The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

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Tom Robbins, �Wild Ducks Flying Backward�

Started July 3 � Finished July 4, 2007; 256 pages. Posted 18 December 2007

What, nobody has anything to say about that photo in the last entry? Was it because the entry in itself was sort of a downer? Because in case you didn�t know, old people with memory retention problems can also be quite a bit of fun. Consider Thanksgiving. I went and picked him up in the early afternoon.

�What are we going to do?� he asked after I helped him get his seatbelt on, which he seemed quite intent on doing, despite recently signed all the �Do Not Resuscitate� paperwork.

�Well,� I said, �since you�re probably not going to remember anything anyway, I figured I�d drive you around the block a couple of times and take you home, then ask if you got enough to eat, and if you had a nice time.�

Instead, I brought him to my bar and dive bar next door.

But I kid the incapacitated. I also took him to my house, where I cooked for him and we watched Sweet and Lowdown because I figured he�d like the music if nothing else. I took him to his old apartment which I'm still paying his rent for as I haven't had time to go though his personal belongings, and we looked through some photos together. Afterward, while I was driving him home, I asked if he remembered the day and what had transpired.

�Nope,� he said simply.

Jesus. I really could have just driven around the block a few times.

But back to the photograph. While my sister was visiting, and while we were visiting our father at the nursing care home, I fell into a chair in the waiting room and almost immediately fell asleep.

Or nearly did, anyway, because my sister used the opportunity to quickly put the baby in my lap. This of course, isn�t the best idea in the world, because my first reaction is the same as whenever something is crawling on me while I�m half-asleep � I try and brush it off.

�Mom wants a picture of you holding the baby,� my sister said.

�Can I hold it like bait?� I asked.

Viola. She wouldn�t, however, let me hold it like a dead fish, with my hand hooked under the flap in the baby�s throat.

A few days later, all five of us � me, my father, my sister, her husband and the baby were in the car, going to my place for dinner. The baby was sick of being in the car seat, and was starting to complain about it. My sister leaned over to make eye contact with her, singing some insipid tune about a little red caboose that wasn�t anything like the song by Prince. The baby stopped crying, but stared at her as she sang with a look that, to me anyway, said, �What the flying fuck are you babbling about, woman?�

When the song finished the baby immediately started crying again.

�I�m with the baby on this one,� I said. �That was terrible.�

�I can�t think of any other songs,� she said. �Why don�t you sing something to her?�

The baby swung her head to look at me with an expression that was half in interest on what I might sing, and half a challenge to get her to shut the fuck up.

I tried staring down the baby.

Babies are not easy to stare down. Finally, I sighed in defeat.

�It�s a holiday in Cambodia��

The baby stopped crying. My sister is in so much trouble.


Rating: Worth Used.

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