The Stork

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• April 13, 2014

The Stork

by Lori Palminteri

(Fiction)

Two drunks sit at a bar…

“What would you do if you found a baby on your stoop?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Like if you walked out your front door and there was a baby, in a basket, right there… on your stoop.”

“Why would someone leave a baby on my stoop?”

“Well, you wouldn’t know now, would you?  But suddenly there’s an infant there.  What do you do with it?”

“Are you planning on leaving a baby on my stoop?”

“No… It’s just a question.”

“You’re drunk.”

“True, but that’s besides the point.”

“Who thinks of these things?”

“I do.”

“You’re sick.”

“Maybe… what would you do?”

“I don’t know.  Call the police I guess.”

“What if you were meant to raise the baby.  Like Super Man.  Or Moses.”

“If there’s a baby on my stoop, probably some crack head left it there.  It would need to go to a hospital.”

“Would you keep it?”

“Keep it?  Hell no!  What am I supposed to do with a baby?”

“Raise it.”

“I didn’t decide to have a baby if it was left on my stoop.”

“But what if it’s fate.”

“Am I going to let crack heads determine my fate?”

“What if it’s not crack heads?”

“Of course it’s crack heads.  It wouldn’t be anyone else.  No one else is leaving a baby on a stoop.”

“Perhaps you were chosen.”

“Chosen for what?”

“A higher purpose.”

“You have smoked yourself retarded, my friend.”

“I think you’re insensitive.”

“For not raising the crack baby?”

“Yes, I think the crack baby is your responsibility.”

“Is not.  What would you do with it?”

“I would raise it.”

“I’m sure there’d be some legal problems.  You’re not just allowed to have a baby.  Adopting is difficult.  Even more so for you, seeing you’re an alcoholic.”

“I’m not an alcoholic, and that baby is mine.  It was sent to me.”

“Okay, well, let’s say you keep it, and you don’t tell the authorities that this mysterious baby has shown up on your stoop, what happens if the crack head mother comes back after a few years to reclaim her child.”

“She can’t have him.  He’s mine.”

“Well, it’s her child.  A simple DNA test can prove it.  She can claim you stole her kid.  Then you’re in all sorts of trouble.”

“That won’t happen.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay… well, what if you raise him or her, and they grow to resent you because you’re not their real father.”

“That won’t happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll be a great father.  And he’ll be grateful that fate dropped him on my door step.”

“So you’re certain the baby will be a boy, and that the crack head mother’s name is Fate?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Hey, I’m not the one leaving babies at peoples doors.”

“How come you think it’s so unlikely?”

“Because it is.  How often do you hear about that happening?  It’s more likely the crack head will dump the thing in a dumpster.”

“Don’t call it a thing, that’s my son you’re talking about.  Plus, the reason you don’t hear about it is because people keep the babies found on their stoops. They feel lucky.  They feel chosen.”

“So that’s what this is about.  You want to feel chosen.”

“No, this isn’t about me.  This is about babies.”

“No, no.  This is about you.  100%.  I think this is about you being a shitty son, so you want to have a son so you could be a good father.”

“No!”

“You’re father was a good man.  You were an asshole.  Maybe you were found on a stoop.”

“Shut up, you know nothing about my father.”

“Hey, you’re the one who brought it up.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry I did.”

“Me too.”

“You know Helena?”

“The stripper?”

“She doesn’t do that no more.  She’s going to school.  She just waitresses now.”

“What about her?”

“I have a date with her tomorrow night.”

“Ah, lucky man.  Say, wasn’t she addicted to crack?”