Page 17 of Just for the Cameras
Noted.
In silence, she drives back to the flamingo building and puts the golf cart in park. “Any questions?”
“Nope,” I answer as she gets out of the cart while I unfold myself and stretch out, letting my body twist from side to side so my back doesn’t cramp up on me.
“This way.” She brings me to the lagoon and a tall fence lined with chicken wire. It’s an odd addition that seems to have been erected temporarily to create distance between the flamingos and the visitors. The barrier feels out of sorts, haphazard, like an afterthought rather than a planned feature. “We house just over—”
“What’s with the fence?”
“What?”
“This fence.” I give it a little shake, wondering if the entire thing will collapse under my grasp. “What’s with it?”
“Oh. It was added during the outbreak of the avian flu. We were trying to protect our birds, and it hasn’t been dealt with since.”
Well, it’s a fucking eyesore.
And if they want visitors to be more in tune with the flamingos, this is one way not to do it.
Then again, what do I know?
Absolutely nothing, nor do I care.
“As I was saying, we house just over twenty-five flamingos here.”
“Just over? Why not just say twenty-six or twenty-seven, or whatever the exact amount is?”
Her nostrils flare and Jesus, even angry she’s fucking gorgeous. Not that I’m paying attention to that. “Why does it matter?”
I shrug. “Just seems weird to put it that way.”
She looks up toward the sky as if she’s begging for patience, then continues, “We house twenty-six flamingos here. We use bands on their legs to help track them so we can perform medical checkups much easier, as we keep a detailed log of their daily health. The guy with the lime-green band in the back, patting the water—that’s Big Hermy. He’s the oldest in our flamboyance and also my favorite. He’s missing an eye, but that doesn’t stop him from loving shiny things, so make sure to never wear jewelry around him unless you want him pecking at you.”
“That won’t be a problem,” I say.
“The one off to the right with the red band and the number eleven, that’s Dinkle. He was one of our first-born flamingos here at the zoo.”
“Dinkle?” I ask. “Couldn’t have picked a better name for him?”
“The public voted for it.”
“Why was it even an option?”
She shrugs. “I like it. Think it fits him perfectly because he’s just…always been off.” She points toward the back of the lagoon, her attitude gentling as she speaks about the creatures she cares for. I’m not sure I’ve seen anyone light up the way she does, especially about birds. “And the one back there, that’s Gwendalyn the Great. When the krill come out, she makes it known that she gets first dibs, and even though Big Hermy is clearly the king of the flamboyance, he allows it. But I think it’s because he has an eye for her.”
Okay, so…she’s writing flamingo fan fiction in her spare time. Got it.
“And number four over there by the big rock, that’s Kevin Malone, because the team is convinced that if he had to carry a pot of chili, he’d definitely spill it. Such a clumsy bird.” She chuckles to herself, now leaning against the fence, admiring her…I want to say friends? Because that’s what it seems like.
“Oh, and the one over there standing on one leg, that’s Tribbs.”
“Tribbs?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She chuckles. “As in Joey Tribbiani because he’s the horniest of all the flamingos. When it’s mating season, his dance moves, a.k.a. the bobble of the head, are very eccentric and out-there. I have so many videos of it.” She starts bobbing her head and then laughs at herself.
Dear God.
What the fuck is happening?
