Pick o' the Day: The Grackle Catcher (cont.)

            Hank had no choice but to try to salvage what he could, which was very little, from the burned-out and water-soaked hulk of the pop-up tent trailer he had called home for the last five years so that he could start the rebuilding process, for there was nowhere else he could go.  To his dismay, he found that the flames and water had destroyed his foam mattress and, worse, his cherished, though heavily drool-stained, pillow on which his head had rested for the last 15 years (which could hardly even be called a pillow since it was so flat that he had to fold it over twice in order for his head to be slightly raised).  His less-than-extensive wardrobe of irregular jeans, cargo shorts, and old-favorite t-shirts was ruined, effectively leaving him with nothing more than what he was currently wearing.  His single pair of solid white, extra-wide Adidas tennies, his only pair of shoes, was melted to the floor, but Hank considered it a bit of luck that his classic and virtually indestructible Mexican huaraches, made of thick, braided leather, with soles cut from a rubber automobile tire, had been left outside.  His tiny, 13-inch black and white TV was a total loss, but that didn’t really matter because it had mysteriously stopped receiving a useful television signal about two years before.

            As was noted earlier, he had made a point of saving his microwave from the calamitous conflagration (since being able to eat was important to him), as well as his precious treasure box.  This small, intricately carved, walnut-stained box, which he had designed and built himself in high school shop class, contained everything that meant something to him, including (among a myriad of other small artifacts of his childhood) a fire agate he had found on a hike, some of his baby teeth the tooth fairy apparently didn’t want, a Lincoln penny from the year of his birth, a two-dollar bill, a curiously striped feather, an arrowhead he had dug-up from the dirt while playing cars and trucks on the side of his house, a wrinkled wallet-sized picture of his mother, and the intricately-folded, tear-stained, and yellowed-with-age note from Evangeline.  He had literally walked through fire to save this box, for there was no way he would have left it behind.  To him, it was the record of his life, the only real proof to himself of his existence on this planet.  He was heartened by the fact that it was safe, and for this reason, he believed he could go on.                       

            Because he had so few real friends, which was understandable since he was not on Facebook or anything, no one but “Hoolia” knew what had happened to him, and she offered what humble help she could.  She gave him a blue tarp and some rope so that he could improvise a crude shelter over his head.  She also gave him an ancient air mattress to sleep on.  Unfortunately, it had a slow, almost imperceptible leak so that it gradually deflated during the night, and Hank awoke each morning flat on his aching back on the cold, hard floor.  She also offered a box of her deceased husband’s clothes for him to wear until he could get to Goodwill to buy some newer, more up-to-date replacements.  Hank was a bit mystified when he opened the box, which consisted of two pairs of more-than-fifty-year-old, pin-striped, train-engineer-style bib overalls, four musty-smelling plaid long-sleeved shirts, and an obviously well-worn red union suit.  But he was plenty warm when he put them on, so he was grateful for the gift.  To show his appreciation to “Hoolia” for helping him rebuild his home and wardrobe, Hank spent the next two evenings after work catching her some extra stray cats from the vacant lots in the neighborhood.  “Hoolia” seemed genuinely touched by his efforts and, with teary eyes, accepted the cats saying, “Gracias..., gracias!”   She even gave Hank a hug.

            And now that he was set back up in relative comfort, Hank made a momentous decision.  Despite the fact he was threatened with bodily harm by Merle and Lester if he did so, he resolved to continue his efforts to relocate the thousands of grackles that still overran the B-U-T-T-S parking lot.  He could not imagine ending his efforts to do this public service, for this was his way to give back for all the wonderful things his country had done for him.  And he also did this for the grackles, too.  He was disappointed in them hanging around the local grocery stores and fast-food outlets, scrounging and fighting for dropped French fries, Cheetoes, and ice-cream cones, and terrorizing the shoppers as if they were overly-aggressive transients or hoboes.  It hurt him to think that such magnificent creatures would stoop so low, like sea gulls at the local landfill, as to behave in this unnatural manner.  And he shuddered to think what Lester, with Merle’s blessing, was doing to them every night with his pellet gun.  He had to convince the birds to leave, one way or another, even if the best he could do was help only one bird at a time.

            So that evening, Hank returned to the B-U-T-T-S parking lot with his step ladder, resolved to catch as many grackles as he could and order them to fly to the woodlands outside of the city where he believed they truly belonged.  As long as there were store customers around, he reasoned, he would be safe from any attack by Merle or Lester.  And he was right.  Lester, who was cruising the parking lot in his rather dirty and beat-up looking Segway while simultaneously picking his nose, spotted Hank right away.  He immediately scooted over to the store entrance and ran in to find Merle.  A few moments later, they both walked out together and watched Hank from behind the display of cheap charcoal grills.  And as they watched, they spoke to each other in low, evil-sounding tones that were interspersed with cackling laughs.  Together they formulated an ingenious plan that, if it worked, would ensure that Hank would get it good, and there would be no pesky witnesses around to complicate things for them.  All they had to do was wait for the sun to go down, and if Hank was still there, they would do it then.  “This is gonna be great!” snorted Merle.  He turned, spat something green and disgusting onto the wall, wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve, and casually strolled back into the store.  Lester just grinned and patted his gun.

(Next week:  The Grackle Catcher continues as Merle and Lester put their evil plan into action.  But despite their careful preparations, there is a witness to their assault they did not expect. )