out a car and Poe would give his assessment of its owner:
2011 Charger: “I still want to gun it, even with two kids in the back. I convinced my wife it was practical because it has four doors.”
Mud covered 2010 Toyota Tundra TRD: “I’ve got enough money that I can leave a $40,000 truck covered with shit.”
Mud covered 1996 Toyota SR-5 truck: I don’t have any money, and the mud is the only thing holding this piece of shit together.”
2004 Ford Taurus: “I stole this from Hertz.”
“OK, Poe, we’re almost there, and I can’t wait to hear this one: That 2007 Hummer across from Penny’s.”
Poe went off with near vehemence: “I’m an asshole who drives the most environmentally irresponsible vehicle in planetary history, and when I’m not raping the planet, I like to get my kicks shooting and killing animals.”
“Whoa! The environment part I get, but isn’t the animal-killer thing a bit over the top? It’s just a giant black SUV.”
“True, but you’re missing the personalized license plate, ‘SHTDKL.”
“What’s that …”
Rip never got to finish his sentence as Penny’s voice pierced their morning calm: “Oh, God! Someone do something!”
Frozen in his tracks by Penny’s cries, Rip’s eyes locked onto the Hummer for a brief second before his head turned to see Gypsy being carried straight up into the air by a bald eagle twice her size.
To Gypsy’s credit, it was not a graceful flight by any means. Still fighting, her efforts prevented the eagle from getting enough air under his wings to soar completely out of sight. Indeed, as Gypsy fought not to go into her own flightless night, the two sank back towards the Earth, and within seconds they were only 10 feet above the ground.
“Someone grab her!” screamed Penny, but no one did. Still transfixed by the scene, the gathered crowd seemed frozen in place. Only the parrot mascot, jumping from a chair, made any effort to get to Gypsy. Fake wings, however, are no substitute for real ones, and once again the eagle was heading into the sky.
“Are you people deaf?!” yelled Poe, as he paused briefly from his sprint off the street and up the dune. “I said I need an omelet with everything, damnit! Ryan, put all those omelet ingredients on that plate! Now!”
The crowd now parting at the sight of a crazy man in a bright Hawaiian shirt screaming about omelets, Poe directed his attention to four people sitting on a three-legged picnic table bench next to Ryan. “Get your asses up! Now!”
Grabbing the six-foot bench, Poe flipped it over on its seat and using a burst of adrenalin, kicked the leg closest to him clean off the bench. He then flipped the bench over again on its two remaining legs before literally hopping up on top of the table next to his end of the bench. “Ryan put that plate of stuff on your end of the bench, right now! We get one shot at this,” and even as he said it, Poe was launching himself nearly straight up into the air.
As he dropped, however, Poe landed not on table, but on the legless end of the bench, which now behaved more like a teeter-totter, with the middle leg as the fulcrum. Suddenly slamming into the ground, all of Poe’s energy transferred to Ryan’s end and the waiting plate of omelet ingredients.
What happened was exactly as Poe planned: A flak-like bombardment of chunked ham, sliced cheese, onion slices, jalapenos, mushrooms and multiple hues of pepper pieces that would have made Walt Disney proud. Flying upwards through the air, it was as if the salad bar at Sizzler had exploded, most of it raining down on a crowd that realized their wait time for breakfast had just gotten a whole lot longer.
Some of it, however, went exactly where Poe had planned: straight into the unsuspecting eagle. Surprised — Tillamook Cheddar not being among the normal predators of North American Bald Eagles — the eagle immediately dropped Gypsy from some 20 feet in the air. Exhausted, Gypsy made no effort to fly herself, instead dropping straight to the ground — and into the arms of the mascot.
Running to the mascot’s side, Penny knew she needed to get Gypsy to the pet hospital. Taking her gently from the mascot, she stopped for only two things: A small kiss for the mascot and Poe, before sprinting to her own car across the street. Focused on Gypsy, she didn’t even notice the Hummer suddenly peeling out into the street, away from the scene.
“See, I told you that guy was an asshole,” Poe said to Rip, who had now joined Poe in the courtyard. “And what a disaster.”
“Disaster? You just saved Gypsy’s life with nothing more than a picnic bench and omelet ingredients. You’re like MacGyver, only older and fatter, and with bad fashion sense.”
“Easy for you to say — and don’t forget, you wear the same damn shirts I do — but where the hell am I going to get an omelet now? I just sent my breakfast into near Earth orbit.”
Chapter 4
Poe
Even as Penny headed out from her business, her customers refused to do the same. Friends of the Flett family as multi-generation customers tend to be, they knew the day had been hard enough on Penny. Losing the revenue from one of the busiest days of the year would make it worse.
They still needed breakfast, however, and some simply planned to change their orders to the Explosilada. With potentially devastating consequences to the methane content of the local air, Ryan felt a particular urgency in his efforts to chop and shred more omelet ingredients in back.
Only the mascot headed out, though after more than two hours without a break in a big blue parrot suit, he was forgiven. His bag of balloons held in one hand, the special in a to-go box in the other, he half walked, half-bounced down the sidewalk and out of sight, pausing only to wave goodbye to Poe and Rip.
Waving back, Poe was jealous; the bird was getting a break. No such luck for Poe, who still standing amidst the mess he himself had had created, surrounded by people who couldn’t stop telling him how impressed they were with his Rube Goldberg-esque means of parrot rescue. Never mind how many times he told them he was not a hero, just a man who wanted breakfast.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Well, good morning to you, too, Mrs. Boggs,” Poe said with forced enthusiasm.
In a morning of unusual animal encounters, this at least was one Poe understood: Mrs. Boggs and her Yorkshire Terriers. Vile little animals that at one time lived on his street, every time they encountered Poe they’d bark as if he was a canine serial killer. Worse, their owner, one Mildred Boggs, simply allowed them to do it, usually while they were crapping on his lawn.
This morning was their first encounter since she’d moved last month, and Poe figured she deserved no less than his standard greeting. “And how are your dogs, Rugby and Soccer?”
“Son of a bitch!” And with that she was off for the beach, Poe all the while staring at his feet and humming rather loudly until she was at last out of earshot. Looking again at his friend, Poe smiled.
“You know, Rip, I think that’s the first time I’ve ever encountered those dogs where they didn’t get crap on my Tevas.”
“Good to know. Why the hell were you humming so loud?”
“Oh, it’s just a song I wrote for Mrs. Boggs and her dogs. I like to hum it when she’s around.”
“I hate to ask: Why not just sing it?”
“There are children present; It’s called ‘Furry Little Assholes.’”
“You actually wrote lyrics?”
“It wasn’t hard, those are pretty much the only three words in it.”
“Aahhhh... “
There was one upside to Poe’s discourse with Mrs. Mildred Boggs and her dogs: She’d pretty much scared off the crowd that had surrounded him and Rip. The way clear, both of them headed towards the kitchen to help Ryan.
“Hey, Poe, I’m really sorry I froze up back there,” Rip said. “I should have had your back.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Poe said with a laugh, “not everyone was cut out to be a breakfast commando.”
“Perhaps, but there was something else: That black Hummer. For a brief second I could have sworn I saw someone shooting pictures out of the back seat. Sounds craz…”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Oh, God, are the dogs back?”
“No! The license plate: ‘SHTDKL.’ It’s not “Shoot TO Kill. It’s Shoot THE Kill. That guy was there to take pictures of the attack.”
“I think your hunger is going to your head. How the hell would that guy have known the eagle was going to swoop down on Gypsy right then?”
“No idea, but I have a feeling the answer lies with that black Hummer. We need to find out who owns that thing. Hey, you’re a P.I., isn’t there someone you can… Hey are you even listening to me?”
Rip was not. Instead he was typing wildly on his smart phone, and within 45 seconds he had Poe’s answer: “Merlin Perkins, Portland,” and before Poe could even ask how he knew that, Rip had his answer: “There’s an app for that. You really do need to get with the times.”
A known technology lagger, Poe had only recently taken to texting. Smartphones were one step too far for him. “OK, you pain in the app. Where’s that Hummer right now? Got an app for that?”
“Uh, no. That takes a couple of phone calls, even in a small town. Give me a minute.”
Poe was happy to. Mainly because it gave him time to pour a cup of coffee before heading into the kitchen to help Ryan. It wasn’t long, however, before both of them had more help: his friend from the aquarium, Callista Walker, and a friend of hers that Poe had not met.
“Poe,” she said smiling, sorry we’re late. Had a bit of a problem with a raccoon in my garage. Seems they’ve decided my wetsuits are their territory and they’re going to mark them.”
“So many snide comments I could make, but that would be rude in front of someone I don’t know. Callista: help me know him.”
“This is ScubaPoop.”
“Of course you are. I’m assuming your parents hated you,” Poe said smiling as he thrust out his hand.
Smiling back, the young man shook Poe’s hand. “Let’s just say it’s a nickname. It seems I’m the only guy in the history of the Surfland Aquarium of the Pacific to actually like vacuuming up the seaweed and bird poop underwater in the aviary.”
“Everyone needs a hobby,” Poe said, returning to his dicing. “Care for an omelet?”
“Thanks, but I’m a vegan. Happy to help slice and dice, though.”
Instantly liking the young man, Poe reflected that he reminded him a lot of Callista: enthusiastic, fun, and totally in love with his job at the aquarium across the bay. Quickly at ease, Poe had no problem recounting the morning’s events at their favorite Sunday morning stop. Leaving out their suspicions about the black Hummer, Poe was even more surprised when ScubaPoop took the conversation that direction anyway.
“You know, that’s like the tenth story I’ve heard this month about eagle attacks,” he said.
“You must hang with strange people,” Poe said with a chuckle.
“I do, but that’s not the point,” he said, giving as well as he took. “We’ve had a lot of visitors at the aquarium commenting on strange eagle behavior. Even though we only keep aquatic birds, people comment to us on anything related to birds.”
“Interesting, but I thought you kept eagles there, too.”
“Only on a short-term basis; we’re an interim rescue site until we can get the bird to a dedicated raptor center in the Valley. Just last week we had an eaglet in with pieces of a metal belt-loop lodged in his throat.”
With that, Poe let ScubaPoop and Callista grab a special for her and a bowl of peppers and onions for him so they could enjoy breakfast out front. Mentally slipping into a private space where he could think, Poe was more certain than ever something was up with Merlin Perkins, a sudden surge in eagle attacks and a very large camera. He needed to find that black Hummer.
“It’s parked up on the overlook in Harrison Heights,” Rip said.
“I think I love you.”
“I really think you need to eat, but whatever, I love you, too. I called Surfland PD, and they were nice enough to keep an eye out. Voila! Small town, ugly Hummer, case closed. Let’s go.”
“I’m never getting my damn breakfast,” Poe grumbled.
Before heading out of the kitchen, Poe noticed Callista and ScubaPoop had returned to help Ryan keep ahead of the orders: Callista sliding specials into the oven and ScubaPoop chopping up more omelet ingredients. Life in a small town, Poe thought to himself, smiling. Giving them a quick goodbye, Poe made plans to meet them later that afternoon at Penny’s, intent on getting what he decided would be brunch.
“What else did Sharalyn tell you about the Hummer?” Poe asked, assuming that Rip had talked to Sharalyn Flax, their friend at Surfland PD.
“Not much really. She’s on animal control duty this weekend, and she was pretty distracted. Something about a ‘huge ‘em dog.’ I can never understand her southern accent.”
“’Southern accent’?’ She’s from California, you nummy. Just because you never want to leave the state doesn’t mean the rest of us are cultural illiterates.”
“Say what you want, she was making no damn sense.”
“So, you learned nothing.”
“Oh ye of little faith, I have other sources of information.”
“If you say, ‘There’s an app for that,’ I may have to kill you.”
“Nope, no app, just the Internet. Maybe you’ve heard of it.” Rip said with a smile. “Merlin Perkins runs a wildlife photography and travel business based in Portland. He’s got photos from all over the world showing him and his clients in just about every place you can think of.”
“Nothing wrong with that, I suppose,” Poe admitted.
“No, but it is interesting what happens when you register with him as a client — you owe me $25 bucks, by the way — it takes you to a whole other photo album on his website: ‘Fauna Necro Voyeurism.’”
“What the hell is that?”
“Apparently it’s some new offshoot of biological studies where people use real-time photo and video to isolate different components of animal behavior.”
“English, please.”
“Hell, I don’t know, I’m just reading what the study says. It’s from some place in Texas. He’s got it attached to the website.”
“Swell, educational bullshit; I’ve got three degrees,” Poe said, remembering his days at the universities of Colorado and Missouri, “that doesn’t mean I don’t blather a lot of crap.”
“How true, my friend, how true,” Rip said, laughing. “But this time I think you’re right on, because the name just seems to be an excuse for photo after photo of animals killing other animals. Kangaroos hunted by crocodiles in Australia, penguins eaten by seals in Antarctica, even prairie dogs being snagged by eagles somewhere in Colorado.”
“A voyeur in the circle of life,” Poe mused. “Sick, twisted, Elton John would be horrified, but I don’t suppose there’s anything really wrong with that. The Discovery Channel makes money off violence in nature. I suppose other people can, too.”
“So, we just let this slide?” Rip asked, incredulously.
“Hell no. I don’t know about you, but what happened today didn’t strike me as exactly normal: Eagles taking out parrots at a crowded buffet? This guy’s making a profit on the death of animals and something tells me there’s nothing natural about it. I have a feeling Gypsy isn’t the only animal to have had a very bad day at this guy’s hands.”
Rip started laughing. “You’re amazing.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Mrs. Boggs has you pegged as the biggest animal hater in the world, and here you are trying to save them. Hell, you even call her dogs by their names.”
“Yeah, well, don’t read too much into that. I have no idea what she calls them; ‘Soccer’ and ‘Rugby’ are the names I gave them.”
“I hate to ask…”
“They’re balls; can you think of two things you might kick harder? I wanted her to remember what would happen to them next time they pooped on my lawn.”
“You are not a nice person, sometimes.”
“No, I’m not, and just wait ‘til you see what I do to Merlin.”
Chapter 5
Merlin Perkins
Merlin Perkins entered the world as most living things do: Making a mess and a lot of noise. Born in Omaha, Nebraska, there was nothing particularly descript about him: He was white, somewhat hairy, with blue eyes that would eventually turn brown. His height and weight were so average that even knowing mothers who had been through labor had no cause to exclaim how horrible it must have been.
Where Merlin’s arrival in the world was profoundly different from just about everyone else on the planet was his parents’ preoccupation with Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. By the time of his birth, Merlin’s mother had never missed an episode, not in her 24 years of life. As someone who shared host Marlin Perkins last name, she considered it her duty. Later in life she would be declared to have an obsessive compulsive disorder after trying to smuggle the complete Wild Kingdom boxed set out of Costco inside of giant box of maxi-pads. But such diagnoses — and the medications to go with them — were far in her future when she began looking for a man to share her passion/obsession.
In 1974 she married her husband, knowing little more than he was an avid Wild Kingdom fan, had no outstanding felony warrants in their home state of Ohio, and was willing to change his last name to hers. They even timed their wedding so they wouldn’t miss an episode. Indeed, when the reception ran late, the guests found the new couple had disappeared promptly at 8 p.m. (7 central and mountain). That the episode included the mating rituals of Asian Spider Monkeys, well, that was just a bonus; bendy little buggers.
Marriage turned out to be much the same as the wedding night: Amorous activities ensued only when Marlin Perkins was presenting mating habits on what — Merlin’s father prayed — was a very Wild Kingdom. Wildebeests, marmosets, Bolivian stinkbugs, geckos: Their world was the Perkins’, and Merlin’s father lived for nights when the show strayed from just talking about mud baths at the waterhole.
Not that every mating episode was an equal. Merlin’s mother was understandably at her best when the show was about mammals, large ones, the rest failing to provide the requisite turn on for full-fledged excitement. The episode on King Cobras had been a particular disappointment for both of them. Despite males having two penises and a fornication period that lasted up to two days, female King Cobras could take a break in the middle up to three days before being ready to produce offspring — if she chose to at all.
Mr. Perkins considered himself good, but not that good.
Perhaps that’s why it took Merlin’s parents six years to produce a child. And why, when the big moment came, she insisted that he arrive during a broadcast of Wild Kingdom, though she was flexible enough to not require it happen during a mammal-based episode. Everyone, including her OB/GYN told her she was nuts, but with a combination of pills, remarkable transversus abdominis muscles, and her husband occasionally pushing on her uterus until 8 p.m. (7 central), she accomplished it, just as host Marlin Perkins was watching his assistant, Jim, being chased by a 12-foot crocodile through an Australian mud hole. “I’ll bet he’ll love crocodiles!” said Merlin’s mother to his father.
Only two things went wrong with this perfect day. One: Merlin’s father was an idiot and misspelled “Marlin” on his birth certificate, his mother now on too many pain-killers to notice what he’d done. And two: Their son hated every living thing in the animal kingdom, wild or not.
Growing up Marlin, Merlin didn’t know the true spelling of his name until he enrolled in Omaha’s newest junior high school in 1992. Requiring a birth certificate to prove citizenship, the guidance counselor told him they had no choice but to enroll him as Merlin. Not wanting to adopt a new name from a ridiculous Middle Ages legend, Merlin/Marlin questioned the inflexibility of such a thing. The counselor told him it was the law, on account of all the illegal immigrants.
“Do I look like an illegal immigrant to you?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter how you look, we treat everyone the same. You could have swum here from Bulgaria.”
“Bulgaria isn’t on the water, you idiot,” Merlin retorted, making him the only student in George Bush Junior High School history to be sent to in-school suspension on his very first day. It would not be his last.
Much like a child raised by wolves — his parents watched the canis lupus episode on video tape at least 100 times — Merlin had no social skills when it came to other kids. And as Merlin feared, being saddled with the name of a fictional magician did not make things any better. His peers knew that all they had to do was make some stupid reference from King Arthur and it was only a matter of time until Merlin started throwing punches.
“Where’s your wand?” Twelve seconds.
“Turn any girls into frogs lately?” Eight seconds.
“Hey, dude! Do you lance a lot?” Four seconds.
And so it went, until one day Billy Duke asked him about his pointy hat — and Merlin did nothing. Instead he just stood there for a full thirty seconds, before asking Billy about his pointy hat: “You know, the white one your daddy keeps in his truck.” Stunned, Billy just stood there — and then he beat the crap out of Merlin.
This time, however, was different. Because this time, before he got the snot pounded out of him, Merlin saw pure fear in someone’s eyes. It was magical, it was addictive, and it was easy for Merlin to manipulate, because every word he had said to Billy was true. He had seen a Klansman’s hat lying on the floor when Billy had hopped into his dad’s truck the day before.
As both were brought into the principal’s office, Billy knew he was screwed. His daddy may have been the worst Klansman ever; he was a Klan of one and in his first attempt at cross burning he had succeeded only in burning down the garage. But it would still be the end for his and his dad’s life as they knew it; racist plumbers weren’t exactly in high demand on Angie’s List.
But instead of ratting Billy out, Merlin said he threw the first punch and took his punishment like he always did: five days in in-school detention. When he got out he didn’t even say a word to Billy, instead just letting him stew for another week. Finally, Billy couldn’t take it any more, and he went to Merlin to ask him what he wanted.
“Nothing,” Merlin said with a flat smile on his face. “I just want to be left alone, and for you to know if anyone touches me again, I’ll spill my guts to the principal, the cops, the fire department, your dad’s girlfriend and his wife. Yeah, I know about that, too.”
Merlin didn’t have another problem in junior high or high school. For just as he had noticed the unseemly things in Billy’s life, he had noticed that everyone had secrets — and he was very good at observing people until he figured out what those were. Call it a gift, call it just being a bastard, Merlin knew everything about everybody, and everybody knew it.
The macho football coach who liked to watch “Lifetime” movies while crying like a baby. The head of the booster club who was sleeping with a lesbian burlesque dancer while her husband was away on business. The PETA member and vice principal who liked rodeos and veal. The wrestling coach who spent most Tuesday and Wednesday nights as a drag queen while sleeping with the unknowing head of the booster club. The female basketball player who was not only taking testosterone shots but also seemed to be growing testes — and liked it.