The Duck

As he was walking down the street, he saw people celebrating something in a restaurant. It made him wonder if he should celebrate his birthday sometime too.

How much time is left? He thought about it but drew a blank. He laughed. What the heck? I can’t remember my own birthday? He brushed off the thought, figuring it would come to him later.

An hour passed, and it came to mind again. Still nothing. He took out his phone and searched for it, but found nothing. He hurried home to find his birth certificate. It was old. The writing had faded. Hmm. He pulled out his ID card. No numbers, just letters.

He called a few acquaintances. Please, he said, he’s not losing his mind — he just got a full mental evaluation — when had they last congratulated him? Well, they said, their phones had reminded them. When? They couldn’t remember.

An uneasy, strange feeling started building inside him. He changed clothes and went to the police station.

“Excuse me, I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but… can you tell me when I was born?”

They looked at his ID. It was some new kind of format, encrypted. They didn’t know how to read it either.

He didn’t sleep that night. What had happened to him? But what could he do? Eventually, he accepted it. Really, now he could celebrate his birthday whenever he wanted. Nothing tied him down.

The next day he went to a restaurant. He ordered a coffee, a beer, and oven-roasted duck.

While waiting for his drinks, he thought: He could celebrate his birthday as many times a year as he wanted. How nice that he didn’t have a birthday! How many days are there in a year, anyway? He tried to remember but couldn’t. He searched his phone — no relevant results.

The waitress brought the beer and coffee. The duck was still in the oven.

“Excuse me,” he said to the waitress, “I have a really stupid question.”

“Go ahead,” she replied.

“Can you tell me how many days are in a year? I just can’t recall. I’m embarrassed.”

“That’s obvious. It’s…” — but she blanked too.

“I don’t know either, but I’ll look it up.”

She checked her phone. No answer. Then she called over to another table:

“The gentleman and I don’t know how many days are in a year. Could you tell us?”

“Of course!” they laughed. “It’s…”

They froze. No one could answer. They searched, debated, but got nowhere.

“More or less than a thousand?”

No response. The waitress moved on.

He sat there thinking. Wait a minute — this should be easy to calculate. Like the ancients did: observe a fixed point in the sky with a telescope, count how long it takes to return — that’s a year. Divide by the number of days. Pretty complicated. But is it worth the effort?

The waitress returned with the duck.

“Wow, that duck looks amazing!”

“Enjoy,” she said.

“Oh — I asked in the kitchen, too, about how many days are in a year. They didn’t know either.”

“In theory, it’s calculable.”

“How?” she raised her eyebrows.

“With a telescope and notes. The key is counting how many times the Earth spins on its axis while it orbits.”

“The Earth spins on its axis?” she asked, genuinely surprised.

Hmm. She must be very dumb, he thought, but began explaining:

“Of course it spins. When it gets dark, it means the Earth has turned its back to the Sun and casts a shadow on itself.”

“What Sun?” she asked, even more puzzled.

No way… He wanted to point at the Sun — but he couldn’t see it. There were shadows, but no Sun. The sky was completely clear. He stood up from the table, looked around, searched the sky. The Sun was truly gone.

The waitress had already walked off. He sat down and thought. If no one knows how many days are in a year — then how old could he be? Ten? Fifty? Even one? What had happened to reality? He decided he would no longer call anyone or ask questions. This is how it is. He had to accept it, no matter how disturbing.

He sat at the table, pulled the duck dish close, and began to eat:

“Wow! Not only does it look good — it tastes amazing.”