Ted, the check-out guy at the corner grocery store, was bagging up my items and being colloquial. Having nothing else to concern myself with, I humored him by making small talk.
“Hey,” he said, “You like birds?”
“Uh, yeah. They’re good, I guess.”
“I like ‘em, too. My favorite is the Peregrine. You know that one? It’s this badass falcon. A whole lot of ‘em died in the fifties or something. Now they’re coming back.”
“I know them. They’re fast flyers, right?”
Perhaps a bit too absolutely, he responded,“They’re the fastest fucking bird there is.”
“Oh really?”
The overhead PA asked for a Shelly to check.
“Yeah. Check out my tat.”
Ted untucked his shirttail as carefully as one would handle tissue paper. I was stunned by the artwork. Boldly outlined across his stomach flew a truly majestic avian, gloriously articulated with wings spanning from love handle to love handle. Aside from the fact that it was not yet finished— the coloring was about forty percent complete, the feathers and talons required more definition— this was the definitive Peregrine.
“Oh, wow,” I managed to say.
Suddenly, a brooding man with a clipboard appeared behind the register. I had never seen him before. His name-tag read Tom, in large, plain letters. Obviously a boss. His presence was dark, yet innocuous; a hairy little guy who probably ate out of a red Igloo lunchbox on the sidewalk. I imagined his severe, probably demanding girlfriend— assuming he had one— and wondered what she must have thought of their inadequate sex life— assuming they had one. He leaned over and whispered something to Ted that I couldn’t hear.
“The Peregrine, of course,” Ted replied.
“You’re absolutely right,” Tom nodded. Ted’s face became absent, solemn, slightly perplexed. He peered at me for a long moment before leaving the store through the front.
“Ted? Hey, where’s he going? You didn’t just you fire him, did you?”
I asked Tom.
He did not answer me. His face too was now bereft of any former quality.
“Hey, snap out of it! What just happened?”
“It is not their time. It is our time.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Sir, what do you stand for?”
“Excuse me?”
“What do you stand for?”
Flustered, I had no idea how to answer. No one had ever asked me that before. Once, I thought I stood for high art, and literature. Now, however, having been pressed in such a peculiar manner, I just felt confused, and uncomfortable. I rounded up my groceries and left.
One week later, I found Ted constructing a nest on a sixth floor balcony of the tenement across the street. I called up to him, curious as to what exactly he believed he was accomplishing. He squawked at me.
Now they’re coming back, I thought.
Malph and I filed across the barroom to catch-up and buzz after a sterile, sympathetic handshake. I hoped this whole thing wouldn’t be too awkward. It had been some time since we’d seen each other. He patted me on the back as we sat down at the only empty booth. “So,” he exhaled, “talk about chilly, huh? I mean, today? Brrr! What the hell! How cold was it? Like, really fucking cold? I put my jacket on my ass was freezing so damn much. Shit, man. Do you remember what it was supposed to be today? Temperature-wise?” I tried to think, but didn’t remember anything. I hardly ever watched the news these days. My head shook ‘no.’ More interesting things seemed to happen when I didn’t pay attention. For instance, when my beer tasted unusually bitter, I realized I was not handed a Hefeweizen, as I had ordered, but instead an Olde English. I tried not to make a face at the taste, and failed. Malph continued, “Yeah, I don’t know either. I could definitely see my breath, which is like, awesome. ‘Cause you know what that means— Fall’s here! You know, Autumn? Hells bells, buddy! My favorite time of year! Everyone is so excited and all. They’re all hopped up on color, waiting for that fresh start just around the corner.” I didn’t know how to respond. “You okay?” he asked.
Like when Malph first called me to get together, I didn’t recognize his voice. He said, “This is your old friend Malph, from a long time ago. Remember?”
A few Jehovah witness men came to our door. Much to their chagrin, and my personal delight, Abby answered.
“Let me tell you something about the fucking watchtower! It’s deserted! No one on high! Take your pamphlets and you can shove them up your pussies!” she pontificated.
“Thanks, boys. Not today,” I said, more calmly.
“Blessed be those who give themselves unto-“
I closed the door and went back to the model plane I was working on.
later…
“Those guys seriously need to re-evaluate their lives. Seriously. I don’t need a fucking savior,” Abby fumed from the hall.
“Gotta make a living somehow. Besides, I thought I was your savior?” I fished.
“You make three dollars a day selling bean bags, tootsie pop.”
“All for you, coffee cake.”
Business had been slow, truth be told. Very slow. The ‘60’s were decades ago and most of the hippies were old, or dead. I kicked myself for the missed opportunity with those little Jehovah’s.
later still…
A knock came from the door. It was our neighbor. He was sopping in some sort of strange viscous fluid.
“Your dog is in my yard again,” he said.
“Hanz, we don’t have a dog, remember? Are you alright?” I asked.
“I’ll have you know that there is nothing that would make me happier than to watch you fail.”
“Is that so? Well, you’re my favorite neighbor I’ve ever had, Hanz. Honestly. True-truly.”
“None of that tripe, boy. You keep that damn Pyrenees out of my yard or I’ll throw him in the chipper!”
“I’ll see what I can do, Hanz.”
I slammed the door long before he finished gurgling a laugh. He was a horrible old fart.
“He was all goopy this time.” I said.
“Fucking Hanz. I miss Spike,” Abby sniffled.
“Me too, pistachio,” I sighed. Spike was our Pyrenees.
“No you don’t. All you goddamn do is huff glue all day! I can’t take this shit anymore!” she sobbed.
“Abby…”
“I’ll tear this fucking house apart…”
Suddenly, there were three harsh, sharp knocks at the door. It was the police.
“Sir, there have been complaints of stringent bouts of depression emanating from this residence. Permit me to look around?” said Officer Krab.
I swung the door and allowed them in, keeping my apprehension in check. We had not entertained in years, and admittedly, the place was worse for the wear. The sofas were upside down. Mice ran unabashedly. One of the officers started crying.
“This is Abby,” I said.
Abby sat inside a ring of kleenex on the floor. Officer Krab took some notes.
“…never seen this before,” he murmured.
“Follow me,” I said.
I lead them downstairs to the torture chamber. They examined the stockade, the iron maiden, guillotine, my various whips, chains, and flails. The female officer, Stubblefield, shined her badge to the man in the rack. He was unconscious.
“I have a license for that,” I offered.
“We’ll have a look at that upstairs,” Krab replied.
back in the kitchen, Abby scraped at the wallpaper with her fingernails…
“I don’t need no fucking savior, from you or from anybody.”
