I just bought a pink flamingo, one of those plastic ones. You know the kind, with a neck like an S-hook and a beak like Cher. They were in vogue before I was born . . . well, almost.
We used to have one in the front yard when I was a kid — we called her Fanny. We used to stick the garden hose in her mouth, fill her up with water and watch her leak all afternoon.
Our dog Spike used to stand under her with his mouth open. People began slowing down in their cars to watch Fanny leaking on Spike.
Mom said it was obscene, and one day she sealed up Fanny’s crack with Krazy Glue. Life was never the same after that. Fanny’s legs rusted off, and Dad made her new ones out of coat hangers. She used to sway back and forth when the wind blew, and then one day she took off in a thunderstorm.
Dad swore he saw her stuck on the top of a telephone pole out on Route 1. We all drove out to see, and there she was, with her legs wrapped around that telephone pole. Mom whispered something to Dad, but he didn’t think it was funny.
A few months later, we got another flamingo, but Mom said no tricks with the garden hose this time. We left Fanny 2 alone until Thanksgiving. I volunteered her as the turkey in the Thanksgiving school pageant.
We glued feathers from an old duster on her butt and hung a water-filled red balloon under her neck. Everything went fine until Bobby Jones, who played an Indian chief, cut off her head with his tomahawk.
My brother and I put her head on backwards with duct tape. We had to leave her feathered tail on because the glue wouldn’t come loose.
Mom looked the other way every time she passed her, but Dad thought she was cool with her head on backwards. Everything was fine until Halloween, when someone kidnapped her. We saw her again two months later, when Mom opened the Sunday newspaper to the style section.
There she was in full colour, in the Museum of Modern Art.
Comments are closed.