|
|
|
|
| Home > Flamingo > flamingotails |
|
|
|
|
�Good Fabio, your telepathy is coming along nicely!� said the captain of the famous Ferndale Flamingos. �you can start real practice with the rest of the flock next week�
Fabio headed home feeling almost more empowered then he had the day that he was told he had been accepted in to the Ferndale Flamingo flock.
Fabio had always dreamed of becoming one of their flock. Ever since he had first seen them he had been awed by their gravity defying aeronautics and dazzled by their control during impossibly hard formations, but his absolute favorite part of their performances was when they vanished into thin air at the end.
Before Fabio could fly he would pretend to do one of their routines by jumping on his bed and then he would burrow under his covers at the end to disappear. When he finally did learn how to fly he would spend hours at a time just trying to conquer the violent updrafts. After this achievement Fabio felt unlimited like there was nothing that could enfeeble him. He learned basic aeronautics quickly and soon was teaching him self their formations and creating his own.
Fabio had always wanted to be a Ferndale Flamingo, but his parents had other ideas. They didn�t like the Ferndale Flamingos. They though that they were dare devils and that Fabio should spend his time doing something more practical. So you can imagine what happened when they found out that he had applied to be accepted into the Ferndale Flamingos.
They exhorted him not to join and told him a horror story of how about 25 years ago (before he was born) a flamingo was seriously injured during one of the performances. The flamingo was scarred for life. They said that he should go to Florida State and major in lawn sculptures just like his dad. No matter what they said nothing would change his mind, his heart was set on being a Ferndale Flamingo.
When the escorts arrived to take Fabio to his audition all his parents did was shake their heads.
Fabio�s first performance was only 3 weeks after he started practice with the rest of the flock. Although his parents don�t like the Ferndale Flamingos they were in the stands. From the moment they saw the gleam in their sons eyes, to the final poof of him vanishing, they under stood why he loved doing that so much. They never doubted him again and always supported him.
|
|
|
|
Thursday evening.
It�s finally dark. I change into my �flocking� attire; black pants, black shirt, and official �Ferndale Flockers� black baseball cap. My cap says �Fendale Flockers�, but that�s OK, the Marching Band was once listed as �Fendale� at the State Championship. It�s like a tribute to days gone by. I wait.
The dark colored van pulls up in front of my house. Headlights flash: high, low, and then high again. That�s the sign. I whisper �good night� to my sleeping family and quietly close the front door behind me. I don�t know when I�ll return.
I take my place in the van. I nod a silent greeting to the other three people in the vehicle, shadowy figures, also dressed in black. No words are needed. Fernando, the six inch pink flamingo attached to the dashboard, is the only visible sign of the operation we are about to embark upon.
The van crawls through the streets of Ferndale like a sleek jungle cat stalking its prey. It slows as we approach the street of the target. The driver pulls over to the curb and flicks on the inside light. The light stays on just long enough to read the address written on one of the long, white envelopes resting on the center console. The house number of the first �flockee� of the evening is communicated to the other flockers in the van. Everyone�s eyes are needed to pick out the house number on the dark street. Finally we pinpoint the house. Just to be sure we have the correct house, one of the junior flockers volunteers to do a �walk by�. The house numbers are easier to see from the sidewalk. The van pulls down the street and the flocker jumps out, leaving the side door open. The sound of a single slammed door could give us away. The flocker assumes a casual posture and slowly ambles down the street toward the house. Once past the victim�s residence the flocker quickly crosses the street and makes her way back to the van. The victim�s residence is confirmed.
We confer in hushed tones. The inside of the house is brightly lit. The curtains are open. Do we strike now or wait, hoping that our victim will soon retire for the evening? It is a test of our fortitude. We decide to go for it.
The hatch is popped on the van. In the small space in the back is a pile of twenty-five pink plastic birds. The thin metal rods acting as their legs are jumbled, like the round, pointed plastic pieces in a game of pick-up-sticks. We learned a long time ago to disable the dome light in the van. It makes it more difficult to retrieve the birds but we need the cover of darkness. We work together well. We all know the drill. In and out. No noise.
To be continued...
|
|
|
|
|
It happened on a May night. Darkness had fallen over the street. There was a hush in the air. A dark van pulls up outside of a house on Roanoake. Four people dressed in dark clothing get out of the van. While one opens the back of the van another walks stealthily down the street looking at the target. It�s a go.
As if there was a visible signal, the four people start unloading 50 flamingos. These are not just any flamingos they are Ferndale Flamingos. They are placed in the lawn of the target. The sign goes up, the envelope goes on the door, and the four people get back in the van. Then like every other night the van quietly passes the house so the four flockers can admire their work.
Later that evening as the daughter of one of the flockers checks the live journal she sees the entry. � I most definitely have been flocked� The recipient has discovered her flock and has gone to meet them. After enjoying her flock she plucks one off the lawn and takes him in to enjoy some ice cream. After dinning with him she declares his name to be George.
George later rejoins the flock but not where anyone would expect to see him. He wants a bird�s eye view. He watches from his perch high on the flagpole. To his horror the flockers return to pick up the flock but fail to notice George on his perch.
Do not fear. Once it is realized George has been missed he is picked up and reunited with his flock. Plus he gets the honor of being tattooed with his name under his tail feathers. Now the Ferndale community will always know George. To this day, George likes to wear his bowler hat and gold tie. He enjoys the status of the first flamingo to be named and honored by the Ferndale Flockers.
|
|
|
|
It is 9:45 I am waiting in the sunroom. The dark van pulls up in front of my house. The only thing giving away my mission is the pink on my hat. Not to mention the flamingo�s in my ears. I quietly slide open the side door and hop in. We are briefed on the mission for tonight.
This is the night we get a past school board member. None of us have any knowledge of her neighborhood. (Some people would just plan question the knowledge part.) We realize she is on a dead end. It gets worse she is the last house. Her living room lights are on. There are four windows in the front of the house. There are shears on the bottom half. There is most definitely someone sitting on a couch watching television. Back at the van we make the decision to flock. Our hearts are now racing. The yard is elevated with a wall that stops about knee level. (That is thigh level for some of the flockers)
We gather several of our pink friends and grab out the sign and start the flock. We are short of help tonight. It is just the three of us. However we are now pro flockers so we are not worried. As I turn around with my second batch of birds and start for the house I realize we are missing a flocker. My heart stops and I catch my breath. Something is wrong. Where is Flocker �C�?? Upon closer inspection I realize she is face down in the grass clutching two of our pink friends in her arms. There is someone walking around the living room. As the person settles back down on the couch (have they no channel bapper?) Flocker �C� puts her birds in the ground and returns. This is where it gets dangerous. Flocker �L� says �It�s a hell of a time for a nap.� and we all start laughing.
After all our flock is in the front yard we go back to the van. Flocker �T� asks who will take the envelope and tape it to the front door. Flocker �C� feeling very confident after her close call, goes for it. Flocker �T� follows to adjust leaning birds. Flocker �C� goes to the side of the house. (That is where the front door is, go figure) She is gone for a minute and there is a resounding �BANG�. I run to Focker �T� and ask if our friend has managed to fall over a trashcan. Again we start with the dangerous laughter. Focker �C� comes jogging around the corner of the house and we all pile back in the dark van. Flocker �T� quickly turns the vehicle into a driveway and we leave yet another successful flocking. Flocker �C� says, � Did you hear the big bang? I was just about to step in front of the door when someone slammed the front door shut. One more second and I would have been face to face with our victim.� We all laugh and head out to our next assignment with our hearts beating and our eyes pealed for our next house.
|
|
|
|
|
My name is Renard. I play the bassoon. |
|
|
|
|
|