The rain hasn't stopped in Portland for seven days. Yesterday afternoon, the northeast corner of the garage roof gave out, right over the main workbench where Tommy was attempting to cure our first experimental batch of high-density vulcanized rubber. In a panic to save the liquid vinyl compound from being ruined by rainwater, Sarah grabbed the nearest thing to shield the drying molds: a handful of artificial plastic boxwood hedges left over from her aunt's porch decoration project.
When we came back into the shed this morning, expecting a hardened, ruined mass of yellow slush, we found something extraordinary. The synthetic foliage had fused directly into the cooling rubber, creating a terrifying yet deeply compelling hybrid object. It was a standard rubber duck, but its face was completely consumed by a dense, manicured hedge, through which two glass doll eyes stared back at us with unearned confidence.
Tommy wanted to throw it into the incinerator. Sarah said it looked like a swamp creature that had achieved enlightenment. I just sat there staring at it while sipping stale Folgers. We've decided to skip the standard plain duck production entirely. The world doesn't need another smooth yellow toy. The world needs the Bushface. We have four dollars left in the petty cash jar. We are buying more plastic hedges.