Birdy

– Ah, come on, Birdy. Get off it, huh? This is Al here. Let’s cut this shit!

Nothing. Anyhow, this one pair of blue bars adopts Birdy. They’re beautiful birds but not banded. Birdy gets them so they’ll sit on his head or shoulders and they’ll let him hold them around the wings. He’d stretch out one wing after the other and ruffle their flight feathers. These pigeons act as if this is the most natural thing in the world; seem to like it.

Birdy’d let them go, throw them up with the other pigeons and they’d come right back. Usually pigeons will always fly to the flock. One day Birdy and I walk home instead of taking the bus, and that pair stays right with Birdy all the way to our tree loft. Those crazy birds are homed on Birdy.

Must not listen.

To hear something, must not listen.

To see something, must not look.

To know something, must not think.

To tell something, must not listen.

We had to lock the loft to keep those blue bars from following Birdy home. His old lady’d poison them if she ever caught on.

– Hey, Birdy; remember the blue bar pair you had homed on you? Jesus, that was weird!

He’s still not paying any attention. I don’t care if he is a loon, he shouldn’t just ignore me.

– Birdy, can you hear me? If you hear me and don’t say anything, you really are a loon; nothing but a fucking loon.

Christ, I’m wasting my time. He acts like he’s deaf or something. Major-doctor says he can hear, hears every word I say. Those bastards don’t know everything either. Maybe Birdy’s just scared and doesn’t want to listen. What the hell could’ve happened to him?

When we had the old flock at his house, one thing Birdy and I liked to do was take a bird or two out for a ride on our bicycles. We built a special box to carry them. These were birds already homed to the loft. Birdy’d rigged a string on the pigeon gate with an old alarm clock so we’d know exactly when they got back. We’d go out to Springfield or someplace and let them fly home with a message to ourselves.

One time when I go to the shore with my family, I take two birds with me. I wade out in the surf and let them loose; less than two hours later they’re back at the loft. That’s over ninety miles. In the message I wrote the time and told Birdy I’m letting the birds fly loose over the Atlantic Ocean.

Birdy’d sit by the hour in our loft watching those pigeons. Christ, I like pigeons myself, but not all the holy day sitting in the dark watching. Then, there’s that pigeon suit he used to wear. He started making it while we still had the loft in his back yard. It began with an old pair of long johns he dyed dark blue. He gathered pigeon feathers from everywhere and kept them in a cigar box. He’d squat, like I said, in the back of our loft, sewing feathers onto those long johns. He began at the top and worked down, round and round, one feather overlapping the other, the way a bird is.

When he got it finished and put it on, he looked like some kind of scraggly giant blue check. He’d wear this crazy suit every time he went into the loft. It’s one thing that definitely bugged his mother.

When we built the tree loft, it got worse. He started wearing gloves covered with feathers and slipped reddish-yellow long socks over his shoes and up to his knees. This was all finished off by a hood with more feathers and a yellow cardboard beak. In the back of the loft, in dark shadows, squatting, sometimes he’d look like a real pigeon, only about the size of a big dog. Somebody accidentally looking up into that tree and seeing him walking around would probably go completely nuts.

– That’s what you need here, Birdy, need the old pigeon costume. Really freak out your fatass doctor.

Birdy didn’t have any feeling for quality birds. I never could figure just what it was he looked for in a pigeon. Take this next pigeon we get for the tree loft; it’s one of the ugliest things you can imagine. She’s so corny, I wouldn’t think even a corny’d have anything to do with her. Birdy thinks she’s beautiful.

It’s about a month after we got the blue bars, Birdy comes to the loft with this pigeon one rainy day and says he found her down in the dump fighting a rat. Now, who’d believe a thing like that? Birdy’s lies are so way out nobody’d believe them. Another thing about Birdy is he’ll believe other people’s lies. Birdy’ll believe almost anything.

The earth turns and we are caught. The weight invades and we struggle in a cage of shifting tons.

This corny’s absolutely black, not shiny black but a dull smoky black. Except for her beak and the way she walks like a pigeon, you’d swear she’s a pint-size crow. She’s so small I think she’s a squab, this is after I’m convinced she’s a pigeon. I don’t want her in the loft. An extra hen in a loft is bad news, but Birdy insists. He keeps raving about how beautiful she is and how she can fly.

First thing she does is steal that blue bar cock away from the hen. He doesn’t know what hit him. He’s wearing himself out strutting around, chasing, fucking her; not even eating. Poor blue bar hen is moping on the nest.

I’m pissed; I want to throw the goddamned corny out. Pigeon witch’s what she is. Birdy says OK but he’s not happy. We throw her up and out the next day. I figure she’s a wanderer and we’ll never see her again.

When I get to the loft that afternoon, Birdy’s already there; so’s the witch. She’s with a great red check cock. They’re strutting all around the loft and the red check’s giving it to her while the blue bar’s trying to get his in but making zero. We watch all afternoon. Finally the blue bar goes back to his hen. I say, OK, the witch can stay now she has her own cock. She must’ve gotten homed to the loft in only two days.

No one knows more than they have to know. All of us locked in gravity graves.

Well, that witch is unbelievable. Next time she goes out, she comes back with a beautiful pair of purebred, banded ash. Birds like that cost a fortune, eight, nine dollars a pair. These are really show birds. We can’t imagine where they come from. The ash cock goes for the witch and the hen follows them into the loft. They’re so beautiful they light up the whole place. So now the ash is fucking the witch and the red check’s out. It’s not natural.

Things go on like that. The witch goes out and comes back with a cock or sometimes a pair. Most times it’s quality birds. This witch has sex appeal for good pigeons. She always lets the cock she brings home have it till the next one comes along, then never lets him near her again. During the three months she’s in our loft she shows no sign of nesting. Birdy says maybe she’s a whore pigeon, but I’m sure she’s a witch.

I break inside my aloneness to knowledge, the end of knowing; a billowing of an air current; a movement toward necessity.

Shit, before we know it, we have more pigeons than we can keep in the loft. Nobody even knows we have pigeons, so nobody suspects us. With our witch, we’re the biggest pigeon-nappers west of Sixty-third Street.

We start taking extra pigeons out to Cheltenham or Media on the train and selling them. Not much chance of anybody recognizing them way out here. We’re making three, four dollars each weekend that way. Working a whole paper route every day you can’t make that.

And do we ever have great pigeons in the loft. Makes our old loft look like a pig sty. Birdy insists on keeping those first blue bars and, of course, we keep the ashes. Then, we have the sweetest pair of blue checks you ever saw. Checks as clear and unblurred as a checkerboard and they’re big but still slim, with high heads. They have feet red as persimmons and clean. Banded birds, both of them, beautiful. I could watch them all day. I really go for quality pigeons. We have two pairs of red bars almost as good, so good anybody’d trade three pairs of purebreds for either pair.

The witch is in and out. Sometimes she’s gone three, four days at a time. Even though she’s making us all that money, I wish she won’t come back some time. She gives me the willies. I don’t like the way Birdy is with her, either. They’re creepy together, especially when he’s wearing that stupid pigeon costume.

I take another peek up and down the corridor. For a loony bin, it’s awful quiet. Most rooms have double doors. The outside door only has a small glass window so you can look in at the crazies; the inside door has bars. I’m sitting in the space between the two doors.

It’s a lot better looking hospital here than the one at Dix. I’m in plastic surgery there and everybody’s in and out all the time. We have to wait two, three weeks, sometimes a month, between operations. We’re not sick so they let us out while we’re waiting. I’m heading home between operations; big hero in the hoagie shop. They tell me one more will do it; but I’ll never be able to grow a beard on that part. Who the hell wants to grow a beard anyhow?

– Hey, Birdy boy!! Remember that old corny we had? She really had hot pants for you, buddy. How’d you like a little pigeon nookey, right now, huh?

I have a feeling for a minute there I got to him, just the way his fingers unfold and fold again. He really could be putting this whole thing on. What the hell, it’s no sense bucking for section eight. They’re letting everybody out anyway.

That corny used to parade back and forth in front of Birdy, cooing low and shimmying down her back the way a pigeon hen does when she wants a cock to jump her. She’s flirting with him, the witch. When Birdy’s spread some feed on the floor, she doesn’t go down and hustle with the others; oh no, she flies over on Birdy’s hand and gets him to feed her. She makes all the same moves a hen makes when she gets fed by a cock. Birdy even puts some grains between his lips and she picks them out. Christ, sometimes I used to think Birdy actually thought he was a pigeon.

To bend the tree or fill the sail is nothing. Knowledge only, not knowing. A bird knows the air without knowledge.

I want to see if I can remind Birdy of when we went on the treasure hunt. This was after the gas tank and after they made us break up the loft. We’d already graduated from elementary school and Birdy was going to a Catholic school. I’m going to Upper Merion, the public school. My parents are Catholic too, but they’re Italian Catholics and don’t go to church much. Birdy’s old man and old lady are big for mass and all that crap.

Anyway, I have to write a story for my English class and since I have practically no imagination, I decide to work this gag on Birdy and write it up just the way it happens. We’re reading ‘The Gold Bug’ in class and maybe it gave me the idea.

– Hey, Birdy!! How about when we went looking for old man Cosgrove’s buried treasure? Jesus, what a riot.

I came over to Birdy’s place with the map. I’d spent almost a week making it and getting everything else ready. I have it all browned with fire and burnt on the edges. Christ, it’s a masterpiece. It’s all in code and we figure it out in Birdy’s room. We move a model for one of Birdy’s crazy birds off his desk so we can spread out the map. It’s raining that day.

Birdy’s always making bird models. He makes them with balsa wood and paper the way you make a model airplane, only his are bird designs with rubber-band power to make the wings flap up and down. Some of them are complicated, with wings that rotate so they twist vertically on the up stroke and horizontally on the down. He’s actually gotten some of them to fly. Trouble is, none of them fly as far as a regular model airplane; it takes too much rubber-band time to flap the wings for any kind of long flight.

– Boy, you really fell like a ton of bricks for that crappy map, Birdy.

The message part has all kinds of complicated directions, like from this tree to that rock, all that treasure map talk. It leads us to a wall where we’re supposed to find another message. Birdy eats it up; Christ, he’ll believe anything. He’s talking about how he’s going to build a giant aviary with his money. I almost give away the whole thing; I don’t want to hurt Birdy, I’m just having a joke and getting my English homework done.

We go down that night. It’s raining like hell. I try getting Birdy to postpone but nothing can stop him. He believes things so hard he’s getting me to believe; I almost expect to actually find some treasure myself.

We tromp around in the dark, sopping wet, no flashlights. Birdy’s leading me to a treasure I didn’t put there. We do find the old tobacco can where I hid the second message; it’s shoved between stones of the Cosgrove ruin, beside where the fireplace used to be. Birdy slips it into his pocket and we hightail out of there and run all the way back to his house. We go in through the cellar so nobody’ll see us. Birdy’s a little runt but he runs like the wind.

We sneak back up to his room again and spread out the new map. I’ve used the same code and burnt off a part of the writing but left enough for us to figure out it’s a treasure map. There’s an X to mark the spot. Birdy wants to go straight out again. I talk him into going the next night. We need proper tools and stuff. I’m wishing I’d never started the whole damned thing. I’m sorry I don’t have some kind of treasure to bury for Birdy to find.