Pete Dulin

For Pam

With Love, Pete

Once Supon a time, a peacock strolled into Pa Mella’s Store of Curious Books and Fantastic Ephemera. The peacock fanned out his colorful tail before heading to the front counter. He cooed lightly to get the attention of the lanky creature with shiny ebony fur sipping an espresso behind the counter.

Pa Mella, a tall black Labrador that owned the shop, set his cup of espresso on the wooden counter, gazed past his long dark snout, and yawned. Apparently, the espresso’s stimulative properties had not taken hold yet. “Yes, may I help you?” he finally inquired. The yawn revealed a fine set of canine teeth.

The peacock’s sensitive olfactory powers detected the scent of licorice after the initial onslaught of coffee aroma from the dog’s breath. Ethiopian, light roast. Caramel with hints of hazelnut. The fine-feathered fowl spotted a mug with the faded logo of Baker University. A cluster of black licorice strands drooped in the short mug. The peacock’s eyes darted from the mug to the Labrador’s twitchy nose and back.

“Want some?” asked Pa Mella, politely as he wagged his tail.

“Well, if you insist,” the peacock blurted. He hopped onto the counter, tucked his wings in, bent his head delicately, and snatched two pieces of licorice out of the mug. Quickly, he gobbled one piece down in three gulping motions. He flipped the remaining piece into the air, caught it on his beak, and wore it like a mustache.

Pa Mella regarded the bird on his counter and raised one eyebrow with a hint of indignation. “Hurumph,” he grrrd without amusement.

“I’m looking for a book,” said the peacock, carefully bobbing his head to balance the licorice stick on his beak.

The dog found the movement distracting. He licked his chops and resisted the urge to bound onto the counter and snatch the snack from the peacock’s beak. Instead, Pa Mella tapped the sharp nails of his right paw against the wooden surface of the counter.

“You certainly came to the right place. What kind of book?” said the dog. His tail wagged involuntarily back and forth like a black whip. Caffeine from the espresso finally kicked in. “A thick book, thin book, blue book, or green book? A book with lots of words or mostly photos? Old, new, what sort of book for you?”

The peacock fluttered down to the floor, startled by the Seussian outburst of the agitated dog. “Not just any book,” he said. “I need a book titled masto@%$voiz# uv ae@*& diq wajqo. Do you have it?”

Pa Mella dropped to all fours and paced in circles chasing his tail to burn off the caffeine. He stopped, sat on his hindquarters, raised his rear right leg and scratched behind his ear. The Labrador walked around the counter and laid on a maroon rag rug near a table full of books.

“I have never heard of such a book. What is it about?” asked the dog.

With an eye roll and deep sigh, the peacock ruffled his feathers and stamped his feet in place a few times. He twisted his beak, caught the remaining licorice stick in his jaws, and gulped it down in one swallow. A few colorful feathers separated from the peacocks’ body during the motion. They floated in the air softly like bronze-green, lime, and indigo remnants of a cloud.

“You see?” said the peacock. “I have this problem. I need to find that book so I can find a cure.”

The dog owner of the bookstore rolled over. He squirmed on the maroon rag rug and attempted to scratch his back and made noises of frustration in the process. He stopped, unable to scratch a certain spot that his paws could not reach.

“Listen, Pa Mella, it appears that you either don’t know whether you have this book or you are too distracted to be helpful,” chirped the peacock. “If I scratch your back, then will you give me an answer?”

The Labrador rolled onto his belly, wagged his tail enthusiastically, and nodded yes to the proposal. Suddenly, the sound of Florence and The Machine’s song “Dog Days Are Over” filtered into the room from the second floor of the bookstore.

The peacock stepped lightly onto the dog’s back and scratched in time to the beat of the music until the song was over. He bobbed his head and shook his tail feathers, fanning the dust off books and shelves with great flourish.

“Ahhhhhh,” said Pa Mella. He curled up on the rug, tucked his tail around his snout, and yawned again. “Seek higher knowledge for your answer.”

“What the grok does that mean? demanded the peacock.

The Labrador pointed upward with one paw. “Upstairs,” he said and promptly fell asleep.

“Hmmph,” sniffed the peacock. The bird tromped over to the stairs and bustled upwards. He left behind a trail of feathers.

Skylights in the ceiling of the second floor allowed butterscotch sunbeams to stream indoors and pool across the wooden floor. The peacock heard a shuffling sound but could not see anyone. Rows of bookshelves obscured his view. He sauntered past the Fussy Children’s Books, Picture Books for Narrow Minds, and Crookbook sections.

Store of Curious Books and Fantastic Ephemera indeed, thought the peacock. He wandered past a globe filled with neon lime plastic kittens nibbling on moist snacks. He nearly fell into a mound of magenta maple leaves with strange symbols printed on them. The peacock flipped a page in a book on a twelve-legged table. The table scurried away to an open window and jumped through it. How strange, thought the bird.

Sounds of an Ben Harper song wafted in the air. The peacock blinked its emerald-black eyes, rotated his head and listened closely. He shuffled closer to the origin on the music, rounded a corner into an aisle and bumped his head into a yellow-brown column. The bird landed clumsily on his behind.

“Ow. That smarts,” said the peacock, trying to rub both his head and bottom at the same time. The movement was difficult and awkward given that peacocks have wings rather than hands.

“May I help you?” said a voice from above.

The peacock collected himself and craned his neck upward. He squinted to distinguish between the butterscotch light filtering in from the skylight and a shadowy mass looming overhead. The bird took a step backward and fanned out his tail in self-defense to make himself appear larger.

“My, what colorful feathers,” said a sweet, girlish voice.

“Why, why thank you. Who are you? What are you?” said the bird.

Positioned for a better view at a distance, the peacock saw that the column he bumped into was actually a leg. A very long leg with three others nearby standing in an open space. The legs led to a mighty figure towering above him. An irregular pattern of brown and yellow covered the skin of the creature that was humming a Ben Harper song a few minutes earlier.

“Well, since you asked, I am a giraffe. I work here at the bookstore in the upper stacks,” said the giraffe. She lowered her neck to speak at eye level with the ostentatious bird. “Now, are you searching for something?”

The peacock blew lightly through his beak to dislodge a green feather. His plumes were in disarray and slightly tattered. “I’m looking for a book to help cure me.”

“What’s wrong with you?” the giraffe replied. Suddenly, she winced and and shifted her hips out of discomfort.

“It is kind of personal,” said the peacock. “Do you have a book titled masto@%$voiz# uv ae@*& diq wajqo in stock?”

The giraffe winced again, swallowed, and twitched her tail. She smiled at the handsome peacock and batted her eyes. “Unfortunately, we don’t have that book in stock but I am familiar with its subject matter. You said something about a cure earlier, right?”

The peacock noted that the giraffe understood the name of the book. She speaks my language. He glanced down at its feet and replied quietly, “Yes. I’m losing my feathers and need help.”

In evidence of this admission, several feathers separated from the bird’s tail and floated in the afternoon light. Feathery eyes with accents of indigo drifted over a table filled with books about eyeglass styles for Victorian penguins.

“I’m sorry that Pa Mella’s Store of Curious Books and Fantastic Ephemera doesn’t have that book in stock, but I would be happy to order it for you,” said the giraffe.

She raised her neck, extended a long tongue and activated a holographic display hidden behind a life-size cardboard cutout of Donald Trump portraying the role of a fashion diva in a Betsy Johnson dress and mouthing the words, “You’re inspired!”

“The book is on back order and won’t be available for 47 weeks. Maybe I can help you though,” continued the giraffe. With another flick of her tongue, the display flickered and disappeared into the ether.

“What can you do? If I lose all of my colorful feathers, then people will stop looking at me. What good is a peacock without his feathers?” lamented the peacock, clearly perturbed at the prospect. “If I am de-feathered, then I’ll basically look like a naked chicken.”

“You wouldn’t look so bad naked,” mused the giraffe, offering a wink. “Has anyone told you about the spiritual nature of peacocks?”

The graceful giraffe carefully stepped closer. The peacock cast a wary eye at the mammal sidling up to him. Despite the close quarters, the giraffe didn’t knock over a single bookshelf or table as it maneuvered next to the bird.

“Spiritual nature? What’s this poppycock?”

“Peacock, actually. You see, peacocks are not only known for their feathers, but they are also associated with resurrection,” said the giraffe. “By shedding old, drab feathers of the past, you make room for new feathers to reveal the true inner beauty of your individual nature.”

“Hmmm. I never thought of it like that,” said the peacock. “So I don’t need to be cured?”

“You’re fine just the way you are. Shedding feathers is part of the process. Why even from way up here, I can see that you have new feathers coming in to replace your lost plumage.”

The peacock stood a bit taller and straighter after hearing this tidbit of information. Worry and stress melted away from his chest. He noticed the giraffe standing uncomfortably, leaning on one rear leg and stifling a grimace.

“Now I can’t help but notice that you seem to be in pain and discomfort,” the peacock said.

The giraffe coughed deeply and nodded. A large visible lump traveled up the length of her neck. After another deep cough, the giraffe removed a crystalline rock from her mouth with her tongue.

“Oh, I see you have diamonds on the inside,” said the bird with a flirtatious musical note in his left ear that somehow made it into his voice. “You must be a Ben Harper fan.”

“You heard me humming earlier?”

“I did. Quite nice. That’s what drew me here. Aside from the book search, that is,” said the peacock. “You know, I really appreciate the insight you offered earlier. That’s so giraffe-like.”

“How do you mean?” replied the giraffe.

“Well, I happen to be an expert on ancient giraffe mythology. Symbolically, a giraffe teaches us to view our lives in a way that is both grounded and expansive,” said the peacock. “You have the gift of grounded vision and remind us that in our desire to evolve spiritually, we must always remember we are physical creatures.”

“Woah. That’s deep,” said the giraffe. “I never met anyone that knew so much about me.”

“Almost as deep as the diamonds lodged inside you. I have a cure for that, you know,” said the peacock coyly. “Does that holographic display techno thingy play music?”

The giraffe nodded affirmative, swiped the air with her tongue, and brought the device to life. The peacock side-stepped over, waved its wing, and tapped a few buttons. Music started blaring with a a lively tempo.

“Let’s dance,” said the peacock, flapping his wings in time to the beat and shaking his tail. “You need to move and open up your passages to allow those diamonds to get out of your system.”

The giraffe stepped cautiously at first, then caught the beat and moved her feet in time. Hips swayed, heads bobbed, and eyes locked with an unmistakable attraction as the duo danced.

“What is the name of this song?” asked the giraffe.

“‘Peacock’ by Katy Perry, of course.”

Pa Mella the black Labrador heard the music and dancing on the second floor and howled before making himself another espresso. Without realizing it, his tail began to wag in time to the beat. Stubborn as ever, he began to sing “9 to 5” by Dolly Parton and switched the sign to closed on the front door of Pa Mella’s Store of Curious Books and Fantastic Ephemera as the dancing and music continued through the night.