"I'm drunk," he informed us.
"Get lost," we said. "We're hooping." The hoops circled bellies comfortably bloated with the evening's meal and freshly-baked bread.
"Did you guys bake bread?" he slurred. "And I'm dying for some asparagus." He stumbled and caught himself when his webbed foot slid inside a wide-brimmed hat.
"That's none of your business," we said, and advised him that the Farmer's Market is held on Saturdays, when local farmers would happily sell him a pound of asparagus for a minimum of three dollars.
"You think pelicans got cash?" he demanded. "Hell, I'm not even from the Midwest. I carry sand dollars, man. And though I generally hold my food for a week before eating, at the moment, space in my obscene beak is devoted to the fermentation of whiskey."
"You're a walking distillery?" we shouted in amazement, and threw down our hula hoops to further inspect this aviary anomaly.
And an anomaly he was, a beak which held broth swirling into eskers of mash and bubbling with yeast. It was moonshine, it was extraordinary.
"But what's wrong?!" we shouted, and patted his back a little gingerly, ruffling his feathers.
"It's just that I have so much to give," he explained, "and it is so difficult for a pelican to get a word in edgewise these days. Few humans can understand my shrill, birdy voice. And I'm drunk so often, distilling my whiskey, that nobody can take me seriously."
We felt bad. We really did. And we were ready to help him unload some of that whiskey, over-exercised by hours of hooping.
And so we proposed the following arrangement: Diligent, pelican-inspired blogging services in exchange for a whiskey and coke now and then. And so far the endeavor has worked out nicely. The pelican slumbers in a comfortable hammock for half of each day, while whiskey drains from his beak into an old fish tank we bought from Bill. The bird prefers smooth jazz before bed, and modern country in the mornings. While these preferences have incurred some disagreement among house fellows, he is a pleasant creature, and in moments of silence and great poise, gazes out our basement window at sandaled, passing feet, dreaming of the day that a pelican's voice will ring through the hillsides, the valleys, the algal bloom of the lake lying only feet away.
If you have any sympathy in your heart, you will no doubt continue to read this blog, and help this singular animal realize his ambitious aspirations.
"Get lost," we said. "We're hooping." The hoops circled bellies comfortably bloated with the evening's meal and freshly-baked bread.
"Did you guys bake bread?" he slurred. "And I'm dying for some asparagus." He stumbled and caught himself when his webbed foot slid inside a wide-brimmed hat.
"That's none of your business," we said, and advised him that the Farmer's Market is held on Saturdays, when local farmers would happily sell him a pound of asparagus for a minimum of three dollars.
"You think pelicans got cash?" he demanded. "Hell, I'm not even from the Midwest. I carry sand dollars, man. And though I generally hold my food for a week before eating, at the moment, space in my obscene beak is devoted to the fermentation of whiskey."
"You're a walking distillery?" we shouted in amazement, and threw down our hula hoops to further inspect this aviary anomaly.
And an anomaly he was, a beak which held broth swirling into eskers of mash and bubbling with yeast. It was moonshine, it was extraordinary.
At this point, the pelican sat down on our couch, reopening the hole in one cushion that our landlord, Bill had so lovingly sewn with dexterous hand only a week prior. But we didn't mention this because before we could reprimand him for his carelessness, he began to heave great pelican sobs.
"But what's wrong?!" we shouted, and patted his back a little gingerly, ruffling his feathers.
"It's just that I have so much to give," he explained, "and it is so difficult for a pelican to get a word in edgewise these days. Few humans can understand my shrill, birdy voice. And I'm drunk so often, distilling my whiskey, that nobody can take me seriously."
We felt bad. We really did. And we were ready to help him unload some of that whiskey, over-exercised by hours of hooping.
And so we proposed the following arrangement: Diligent, pelican-inspired blogging services in exchange for a whiskey and coke now and then. And so far the endeavor has worked out nicely. The pelican slumbers in a comfortable hammock for half of each day, while whiskey drains from his beak into an old fish tank we bought from Bill. The bird prefers smooth jazz before bed, and modern country in the mornings. While these preferences have incurred some disagreement among house fellows, he is a pleasant creature, and in moments of silence and great poise, gazes out our basement window at sandaled, passing feet, dreaming of the day that a pelican's voice will ring through the hillsides, the valleys, the algal bloom of the lake lying only feet away.
If you have any sympathy in your heart, you will no doubt continue to read this blog, and help this singular animal realize his ambitious aspirations.
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