Related story: Being The Gull

By Bryan Rourke
Journal Staff Writer

If I'm going to get dressed in a sea gull outfit on a swelteringly hot day, it better be fun. I kept reminding myself of that during my mascot duty as I came in and out of a dehydration-induced consciousness.

``Yes,'' I recall saying. ``Ha, ha. That is very funny when all you children try to stick your hands up my beak.''

When people pinched and punched me, tackled and squashed me, heckled me and called me chicken, it was all in good fun. Well, they seemed to be having fun anyway. Being The Gull was my birdbrained idea.

I thought it would be fun. Actually, I thought it would be demanding -- and it was. What would be fun, I thought, would be to write about it.

It's hard to go wrong. Suddenly, you're an enormous caricature. You're a living cartoon, an animated costumed character, a big joke of a being devoid of dignity.

How can you possibly take yourself seriously? How can others? They can't, and neither can I.

That was the guiding principle in my writing: Have fun.

Part of the fun was pretending, believing in the bird and, maybe, making readers wonder about my well being.

``Is this guy serious? I thought The Journal was more selective in its hiring.''

No, I did not think putting on a silly suit was going to change my landlubbing life. Who said that?

I had no delusions. I just thought it would be fulfilling. I could finally be a bird, against the advice of my psychiatrist.

``I've got medications that will ground you,'' he said.

It would be a story, not an article. It would be an adventure, not an occurrence. It would be fun.

Structurally, I knew I would use narrative and that I would be the protagonist, the emotional through-line, the flawed hero you would root for or laugh at.

I'm generally wary of writing first-person articles. I think they can easily fail. The writer can come across as self-centered. So I chose to be self-effacing, which I believe blunts criticism. In essence, you're agreeing with your critics. You're in on their joke, which is you.

Telling the story could have been more simple. I chose to add some subtle complexity. For everything that happened, I sought some cultural, historical or literary allusion.

With my enormous webbed feet, I was not simply walking awkwardly, like a scuba diver, but like ``Godzilla stomping on the buildings of Tokyo.'' I didn't simply change into The Gull, I became it through a Franz Kafka ``Metamorphosis.'' I wasn't just a laughable leader, I was Mussolini. And at the end, tired, wet and wanting to be me again, I was George Bailey in ``It's a Wonderful Life.''

I free-associated everything I wrote. I took events and feelings and connected them with common cultural icons, things everyone could relate to if, by chance, they couldn't relate to what it was like to wear a sea gull suit in public.

If the events weren't ridiculous, then I would be -- in thought.

In terms of telling the story, I decided it must be one: a story. There had to be a beginning (full of hope and promise that being The Gull would be a better life) a middle (where nothing of worth was without a struggle) and an ending (an epiphany that being yourself is best).

I used the analogy of Kafka's ``Metamorphosis'' early in my story for a reason. It applies. While my parents didn't see me in my lowly mascot condition, lots of people did.

There could have been a serious side to the story, which I left suggested, not stated. Psychologically, costumes create a license for those who wear them, and those who see them. People, inside and outside costumes, act as they otherwise wouldn't.

``I think you have issues,'' my psychiatrist said.

I don't care what he said. This story was for fun. So I left analysis alone.

I concentrated on pacing, with one event leading to another. I sought to foster a feeling of what can possibly happen next? To do this, I used short sentences. Things were happening. Feathers were flying.

I was also having fun. Stories determine writing styles. City Council sessions generally don't lend themselves to levity. So I sought a suitably silly subject.

In the Newport Gull, I found my outlet, and now I find myself molting.