Pinkerton

I discovered the story among the old yellowed pages of newsprint I was using to wrap up my remaining dishes and mugs; ‘Homeless Man Saves Flamingo.’ The faded photo was of a man in his seventies with an old Stetson tilted on his head, and the unmistakable head of a flamingo resting on his shoulder. The caption simply read: Charles and Pinkerton. I remembered the story. Three years ago, a local homeless man came across a flamingo which had both its legs amputated at the knee joints. The man, Charles Toskovich, adopted the bird and named him Pinkerton. The story kept me glued to the pages, and for a short while I was able to forget the upcoming move back to my parents, the selling of my house, and my recent divorce. Charles and Pinkerton were local celebrities in southern Florida two years ago. I remembered they would appear on local talk shows and news reports. Everyone was so tickled at the idea of a homeless man having a pet legless flamingo. Several of the townspeople had even chipped in and hired an engineer to design a sort of harness with crutches attached for the bird. No one thought it would work, but it did. Pinkerton was fitted with two or three different harness crutches before the design was perfected. I remember laughing and struggling to keep from spitting out my coffee as Pinkerton ran across the sound stage on a local TV morning show. Everyone laughed, but never in a mean way. Pinkerton had a way of filling everyone he met with wonder and joy.

Could those two still be around? Though Bonita Springs was only a short drive from Naples, I never visited. The city of Bonita Springs was pristine and picture perfect. The houses like plastic Barbie dream homes. I thought the town probably invented Charles Toskovich and Pinkerton the Legless Flamingo to give it some flavor. Since Bonita Springs was on the way to my parents’ home in Fort Myers, I decided this time to stop and see what I could see in Bonita Springs.

I was dreading the move like learning I was going to have to live with a debilitating disease the rest of my life, and decided to take the drive nice and slow. “This is only temporary like everything else,” I told myself. An hour into my drive, and too soon for comfort I saw the Bonita Springs City Limit sign in the distance. This soon passed and I was at a corner Mobil station to fuel up and ask for directions. I kept it simple.

“Charles and Pinkerton?”

The greasy middle-age man manning the register and pumps nodded towards the gulf.

“Pinkerton passed a little over a year ago, and Charles, if you find him, will either be at the beach near where he first found him or at Stan’s Shoe Repair Shop.” At my confused look, he continued. “They let him sleep in the back of the shop sometimes when the weather gets bad.”

My resolve diminished. I wanted to see the legless bird move like the wind on his crutches. But I missed it, like I feel I miss everything in life. I contemplated just forgetting about Charles and Pinkerton, but I came this far. Besides, I was homeless too. I decided to try the beach as the first place to look. Luckily it was also my last. Charles was there, still wearing his signature Stetson tilted at an angle. He was holding Pinkerton’s crutches on his lap and was bringing a small flask to his lips. I suspected the flask had been empty for some time. His movements seemed automatic and dreamlike as he stared into the ocean. Upon closer inspection Charles looked closer to eighty or ninety and had dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t acknowledge my presence until I spoke.

“If I woulda planned a little better, I woulda brought you something to drink.” I said pointing at the flask.

Charles quickly glanced at me and just as quickly away. “I gave up drinking when I found Pinkerton,” he said.

“Tell me what happened?”

Charles shrugged and seemed to hug himself. He opened his mouth then closed it. “He just flew away.”

“The man at the Exxon said he died.”

“No!” Charles shouted and his cheeks turned red. “No one knows that for sure! Pinkerton just left, and I’m hoping someday he’ll be back.”

“How long has it been?”

“Fourteen months and eleven days.”

“Well, maybe he finally got back on his migration path. You know flamingoes…”

But he cut in. “No! Pinkerton was different. He was my friend.” His chin trembled, and he brought the empty flask to his lips again.

I wanted to tell him there was no sense in waiting for something that may or may not come. Pinkerton probably was dead. Without his crutches, how did he stand to feed? But I had no right to dash the hopes of another. Charles was jingling something on the harness of the crutches. A little pocket?

“What’s that?”

“Oh! These crutches are fancy!” Charles chortled. “They have belts, pockets, bells and whistles!” He laughed loudly for a good two minutes. But he showed me what was inside.The pocket was filled with dimes all bright and shiny, some dating from the 1890s.

“Wow! Some of these are really rare! Where did you find these?”

Charles gave me a smug look. “These aren’t mine. These are Pinkerton’s. He found these. He loves dimes!”

I shook my head. “That’s ridiculous, even if I believed Pinkerton liked dimes, how on earth did he find so many and some so valuable?”

Charles gave me a long pondering look, before turning to gaze out into the ocean once more. He said, “The same way we find any treasure; through luck and perseverance.”

I settled more comfortably on the sand dune, locked my hands behind my head and waited for Pinkerton to come home.