A story: A young man toils in a thankless kitchen in the only diner in a small town. He smells of grease and his hands always exist in a simultaneous state of chapped and damp. Cigarettes are the only way to take a break and he milks each and every draw. 6 days a week. No prospects. No schooling. The money keeps the lights on at the family farmhouse that he unexpectedly inherited. He lives there, alone but for a stray mutt that has become his dog. He could scrape by, for a couple decades even, on the inheritance and the money from the sale of the fields, but there wouldn’t be enough for boozing on his days off.

So he works, day in, day out.

He works for an old cook that hates people so thoroughly, the young man is the closest thing to a friend that he has. They drink together. The old cook is always trying to teach the young man the ways of the world through the lens of food. The problem is the old cook hates life and all of its terrible schemes against his art. All of his lessons end up sounding something like this:

“What we do, is we arrange people’s next shit on a plate.”

The young man takes no inspiration away from this view. On the other hand, this philosophy and the affirmation of it seems to fuel the old cook’s fire. The old cook is not satisfied at the young man’s lack of enthusiasm for his nihilism. “Why are you here if you don’t care about food?” “Why should I keep you?”

This new form of derision wears on the young man, so much so that even the smoke breaks don’t shield him from the mental burden.

Finally, the young man unceremoniously quits.

The cook finds a string of replacements for the young man, but none have the lasting endurance he once relied upon. He eventually sells the diner and moves on. Most everyone in the small town forgets about young man. They forget who lives with the dog in the old farmhouse. The town grows and continues as towns will.

The young man secludes himself to the farmhouse and his old barn.

He works and he works. On what, nobody knows or cares. He goes through the bulk of life alone, unincorporated into the community around him. Until finally one day many years later, when he is gray and hunched, he makes his way back to the center of town. He walks calmly until finding his chosen place in the street, when he shouts at the top of his lungs:

"I’m finished!! It’s done!! It’s finally done!!!"

He continues this feral display until he has drawn a decently sized crowd, then he begins to lead them back to his barn. “Follow me and you will see!” Ignoring the looks and any stray questions, he walks as a man possessed by the madness of complete elation. He is almost there. It is almost done. He reaches the barn, having tread over the grave of the old mutt without so much as a glance. He waits until the trailing townspeople have massed. “Here it is” He slides open the large door.

LOOK AT THIS DUCK!!!

Sure enough, in the light of a spring day within the barn of the former dishwasher and recent recluse, there is a giant wooden duck. Beautifully crafted, seemingly seamless. A massive mahogany mallard. No one who witnessed its unveiling could argue with its majesty. However, no one could determine its purpose either. Before the gasps were over and the obvious questions could be asked, the old man keeled over with a contently dead heart inside him.

My best friend and I make a habit of telling that story to one and other. It cheers us up whenever we feel weighed down by the inherent absurdity of life. Our advice for all those who will have it:

Find your own duck.