Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
It was the end of another semester and I had made it through my final exams
without going insane. Instead of a wild celebration, all I wanted was to have a beer at the
Memorial Student Union terrace, and to sit by the Union property lakeside and wallow in
That’s all I wanted for the evening of my last exam before I set out the next day to
I recalled previous summers with the ducks at the Union. I had gone to the trouble
in a brown paper bag and walking to the Union to feed those ducks.
Every summer it was the same. At the end of May and beginning of June, the
ducks were filled with appreciation; they gathered around quacking in gratitude. If they
were on shore they followed wherever I went, flapping their wings and quacking as I
Yet, after I threw the last handful of popcorn they were gone, bumming off
someone else.
I hoped the ducks might recognize me whenever I returned, as one who had
generously fed them before. That never happened. By July so many people had been
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feeding them they had no interest in what I offered. The ducks would often ignore me and
throw something different. Once I tried to feed them lettuce from a sandwich I was eating.
So I started to toss french fries from my lunch. Suddenly I was popular among the
I should have learned my lesson years ago with my pet duck, Disco. I had grown
up in the country, and had raised Disco from a fuzzy duckling to a shiny drake. When he
was a baby he was tiny. Wherever I walked he waddled at my heels, flapping his tiny
wings and quacking. When Disco was an adult my family brought in other ducks.
Disco no longer knew me. He was too busy being king of his duck clan. Once I
My beloved Disco didn’t acknowledge me. He quacked to his clan members, they
So that particular evening of the last exam I reminisced my tragedy with Disco,
and recalled previous summers with the Memorial Union ducks. I decided not to feed the
ducks ever again; to their little eyes, I’d only be a speck in the crowd.
But I couldn’t refrain from watching them, clusters of ducks wading by the people
at shore, numerous voices quacking – not just duck voices. I observed that most people
couldn’t lounge near so many ducks without imitating them. When there was a lull in
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folks’ conversation they would hear the ducks and respond with their own, “Quack!
Quack!”
What these people didn’t realize, I thought, was that ducks have a language that
must be spoken precisely. Human imitations of duck talk were clumsy. Who knows what
My visits to the Union became more frequent. At first I came for everything, the
people the beautiful lake waves rippling into the distance, watching the wind surfers, the
sailboats, the ducks. Slowly, without my realizing it, I came to the Union for one single
I had decreasing concern for finding a summer job and increasing concern for the
Why did they come to our student union? Their life here must have been a great
contrast to country ducks.’ I counted 19 ducklings wading in the water while one adult
female duck supervised them. “Quack! Quack!” she called to them like a drill sergeant.
She couldn’t be the mother of all 19 ducklings. She must have been a school
teacher taking them on a field trip. “Quack, quaack!” translated, “Come children, to a
place we ducks go to see drunk college students. Look how people feed us. Suckers!”
I discovered that ducks too, had personalities. One pair, male and female, seemed
like an elderly couple. They waded together along the shoreline. The female looked
directly at people, her gaze clearly asking if they had food to share. The male floated
close behind, in support of her cause. Both gracefully lifted tossed food in their beaks,
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Rent was overdue. My food cabinets were barren. I couldn’t even afford to buy
Old Milwaukee beer. Still no job. Every day I found myself wandering to the student
union to sit near the lapping waves and watch the ducks. I began to analyze them. As one
They could swim all day, and when they felt hungry, take a detour to the Union
lakeshore. They could remain in the water, or leap with their wet webbed feet to the
concrete shore, to have a feast thrown at them. There they were before my eyes, spending
little energy on manipulation techniques and getting everything they wanted. They didn’t
One hot, humid day I sat by the lake, my bloodshot eyes on the ducks, my mind
drowning in depression because I was sweating, jobless, hungry, and inclined to watch
ducks. I refused to feed them. I hardly had enough money to feed myself.
“Here duckies!” a tiny voice called out. The ducks gathered to an area next to me.
I gazed up to see a dark-haired, blue-eyed little boy standing, cramming his pudgy
fingers into a bag of cheese popcorn. He pulled out handfuls and sprinkled kernels into
the lake. He giggled every time, as the ducklings darted to snatch up the kernels.
Between tosses the boy shoved popcorn into his mouth. “Baby duckies!” he
squealed. His father stood by and smiled down at the boy. Sweat beads formed on my
The boy’s pudgy, orange-stained fingers reached in the bag to grasp more. My dry
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mouth began to water. My empty stomach began to churn. “Little baby duckies!” the
He tossed cheese-powdered kernels into the air; they tumbled downward, turning,
turning, turning. Fair game it seemed, yet each kernel fell into the custody of the ducks.
Suddenly I found myself squatting in front of the little boy, my fists crammed into
His father grabbed the boy’s hand, “Come on, Petie!” He led the kid farther down
to continue the duck feeding. The ducks followed, flapping their wings. Quack-quaack!
I realized that the people nearby had backed away, leaving a significant radius
Ashamed, I decided to apologize to Petie and his father. I trudged over to them.
Yet, all I saw was the cheese popcorn. I was mesmerized by the little orange puffs being
flung into the air ... turning. turning, and releasing tiny orange grains.
I noticed one big kernel being tossed high and reached to catch it. But I missed
I could take no more. I pounced down and grabbed the tiny creature, one hand
holding its little body, the other clasping the popcorn kernel. I tried desperately to pull the
Petie’s shrill screams pierced through my delirium. I realized where I was, and
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that I wasn’t a duck. I released the poor duckling and found myself staring into the angry
“Petie, I ...” I began. Petie’s father led him away. Humiliated, I stood straight,
I didn’t leave my apartment for days, and stayed away from the Union for weeks. I
dreamed about ducks every night. It was always the same dream.
Marvin and Mathilda were flying over the Bermuda Triangle when Mathilda was
sucked into a mysterious whirlwind that opened up and disappeared, taking her with it.
Poor Marvin was destined to wander alone, from one lake to the next, imploring if anyone
had seen Mathilda. He couldn’t accept that she was gone forever. The dreams ended the
It wasn’t until after I finally got a job that I returned the Memorial Union. Fearing
The ducks were still there; the ducklings were bigger, and growing feathers. I
could afford to buy myself a beer and cheese popcorn. As the sun set I took off my
sunglasses and gazed over the lake. It was a still night. The water moved in gentle ripples.
Pink and orange smeared the sky, and reflected in lines across the dark water.
Ducks were scattered about in little groups. A drake drifted in from somewhere
deep in the lake. His wading hardly disturbed the smooth water. He looked far ahead, I
alone toward the sunset, here and again letting out a sad and desperate, “Quaaack ...”
The elderly couple ducks made their way to me. The female looked at me,