Pink Flamingos and Flying Cars

Pink Flamingo's and Flying Cars

Whenever I think back on the time I spent as a student in England, the first place my mind wanders to is my aunt and uncle's house. Its not as if my education there was a waste, but of all the things I may end up forgetting over the course of a lifetime, I doubt my summer in Little Whinging will be flushed away first.

At the time, I believe I was about twenty, and I was convinced that I had a "good bead on things." I was a college graduate after all -- off doing an internship in London and well, everything was going according to plan. I had spent the good portion of my younger years in a small Midwestern town, and while the United States was a great place to make a start, my eyes were set on adventure, and gosh darn it, I was going to find it in England. That was, of course, until my uncle's car pulled into the driveway of his home. If any organ of the human body could actually part from its moorings and settle itself elsewhere, my stomach did so and proceeded to land somewhere in my lower intestine. Little Whinging, a small suburban town outside of London, had all the charms of a coal mine, and about half as much life. From what I could see, the only difference between my uncle's home and one next to it was the large pink flamingo that graced the other yard. A row of grey cookie-cutter homes stood at attention in a row, and each was surrounded by a stately white picket fence, creating a separation between the perfectly manicured lawns. Yes, I thought to myself, life at Number 3 Privet Drive was getting more and more adventurous by the minute.

My aunt Linda and uncle Vic were my kindest relatives - they had agreed to let me stay during the summers when I had no work in London.

"This way," Aunt Linda had said with enthusiasm, "you can keep Roxie company and help out with the chores!"

I failed to see the immediate excitement of this prospect, as Roxie was an eighteen-year-old bulldog. However, I was rather looking forward to some good home cooking, and could save some money on rent. As I stepped out of the car, my lungs filled with stale air, smelling slightly of fish.

"Welcome to our home, Meg," Uncle Vic announced, waving his hand towards the house in front of us. "We're so glad you could finally come and visit. Oh, and you're in luck," he exclaimed with excitement in his voice. "I've been trying my hand at cooking, and, well, I think you may find some of my recipes quite interesting." There was a strange twinkle in his eye. Uncle Vic had been a professor in organic chemistry, and I could only imagine what made his recipes "interesting."

"Oh, sounds great!" I said, still getting over the initial shock of fish and Privet Drive. "Um, do you still barbeque?" I asked, wondering what the answer would be. I had to admire his enthusiasm. The last time I had seen him, he offered to barbeque for us and had accidentally set fire to the patio umbrella while trying to demonstrate to me and my cousins how lighting fluid worked.

"Oh, well..." he stammered, looking nervously at Aunt Linda who was rolling her eyes, "I've given that up, you know. Just stick to wooden bowls and pressure cookers and things. Nothing fancy!" He chuckled a bit and suddenly seemed to be staring off into space, thinking of some fond memory, perhaps of lighting fluid. Just then, the neighbor's in number 4 pulled into their driveway.

"Well, hello there Vic," drawled a large set man, stepping out of the drivers side of his mini-van. "Its been such a long time....yes." He seemed to be looking somewhere above our heads when he talked, and had a very bored look on his face. Then, a thin woman with a horse-like face stepped out of the car.

"Oh my, well if it isn't our neighbors!" She too had a nasal drawl in her voice and pursed her thin lips when she stopped talking. There followed an uncomfortable silence, since neither party could think of one purposeful thing to say. Just then, what I believed was a large inflated inner tube squeezed out of the back seat of the car. It walked about and I realized this must be their son. He must have been about twelve years old and was the spitting image of his father. He appeared to be eating something large and sticky with one hand, and scratching his rear with the other.

At this, my aunt finally broke the ice. "Oh, Dudley, well my, hasn't he grown!" she exclaimed through her plastered on smile.

The thin horse faced woman beamed.

"Oh yes, my Duddy-kins isn't my little baby anymore," she said gazing at the boy with a simpering look. "I miss those days when I could doddle him on my knee!" The boy, Dudley, had finally stopped eating, and scowled.

"I'm hungry, mummy!" he shouted. "I want to go inside, so open the door!"

As the thin woman glowed and took the boy inside, his father smiled proudly and elbowed my Uncle Vic in the arm from the other side of the fence.

"He's going to make a fine manager one day, don't you think? He's got that commanding persona!" Uncle Vic smiled politely and mumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

Uncle Vic then looked at me as if he had just remembered something, and said "Oh Vernon, this is my niece, Meg. She's visiting from the States and will be staying with us for the summer." He then turned to me. "Meg, this is Mr. Dursley, and you just saw Mrs. Dursley and their son Dudley."

"Oh, how nice. Very nice." said Mr. Dursley drably before I could say anything. "May be you can help out your uncle with his barbequing! Nearly cooked that old dog of yours last time, eh?" he guffawed loudly at this and Uncle Vic turned a slight shade of pink before changing the subject.

"So, Vernon," Uncle Vic said brightly, "How is Harry? Haven't seen much of him this past year."

At this, Mr. Dursley's face darkened. He looked as if someone had said something incredibly offensive to him and was about to tell them what for.

"Yes," he said stiffly, "Harry is still with us. Only he's been off to school all year." Whoever this boy was, he did not seem to be one of Mr. Dursely's favorite topics.

Uncle Vic, however, did not seem to notice his change in mood, as he pressed on. "Oh, he's going to Smeltings, like Dudley is it? All beating sticks and riding pants! Well, how does he like it?" Uncle Vic had a big friendly grin, but it was not reciprocated by Mr. Dursely.

"No!" Mr. Dursely said, turning slightly purple, "Harry is not going to Smeltings. He's uhh...well..." Mr. Dursley seemed to be thinking something over. "He's at St. Brutus's. A school for the criminally insane. Good place for a boy like that too." He had a resolute look on his face.

"Criminally insane!!" Aunt Linda exclaimed, with a shocked look on her face, "Harry? What on earth would he be doing in a place like that!" This news seemed to have shocked Uncle Vic as well, but Mr. Dursley's expression had not flinched.

"Well, I'm sorry to tell you, Linda, but it was the best place for him." He went on. "There's a lot you don't know about that boy. Just between us, he's a danger. A danger, I tell you! Petunia and I just want the best for him. Not to say the least, the best for Dudley! He could be a bad influence on Dudley, and St. Brutus's will straighten him out."

After this strange conversation, Mr. Dursley said his goodbyes and headed towards his home to what sounded like Dudely having some kind of tantrum. Myself, Aunt Linda and Uncle Vic headed inside, carrying my suitcases.

Aunt Linda waited till Mr. Dursley was inside his home. "I don't believe that man for one second," she said resolutely. "That boy Harry is the only good egg in that house. Why, he's the one that helped me remove toilet paper from our tree when that horrible Dudley strung it up on Halloween. If you ask me, those three abuse that poor boy. I'd like to give that great lump of a boy Dudley a good kick right in the..."

At this point, Aunt Linda became particularly verbose, and the whole situation left me wondering exactly what kind of neighborhood this was, and what I had gotten myself into. I had little time to worry about this, however, because Roxie had emerged and was using my suitcase for a bathroom.