Rubber Duck
Based on the Sesame Street song,
"Put Down the Ducky"
All character are owned by Janet Evanovich, I'm just playing
No ducks were harmed in the writing of this story
It was a quiet day at the Vincent Plum Bail Bonds office. The weather outside the plate glass window brutal. Snow was blowing sideways, pelting anyone brave enough to venture out. Visibility was next to nothing. It was the kind of day that kept the criminals inside, planning their next job.
Connie, the receptionist was busy painting her nails a deep blood red while Lula, the file clerk, was asleep on the faux leather couch. The door suddenly flew open to reveal a wind blown Vinnie, struggling to control some kind of black case the size of a medium suitcase.
Lula was startled awake by the frigid air blasting in. "Wha' the fuck?!" She struggled to sit upright, her furry clad body looking like a bright pink polar bear.
"Shut the damn door you idiot!" Connie yelled out. "What the hell are you trying to do, turn us into ice cubes?"
"Cool your jets. Geez. Remember who signs your paycheck, " Vinnie snarled out.
"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Rubber Ducky. And like my paycheck is so much. What've you got there, anyway?"
Vinnie held the case in one hand and stroked it almost lovingly with the other. "This is my new saxophone. I decided to expand my horizons. I figured if Bill Clinton can blow this, so can I."
A loud snort was heard from the couch. "Sounds more like you wanna blow like Monica, not Bill," Lula said.
"Get to work. I'm not paying you to sleep," Vinnie shot out. "I'll be in my office if anything comes up." And with that he slammed into his office, locks clicking into place.
"The only thing coming up in this office today will be Vinnie's Mr. Happy."
Connie laughed at that. "Sure. I bet he doesn't even have a sax in that case. I bet it's a new supply of those rubber ducks he amuses himself with so much."
Squeeky notes started to fill the office, sending chills down the women's back. "Holy Mother of God!" Connie said. "Do we have to listen to this crap all afternoon?"
The intercom buzzed. "Get me the number for Mr. Hoots Music Emporium."
"What, you don't have a phone book, jackass?" Connie mumbled. She quickly found, and called, the music store and passed it on to Vinnie. Turned out, Mr. Hoots was hard of hearing so the conversation was heard loud and clear throughout the bonds office as Vinnie shouted into the phone and Mr. Hoot shouted back.
Excuse me, Mr. Hoots,
I hate to bug a busy bird,
But I want to learn the sax,
And I need a helpful word-
I always get a silly squeak
When I play the blues.
Vinnie, keep your cool,
I'll teach ya how to blow the sax.
I think I dig your problem-
It's rubber, and it quacks.
You'll never find the skill you seek
Till you pay your dues.
Connie and Lula were trying to control their laughter. "Yeah, like Vinnie's gonna drop his duck for a good blow, " Lula snorted.
Tears were running down their faces as they continued to listen to the loud conversation.
You gotta put down the duckie,
Put down the duckie,
Put down the duckie,
Yeah, you gotta leave the duck alone.
You gotta put down the duckie,
Put down the duckie,
Put down the duckie,
If you wanna play the saxophone!
More squeeking and squawking could be heard coming from the office.
You didn't hear a word I said,
You gotta get it through your head.
Don't be a stubborn cluck,
Vinnie, lay aside the duck!
I've learned a thing or two
From years of playing with a band:
It's hard to play the saxophone
With something in your hand.
"Well, damn! Vinnie'll never learn to play! He ALWAYS has something in his hand!" Connie gasped out between bouts of laughter. Lula was propped up against the file cabinets, bent over, holding her stomach.
To be a fine musician,
You're gona have to face the facts:
Though you're blessed with flying fingers
When you wanna wail, you're stuck-
What good are flying fingers
If they're wrapped around a duck?
Change the toy's position,
If you wanna ace the sax!
"Flying fingers! Change the position! Oh, my god I'm gonna die!" Lula was now on the floor, furry legs out straight, face wet with tears, laughing hysterically. Connie was against her desk, mascara running down bright red face, holding her sides.
Don't have to put it on a train,
Don't have to wash it down the drain,
Don't have to lock it in a drawer,
Don't have to shove it out the door.
Don't have to put it in your pocket,
Or send it flyin' in a rocket!
Don't have to get it out of town!
Vinnie, put the quacker down!
And still the dying cat sounds could be heard coming from Vinnie's office, more rhythmic. The tempo slow at first, then gathering speed, going faster and faster until, with a loud "Sqeeawwkkk!"
Then silence.
Connie and Lula pulled themselves together enough to yell out, "Hey Vinnie! You okay in there?" snickersnickersnort as they hugged each other in support.
Silence.
Connie rapped on Vinnie's door. "Hey! You alive? Do I need to call 911?"
The door slowly opened to reveal a sweating, disheveled Vinnie, shirt untucked, half buttoned. The women jumped back in horror. "What the hell happened to you?" Connie asked.
"I'm going home. I need to sleep," Vinnie answered. "I probably won't be in tomorrow either. You take care of what ever…" And with that he left, sax case clenched to his chest, no coat, not hat, no gloves.
All that could be heard, as he walked out the door, was "Oh my precious…"