Dean the Duck Man
Almost very morning since we started walking through the park, Elmer the husky and I have encountered an elderly man circling the duck pond. His only absence occurred when rain, snow or ice presumably kept him away.
At some point we began waving to each other.
Those first months the duck pond was drained but after it filled up in the spring, ducks and geese showed up in numbers. Soon thereafter, I noticed the ducks and geese would follow the man on land and water. I could see from the distance he was feeding them something from his pockets. Sometimes, up to 50 ducks and geese dogged his trail. The sight always delighted me even though I knew visitors were not supposed to feed the waterfowl.
On Memorial Day I saw the man cutting rhododendron flowers with a Bowie knife. They had to be for someone he loved no longer around, or so my creative mind and romantic heart wanted to believe.
A man who cuts flowers with a Bowie knife for someone he loved is someone I must meet!
The man had undoubtedly seen most, if not all, the same strange and sad sights of homelessness I had seen near the duck pond at that early hour. They occur every morning, usually multiple times. The most recent memorable one was a homeless man taking a kind of shower as he meandered through a ball field while sprinklers doused the grass. At one moment, the man stopped, gesticulated, twirled around. I thought he might strip off his clothes, raise his hands to the sky, and go total Shawshank Redemption escape-from-prison-thunderstorm scene.
But he didn’t.
What had the duck man thought of these sights that heretofore had never unfolded in his neighborhood park? I got the impression he had lived around here for a long time.
Today was the day to meet him. I’d seen a beaver in the creek and a blue heron perched on a fence; I’d also seen two men splayed on the grass in the park. Their contortions defied description but reminded me of images I’d seen somewhere from history.
The bracing juxtaposition, almost in real time, for some reason enlivened me to intersect with the man.
Elmer and I changed course. The man saw me approaching and waved.
We met. We introduced ourselves. His name is Dean. Dean the Duck Man! Thirty ducks stood behind him clucking as we talked. Dean’s trick? Peanuts.
‘You have quite the entourage,” I said.
He smiled.
I was ready to ask him about the homeless in the park, and then didn’t. It wasn’t the right time. Maybe it never would be. Such a subject at that hour in this setting might undermine or even destroy Dean’s vibe. Not everyone wants to there on this subject.