(This is Vol. II of the Seagull Saga. The first volume can be found under the Archives section to the right, listed under June 2012.)
“Well, there’s the wannabe writer.”
For Ra’s sake, it was Jonathan Seagull again. I hadn’t seen him approaching me with that side-to-side waddle of his. He stood next to me in a bed of finely crushed shells.
“Wannabe writer? I’ve worked for five newspapers. I’ve been published in two magazines. What do you mean, wannabe writer?”
“I’m talking about this creative writing debacle of yours. It’s futile. It’s all over the beach, man. All the gulls are laughing at you. A buddy of mine was just talking about it yesterday.”
Strangely, a few ex-friends of mine had given me the same handle. Wannabe writer.
In fact, my a-hole of an ex-landlord said it too. We were arguing because he wanted me to move a child’s playhouse from an atrium in my apartment complex. I refused because I hadn’t put it there. He filed an eviction notice and a local magistrate upheld the eviction. It was crazy. I’m the only tenant that I’ve ever heard of to lose his home over a playhouse. To make matters worse: the judge had turned into Foghorn Leghorn while making his decision. “I say, I say, I’m an old country boy and son…”
Jonathan was relentless. “If you’re a writer, I’m an eagle.”
These people (and gulls) are starting to get inside my head.
“Look, Jon. I’m not in the mood for this stuff today. Why don’t you go find yourself a dead jellyfish to pick the gonads from?”
Jonathan didn’t blink. That beady-eyed sky rat never seems to blink.
“What are you doing today? Checking out the 16-year-olds? Perv.”
“No, I’m checking out their mamas, if you really want to know.”
“Yeah, well, you’re 15 years older than their mothers. They look at you like you’re a geezer.”
Jon Seagull knows how to hurt me. It’s like he’s reading my mind or something. I lost it.
“Shut up you #8^@* SKY RAT! Get out of here.”
“Sky rat? That’s the best you can do.”
I walked away. Jon is a friend of mine and I didn’t want to say anything more that might end our friendship. In a strange way, I need him. Heck, we even look alike, especially when, as is my habit, I walk with my arms behind my back while scouring the shell beds for sharks’ teeth. We both have bony legs and prominent beaks.
I turned to apologize, but Jonathan had disappeared. I’m sure he was off to perfect his flying technique.