The National Cage Bird Show
Until now the familiar world was governed by Boy Scout promises, God’s law as relayed in the Sunday sermon, the coach’s doctrine, the military code of conduct, and the expectations that the drill sergeant made clear when he cited John Lyly’s Euphues, 1578: “The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war.” The drill sergeant continued, “In case it’s not clear to you ass-monkeys, this is not a love affair. We are at war.” There is an irreducible truth to how cruel man can be. Some learn early on, and then there are others, like me, for whom it comes as a brutal awakening. But that’s not what you were looking for. You asked me why am I in a chat room for lovers of parakeets?
It’s budgies. “Parakeet” just means parrot with a thin body and a long tail. While a budgie is a parakeet, a parakeet isn’t always a budgie, which is short for “budgerigar.”
I bet you do well on crossword puzzles.
Thank you.
I’m here for the distraction, the pleasure of something that is as small and clear-hearted as a budgie. And perhaps this is just a fleeting attempt to keep myself sane in a situation that is so beyond foreign that I fear I have lost myself permanently. And you?
Just curious.
Say more.
I’m a child of divorce, I live in a world without life, where even an ant crawling across a counter is cause for major intervention. Mine is a sealed habitat. The only noises are the drop of the morning paper, the shower, the coffee machine, and the buzzer at suppertime when DelRoy, the doorman, calls to say the boy from Sushi Express is here with dinner in hand. This is not a home. Home was a classic six, which was sold to a Russian who’s going to connect it to his classic six next door. This is new construction, freshly minted, purchased with prenuptial dollars after the implosion of my parents’ marriage. It is a sterile cube, an emotional clean room, where my mother hopes her life will find balance again. P.S. Before the world fell apart, I used to want a brother or a sister, failing a dog, a cat, or a budgie.
Are you two serious? This is a budgie chat room, not the—
Oyster Bar at Grand Central.
Or Aisle 19 at Walmart. I’ve seen people walking up and down the aisles eating. They open packages of this and that, sandwiches for themselves, eat and leave without paying.
Can we please stay on topic? Do any of you feed grapes to your birds?
Seedless and organic only, pesticides settle on the skin—or you can peel them.
Mrs. PH-A has parakeets. She lives upstairs in a duplex and has a gold cage that’s five feet tall.
Gold leaf.
Brass.
“Gilded” is the word you’re looking for. A gilded cage.
You always have to be right. I’d hate to be your wife.
It’s funny, when I read what you all write, it reminds me of the sound of birds chirping.
We’re like a Greek chorus.
It’s a regular sing-along. Whether or not advice is wanted, it’s given.
Mrs. PH-A had a holiday party for everyone in the building. There was spiked eggnog for the grown-ups and sanded sugar cookies for the kids. Mrs. 8C-D discreetly licked the caviar off the blinis and passed the tiny pancakes to her daughter, who loves carbohydrates. I told Mrs. PH-A how beautiful her birds were. She smiled and said, “You’re the only person who’s noticed the birds. Everyone else just talks about the cage.” Are you really in the military?
I am.
And are you in a war?
I am at war.
Have you done this before, just come into a chat room and started talking to someone—a stranger?
No, but whenever there’s a computer available, I go on it. I wander . . .
It’s called surfing, not wandering.
The guy is a soldier. He can call it whatever he wants.
Sometimes I stay up all night looking at other parts of the world or just reading the news from home.
Where is home?
America.
Duh.
Don’t be an a-hole.
Language, please . . .
How’d you end up in the army?
The truth?
No, lie to her, that’s what we’re all sitting here waiting for.
I did what a lot of people do. I walked away from all that was familiar. The only thing I knew about the army was whatever I’d seen on TV, on Super Bowl commercials.
Have a Coke and a war. That’s really saying something, isn’t it?
I am the local EOD, explosive ordnance disposal specialist, basically the Maytag Man for bombs. I’m good with my fingers. I can thread a needle in the dark. Anything with a detonator, I’m your man.
We all have gifts, my grandmother used to say.
Truisms like the slips of white paper in fortune cookies.
I look for disturbances in the landscape, places where the dirt is loose, where you see something where there should be nothing, where something is out of order.
Like a wet glass on the kitchen counter, like wrappers and crumbs.
Exactly.
My grandmother isn’t talking to my father, so I guess we’re not going there for Thanksgiving.
Last year on turkey day, I ran route clearing for eight hours. I had to dismount and investigate twice, which is pretty much the last thing you want to do. But I got my reward, a double dose of dark meat and a whole pumpkin pie with my name on it.
Uh, side note for the newbies, we usually don’t talk about Thanksgiving or how good ”the bird” was. A lot of us are—
Vegan.
Pescatarian.
Vegetarian.
Lactose intolerant.
Can I be weird for a minute? I just want to confirm that neither of you has birds. Is that correct?
Correct. When I first got here, I saw rainbow-hued bee eaters, long-tailed shrikes, Siberian stonechats, and red-throated flycatchers.
I have a strong bird affinity. Mrs. PH-A asked me to bird-sit one weekend when she was in CT. My mother said I could only do it if the doorman went with me. So during his break, DelRoy and I went in and just sat there with the birds. We gave them millet and dehydrated mango and talked about all kinds of things. Turns out DelRoy is a pigeon flier—he races pigeons from roof to roof in the Bronx.
Anyone else here not have a bird?
You’re being passive-aggressive.
Is it passive-aggressive if it’s totally obvious?
Is there a requirement that someone be in possession of a bird in order to enter the chat room?
Apparently not, but they’re monopolizing the conversation, changing the subject and stuff, and we don’t even know them. They both just wandered in here.
So wait, we don’t talk about TG but can we talk about how creepy it is that birds love hard-boiled eggs?
Scrambled, as long as it’s not in a Teflon pan.
I gave mine the roasted one from the Passover plate . . .
Are you still there?
Yeah.
Where?
I’m here in my room on East 86th Street. My mom let me pick the decor, and I chose a forest theme. I have a bed that’s made out of an ancient tree trunk. My mother and I are Mrs. and Miss 7B—the doormen refer to everybody by their apartment number. When I come home, they say, “Miss 6C is having her piano lesson but then might like to go to the park.” Or “The pup in 8G wants a walk.” What about you, where are you?
I’m in deep. The landscape is like another planet: dirt, rocks, and dust, nothing more. In some places the roads are so narrow they call them goat trails. People say there used to be trees and we’re known for grapes and pomegranates. At this point if I see something that looks like a pomegranate, I’m more likely to assume it’s a bomb than breakfast.
Do you drive around on camels?
You’re thinking of Lawrence of Arabia, not Larry of Afghanistan.
Not so much. We have trucks with radar, long mechanical arms that can scratch the dirt, camera bots we can send into a location. Back at basic they said, “In case of a dust storm, if you have a camel, ask the camel to sit down and hide yourself against its leeward side—camels are used to dust storms. That was followed by, “If you don’t have a camel, tie a bandanna around your nose and mouth and try not to suffocate.” It’s not exactly helpful. When a dust storm hits, you can’t breathe. It’s like your lungs are filling with sand, and it just rips away at your skin.
Ha, that’s how my mother describes Dr. Fisher, her dermatologist.
What does it mean when my birdie is all puffed up?
Scared, cold, sick.
Do you live in a tent?
Mostly we live in military squalor in things like shipping containers. It’s called a company-level camp. Two hots and a cot. The running joke is that wherever we are, it’s always named after a guy called Stan.
What was today in the war like?
Today? We were in convoy for seven hours. The whole time you’re in the vehicle, you’re praying you find it and BIP it before you roll over it. BIP stands for “blow in place.” We blow up devices too dangerous to move. I’ve got my bell rung pretty good a couple of times. And then when you get to the destination and have to dismount, you start praying there are no snipers. They called it a training mission because we had new soldiers on board.
Same. Everyone here is totally into training. At school we run laps around the Central Park Reservoir. And I play tennis twice a week. I used to take spin class but had to stop because I was getting obsessed.
Are pomegranate seeds safe for my keet?
Yes.
Mine loves popping them, like me with bubble wrap.
I always think I’m fine until we get back. And then I vomit. Every day I puke my guts out—sorry if that’s TMI.
No, it’s fine. I have a friend who used to barf every day, but that’s different—she made herself do it. I don’t know what upset my mother more, the fact that my father was sleeping with someone else or that she found out about it at lunch. She was eating a Cobb salad, filled with things she doesn’t even like—blue cheese, bacon, hard-boiled egg—waiting for him to tell her the “really important thing.” Halfway through he said, “I’m leaving you,” and she got up, walked out, and threw up all over the corner of 61st and Madison. She apologized to people who were walking by, mumbling “chemotherapy” because it was easier to say than “adultery.”
As far as I’m concerned, you’re both exotics.
Is newspaper okay as a cage liner?
Yes, if you don’t care about inky feet.
I’d call the printer and make sure they use nontoxic ink.
The computers here are the kind from a hundred years ago, and there are only a couple of them. I waited in line to get on, like how you used to wait for a pay phone. Right now ten guys are staring me down—we’re only allowed 15 minutes—but they’re being nice . . . I better go. Some of these guys have families.
Hey, wait, before you go—what’s your name?
Matthew Rose, i.e., ArMyRose.
Is that your real name?
Should I be using a fake name?
I used NYCGirl2001—it seemed better than Grace.
Grace is really nice.
Thanks. Hey, one last question. What is it you like about birds?
Their beauty and intelligence.
Stay safe, ArMyRose.
You, too, GirlyBird.
He’s signed off. Seems like a nice guy. I feel for him.
For all you know, he’s sitting somewhere in Florida.
I don’t think so—it’s a rough job being a soldier.
Maybe it’s more of a calling.
Or a last resort.
Hello, I’m still here.
Isn’t it past your bedtime?
I just think we shouldn’t talk about him behind his back.
It’s a chat room—we chat.
What about you, chickadee? Tell us something . . .
I’m not sure what to say. My life sucks. I mean, would I be in a budgie chat room if everything were okay, really?
Foul. Ten minutes in penalty box for insulting your hosts.
Mea culpa. #ashamed. Tell me about your birds . . .
Mine likes to ride around on my head. She just sits up there, and I walk around the house like that. Sometimes I forget she’s there and my wife reminds me: birdie on board.
Knock, knock, anyone home?
I’m here, just studying for a test.
You don’t have to knock—the door’s always open.
While I was waiting in line to talk to you, I was thinking about how much easier it is for me to type what I’m thinking rather than saying it out loud. Voices are hard for me. The last time I got my bell rung—it never really stopped ringing. It’s like I’m deaf and at the same time have a superpower. I can hear the smallest sound, like a match being lit a hundred yards away. The din on normal voices just kills me—it’s like a marching band between my ears. The other day you asked me why I joined the army?
Yes.
My father was not a nice guy.
Mine’s not winning any medals at the moment either. He thinks inviting me to breakfast with his new girlfriend is nice. Thanks but no thanks.
My father burned down our house. That’s when I left.
OMG. Seriously?
Yep.
Where is he now?
Jail. I literally just walked away from it all, while the house was still on fire. I went into the recruiting office and said, “Where do I sign up?” The guy gave me the once-over and asked, “Anyone looking for you?” “Like who?” “The cops?” “No.” “Am I going to regret this?” the officer asked me. “I could ask you the same thing,” I said to him.
Wow. Was your mother okay?
She escaped without injury. Whatever we had as a family went up in flames. She’s now living with my aunt. There’s no going back.
No one thinks about how it affects the kid. All my parents think about is themselves and their reputations.
When I got into the army, I asked them to give me the hardest job. I wanted to do the thing that other people weren’t willing to do.
I shouldn’t even be telling you about my life. Compared to what you’re going through, my story is boring.
Everyone’s got something.
My mother works all the time. She says she’s learned her lesson when it comes to men. Is it weird to say I just wish things could be the way they were? I wish I didn’t know that a dad could fall out of love with his family. Part of me refuses to believe it—does that make me a romantic?
GirlyBird, every bird lover is a romantic at heart. When the other guys used to come back at night and write down what kind of action we saw, I made notes about warblers in the elms.
Excuse me for interrupting while you all are waxing poetic—but my keet hates pellets,
Some birds never eat pellets.
My mother doesn’t keep food in the house—she wants to avoid temptation. There are cans of tuna but no mayo. There are black coffee ice cubes and celery sticks—she eats them when she’s trying to solve a really tough problem. “It’s not easy,” she says, “being a corporate woman at this stage.” She does exercises at 6 a.m. And if I want to talk to her but the timing is bad, she holds up her hand like a stop sign and says, “I’m crazed.” Other times she makes a sad-pouty face and asks in baby talk, “Are you okay?”
My birdie hides a little extra food in a corner of the cage where she thinks no one can see it.
My big guy has to always eat first, before the other one. I tried using both doors, putting in two dishes simultaneously, but it made him crazy. He couldn’t decide which to go for, hopping around, squawking.
Mine have gone mental in general. They’re biting me all the time. How do you stop a keet from biting?
The question I’d be asking is why are they mad at you?
Sometimes I go to 8C-D after school, because the housekeeper is Irish and makes tea sandwiches with cucumber and cream cheese, watercress and butter, tuna salad, egg salad, on white and brown bread. She leaves them on the counter covered with plastic wrap. The kids who live there couldn’t care less. The housekeeper told me that the secret to egg salad is Dijon mustard.
I’ve never had watercress.
Maybe it’s just an Upper East Side thing.
What always gets to me is when we roll into a town. Picture two streets that look like a Buffalo Bill stage set that burned down twenty years ago. People are living in the rubble, and sometimes they’re running toward you screaming at you in a language you don’t understand. You have no idea what they’re saying, and you can’t read the clues because everything from the intonation to the gestures is entirely different here.
That sounds scary. I mostly have to deal with Alexander, who lives in 8C-D and who has started making me do “exercises” to earn the sandwiches. At first I thought it was funny that in some way I should pay for my snacks. Now I just think he’s weird.
We’re beyond outsiders. We’re alien insects who roll through in crazy machines. It’s like the military ran out of places to blow up and rebuild, so they sent us to an ancient civilization. I wasn’t even born when this war started.
Alexander made me Purell my hands, then follow him into his father’s walk-in closet and do a dance weaving between his suits. And then he told me to run my hands down each of the ties, stroking them.
It’s like there’s a communication error.
Latency issues have to do with communication hops between transmitters and satellites. Uh, my day job is in software systems.
Latent: present but not visible. It’s a popular crossword clue.
At first it freaks you out: these voices, talking fast, hysterically, in a language where you maybe know three words. What are they saying? Is someone hurt? Are they happy to see you? Or are they crying because their life is so awful, because someone killed their child, or because their car won’t go? Are they asking where did you come from and why are you here? Do they want to kill you? The little kids knock me flat. Sometimes we come in right after something has happened—you see things that don’t look real, body parts detached, kids covered in blood and dirt. We get out and give the kids things like soccer balls and dolls. We pump up a ball and throw it to them. Condolences on your mom and dad, but hey, here’s a toy.
My mother made me give away all my old toys when we moved. She gave me one box and said, “This is for the keepers.” I bet some of my stuff is over there. Do the girls like Barbie dolls?
Are birds color-blind?
How do we ever know what someone else sees?
And then Alexander tells me to face the fridge and put my hands up. I do, and he comes behind me and lays over me—his hands on my hands, facing the fridge. I just try to hold my breath.
That’s what I do all day, hold my breath. When I’m in the operational arena, I’m more awake, more alive than I’ve ever been, but I don’t breathe. I have to remind myself, breathe. My job is to make the unsafe safe, to prevent things from exploding. The minute you stop caring if you get out alive, you’re dead, but things can get messed up. Your superiors lose sight of the goal. And you start wondering who is the real enemy. You find out things like there’s a “contractor” in the area paying people on both sides for information. The contractor has more money in his pocket than you’ll see in a year, and he’s handing it out right and left, hoping some trinket of intel will fall off a tree.
Alexander leans against me for a long time, our breath fogging the Sub-Zero stainless. I look down—he’s wearing white sweat socks, bleachy clean. I see the hem of his blue school shirt, the cuffs of his khaki school pants.
It is a war without end. We go out and we come back. We do the mission. But it’s taken a turn. There are times we don’t know what we’re fighting for. One of the commanders said, “It’s not a war, it’s a chronic disease.”
My bird just flew into a wall—how did she not see the wall?
No horizon line—put up Post-its, that’s what I do. Orange or pink Post-its like caution signs.
I go to an all-girls school. I know nothing about boys. I have no idea what’s normal.
Every day, every night I remind myself that I am a real person, not just a piece of military machinery. As much as it feels weird pouring my heart out in front of an audience, you’re the ballast.
In case you’re curious, you can tell how many of us are in the room by looking at the upper left corner of your screen where it says “Number of Birds in the Room.” Right now it’s seven.
I find it wonderful. I’m seventy-six years old, and I look forward to it every day. I never talk about myself, but I’m in one of those motorized chairs, oxygen-dependent, and this is the most interesting thing that’s happened in years.
I’ve been in this chat room since it started . . . Really lovely to hear what everyone has to say. BTW, I had no idea that’s what the number in the upper left meant until you just told us.
Why are you oxygen-dependent? Are you really fat?
I’m going to ignore that.
As would any polite person.
And the answer is no. Stupidly, I was a smoker. I smoked round the clock for 60 years.
I’m sitting at this blinking cube, this Etch-A-Sketch of the mind, 6,000 and some miles away, trying to pour my heart into it, but maybe letters were better, scratching it out by hand.
I remember trying to draw circles on the Etch-A-Sketch, right knob slowly up and down, left knob side to side.
To erase it you had to shake it really hard. It sounded like sand scattering in the wind.
I gotta go, the guy behind me is getting agitated. Good luck on your test, Grace.
Stay safe, ArMyRose.
I think Charlie Bird is sick. I asked my daughter to look at him, and she thought he was fine. Then a friend came by and said, “The bird is fine, but I’m insane . . .”
Sorry to just bust in.
You’re home early.
I need to talk to ArMyRose—does anyone have his real e-mail or a phone number?
Everything okay?
Is it normal for a keet to vomit?
Parakeets often regurgitate as a sign of affection. They throw up for their owners or a favorite toy, a mirror or a bell.
Everything is not okay. Mrs. PH-A jumped out the window.
I can’t help thinking something is wrong with Charlie Bird.
Is she all right?
PH stands for “penthouse,” so, not likely.
What are his symptoms?
His face is squinchy, and he’s a little puffy. I’ve been watching him all morning, and all I can say is he looks the way I feel when I have the flu.
I thought you said she was an old woman?
Maybe it was an accident and she fell?
The doormen said she’d been very depressed and had been making philosophical statements. And Mr. 8E is in the lobby telling people that hers was hardly the fairy-tale life others imagined. Her family was wealthy, but she never got the one thing she needed.
What was that?
Love, according to Mr. 8E. Her last husband was a brilliant man; he helped calculate the age of the universe, but then left her with no warning. That’s why she moved here, to the building so new it has no history. She’s out there. I can’t see everything, but I can see her shoe, a simple black pump with a three-inch heel.
I think you should come away from the window.
She had a certain charm, a spark, almost like effervescence. She left envelopes for each of the doormen with “Christmas Comes Early This Year” in script on the outside and a page of instructions. DelRoy showed me the part that applies to me: “The birds are for the new girl. She knows who she is. She will ask you about them first thing. My family will ask about the cage. The cage is in fact gold and was a birthday present from my father—my 21st birthday. My first husband used to say, How ironic at the age of your emancipation he handed you a portable prison. Tell the girl she should get a different kind of cage and that the birds need space to fly free. Tell her they like to sit on the tops of bookcases and pick at books—they’re fond of first editions.”
Now Charlie’s just sitting on his perch closing his eyes like he’s exhausted, and the other one is looking at me like he’s asking, “You gonna do something about it?”
That’s awful, my thoughts are with you.
Really bad—but now you’ve got keets. You’re a mum.
Well, they’re not here yet. It all just happened. The police are in the apartment now. There are news trucks outside. It’s really strange. I wonder what she’d think if she saw the response. Mrs. PH-A was always very apologetic. Mrs. 9I said it was because her mother was English.
Now the other one is pecking at him, like he’s saying, “Charlie, stay with me, don’t go to sleep, Charlie.” I’m calling the vet.
Where is ArMyRose?
I’m sure he’s out on a job.
I don’t think it works that way. He’s not like a repairman—he’s a detonator.
Fine, a “mission.” Apologies for not using military-speak. Anyway, kiddo, is there someone you can call? A friend?
Are you still looking out the window?
How’d you know? Maybe I could go over to the pet store on Lexington Avenue and get some supplies—suggestions?
Seed, millet, treats.
Always with the food. How about cage, water bowl, food bowl, bath, some toys?
From what you’ve said about your mother, I’m thinking maybe you need one of those cage skirts that catches seeds and maybe a little mini-vacuum.
Hey GirlyBird, I know it’s late there, really sad to hear about Mrs. PH-A. We had a 24-hour communication blackout.
It’s okay, you’re in a war and I’m like in 8th grade.
Did you get the keets?
Not yet—the police sealed off the apartment. Maybe tomorrow they’ll let them out.
Last night a crazy thing happened. I’m not sure if I was asleep or awake, but I heard a sound from when I was a kid. It was the sound of my bike wheels with a playing card in the spokes. We used to stick a playing card between the spokes and pretend we were riding motorcycles. It was an excellent sound, the stop-and-start clack, clack, clack. Then I woke up and realized it was mortar fire. I’m hating myself for enjoying the memory, lost in time, the deep blue sky at twilight, the summer crickets, so loud, my bike, riding, flying toward home. They’re goddamned firing on us, and I’m dreaming of crickets, lightning bugs, and the smell of sparklers. I remember the science teacher telling me iron makes orange, magnesium makes white, ferrotitanium makes yellow-gold.
It sounds like it was really good until you woke up.
Have you ever noticed that when things get strange, you go back in time, to a particular moment? Like the thirty seconds when the guy at the carnival is turning a paper cone in wide circles inside the machine—just before he hands you a puffy cloud of cotton candy.
I think about smells. Hot dogs. Fried clams.
For a treat I let my birdies pick on a Nilla wafer.
I give mine pasta, ’cause I’m Italian.
What do you like better, blue or pink cotton candy?
Pink. Blue seems unnatural.
Fried Oreos.
Mushy ice cream sandwiches—the outside skin of the chocolate cookie stuck to your fingers.
Funnel cake with powdered sugar.
It’s amazing what a bird can tell you if you’re willing to listen. Charlie was sick. I took him in, and the doc gave him subcutaneous fluids and antibiotics, and he’s a new man. Four hundred bucks, but he’s alive.
It’s been crazy here. We were doing unmounted searches in a village. I was moving around with my battle buddy, and then there was a sound, not even a sound, more like a punch through the air—you feel it coming, but there’s nothing you can do before the sensation of something exploding into a punching bag knocks you back. I look at my buddy, and I don’t even understand what I’m seeing. He’s spitting out his face, his teeth, his chin, his jaw. There’s a gaping hole tearing through his nose, one eye is gone, the other panicked, thinking is this how it ends? I can taste his blood in my own mouth, a sour metal tinge. He can’t talk—he has nothing left to talk with. I take a step toward him and see a thin wire through the dirt, a daisy chain of IEDs. Despite all that’s happening, he sees it, too. And before I can figure out how to get to him, he reaches for his gun and fires directly into what is left of his head. Brain matter splatters across me, thoughts not spoken, every idea he ever had, his life not yet lived, spraying me with the last of his consciousness. The gun falls like a tin toy. The body, heart still plump and pounding, veins coursing with the chemistry of survival, takes a moment to buckle, crumpling toward me and onto the ground. My friend, an open wound, an uncapped well, spilling sticky human reds and browns into the dirt. In the distance I hear the thick thud of a chopper. The other IED guys eliminate the threat, and the medics rush in and take him. I am left in the dirt, clutching the knit hat he used to wear and wondering what are they going to try to save, what can be revived.
I just vomited into my mouth. ArMyRose, I’m so sorry.
At a loss for words.
Don’t know what to say—condolences.
I’m not sure why, but on the ride back I kept thinking about my 7th-grade field trip to the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C. We saw the flag that flew at Fort McHenry in 1812. The actual “broad stripes and bright stars,” except I remembered that parts of it were missing, blown to shit. I’m not supposed to be telling you any of this. I could get in so much trouble, but I just can’t sit on it. Not to be creepy, but I kept a couple of his teeth—I thought his family might need them for DNA evidence.
Does every school go to Washington, D.C.? I saw that same flag.
One can only imagine what you’ve been through, soldier.
You’ve been traumatized.
Right now, I need my head washed out. I wouldn’t mind being spun around in the Vortex, paralyzed by centrifugal force as the bottom drops out. If they could spin it fast enough, maybe it would wipe my memory clean.
When I was a kid, they called it the Gravitron.
It’s actually called the Rotor.
I was all about the Himalaya—fast and tight.
Tilt-A-Whirl for me.
Am I the only one who likes the Madhatter’s Tipsy Teacups?
Is it weird that I don’t like rides? I don’t even like elevators.
There’s no way you go through something like that and come out unaffected.
I had an uncle, a World War Two veteran, who suffered from Guadalcanal syndrome. He was like a feral cat, jumpy, couldn’t take loud noises, and would weep at news of any kind, good or bad.
Shell-shocked, they used to call it.
Fucked is what I’d say, pardon my French.
Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war, love is a growing up.
GirlyBird, that’s great. Maybe one day you’ll be a writer.
I wish. That was written by James Baldwin in “The Price of the Ticket.” We’re reading that in my school. Have you ever been to a bird show?
No.
Maybe we could go sometime?
That would be nice.
What do you think it’s like?
Loud. Squawky.
I got two of my best boys at a show.
You meet the most wonderful people.
The National Cage Bird Show is in New York in January. Come with me? I’ll take you to the Empire State Building. I’ve lived here my whole life, but I’ve never gone to the top. And we could go for a carriage ride in Central Park—it’s corny but fun. There’s a place called Serendipity that makes Frozen Hot Chocolate, which is so good.
Sounds good, GirlyBird, something to look forward to. I wish I had more to say, but nothing makes any sense anymore. It’s getting hard to imagine a way out of here.
Do budgies glow in the dark?
Have you been doing edibles again?
Breeding feathers absorb ultraviolet light from the sun, so if your birdie has been in the sun for a few hours, he might come in with a little glow, like ring around the collar.
How long have you been over there?
This is my third ride ticket.
ArMyRose, I’m changing my name from NYCGirl2001 to GirlyBird01 in your honor.
Thanks, Gracie.
I think my bird is bleeding. There’s a drop of blood on the paper towel.
Just one drop?
Yes.
Maybe he has a broken blood feather?
He looks unhappy.
Any signs of injury?
I’m scared. It’s like making me feel panicky.
I’ve got eyes on my back and a long line needing to call home. Signing off for now.
Sleep well, ArMyRose.
You, too, GirlyBird.
I think it’s his wing.
Wing or a feather?
It looks like he bent his feather.
You’re gonna have to pull it out.
I don’t think I can.
Birdie can bleed out if you let it go uncorked.
Here’s what you do: Get a washcloth and have someone hold the bird.
I live alone.
Okay, so you’re going to hold the bird in one hand and extract it with a hemostat.
A what?
You can use tweezers or even needle-nose pliers.
Get as close to the skin as you can and then pull the feather out, firm and swift in one go. But before you do anything, get some cornstarch ready.
I’m so freaking out. I need cornstarch?
To stop the bleeding.
Is that the yellow box with the corn on it?
Yes.
So weird—I never made the connection. I’m dumb.
What’s the bird doing now?
Just looking at me. And— Oh, no . . .
What?
I just spilled tea on my keyboard.
Put it in dry rice. Right away.
What’s happening with the blood feather? The suspense is killing me.
I’m scared.
If the bird is bleeding and you can’t get to a vet, you have no choice.
Okay, okay.
Does anyone want to play the theme to Jeopardy?
I did it! OMG.
Is the bird okay?
Yeah. Startled—but fine.
What a night. I don’t even have to watch television anymore.
Good news! I met Mrs. PH-A’s daughter. She buzzed this afternoon and invited me to come up and get the birdies. When I got there, she said she wanted to make sure I understood that the cage was not included, “It’s a family heirloom.” She gave me the birds and their supplies and some books that she said they liked to peck at. “It’s ironic,” she said. “My mother used to give them pages of the social register to shred. She always wanted to use it as lining for the cage—the idea of her birds shitting on everyone gave her great pleasure—but the book would be used up too fast, and it was better they spend the whole year pecking away at it. I’ll see to it the subscription is renewed,” the daughter said, and then she ushered me out the door. As I was leaving, I asked her, “What are their names?” She looked baffled. “It never occurred to me that they’d have names,” she said. “We always just called them Yellow and Blue.”
Am I the only one worried sick?
He’s on a mission, special ops or something.
If he were killed, we would hear about it.
What if that wasn’t really his name?
Where was he from?
Did he say Florida?
No, you said Florida.
They report the military deaths every day. You can look online.
They don’t report until 24 hours after the next of kin have been notified.
He wasn’t in good shape when we left him.
Grace, is that you?
It is. I’m just home from school.
How did the English test go?
Meh, I got like an 88.
That’s pretty good.
Not at my school. That’s what they call borderline . . . Has anyone heard anything?
No, we were just talking . . .
Question: I just got a new keet. Do I need to keep it in a separate cage from my other one?
Think of it like this: How would you feel if someone moved into your house uninvited, with no warning?
Okay, I’ll keep him in his own place for now.
I hope you guys won’t be mad.
About what?
I have a confession to make. I went to their apartment again. I just couldn’t stand being home alone, and I was craving egg salad.
Do you have a picture of your fat budgie to share? Or are you lacking a wide-angle lens?
My budgie is pudgy, too, a real a chunky monkey.
It was totally weird. I asked Alexander where his sister was, and he said in her room. I went to check on her, and the door was locked. I called to her through the door. “I’m fine,” she said, “just go away.” I should have taken that as a sign.
The world is filled with signs that go unread.
I went into the kitchen with Alexander. “Assume the position,” he said. And so I leaned against the fridge. And then he said, “Spread ’em,” like he was going to frisk me. He leaned against me, really hard, flattening me against the fridge. It all felt a little weirder than usual, rougher, and I was thinking maybe Alexander was on drugs or something. I kind of knew what was happening, but at the same time I didn’t really get it. I could feel him pressing against me and then something happening with the back of my skirt. Then, abruptly, he stopped and told me to go home. As I was riding up in the elevator, I looked over my shoulder. The rear of the elevator is mirrored, and I see this spot, like phlegm, on my skirt.
Seventy-seven years old and never have I heard something so disgusting.
You really need to tell someone.
It’s lewd.
It’s not lewd, it’s assault. You were assaulted. Let’s call it what it is.
Make us a promise—you won’t go back there again?
Tell your mother!
Are you mad at me?
Of course we’re not mad at you.
I wish ArMyRose were here.
We all do.
Do keets go underwater?
Mine dives into his bathtub.
Charlie Bird likes being sprayed by the plant mister.
I have one that sits in the soap dish while I take a bath.
Okay, so I took your advice—I told my mother. First thing she said was, “Where’s the skirt?” Stuffed into the bottom of my hamper. She said we could use the DNA evidence to extract a price from his parents. At first I thought she said “a prize,” and I asked, “Like what?” “Therapy,” she said. She thinks I’m troubled because of the way I described the sandwiches in great detail. She’s worried that I’ve lost my faculties. Can you imagine the humiliation, my mother confronting his parents with my skirt in hand? “There goes your naivete,” she said. I thought she was going to say my virginity. Talk about blaming the victim. And if I question her authority, she reminds me not that she’s my mother but that she was top of her class at law school and editor of the Law Review.
It’s a strange reaction for an educated woman.
You’d think she’d feel guilty for not having protected you.
The anger is her way of dealing with the guilt, which is too painful.
She told me I’m no longer allowed to stay home alone and that she’s going to go into my college fund and hire a babysitter. When she finished, I told her that I’m going to take Yellow and Blue and go live with my father.
I bet that didn’t go over well.
Let’s just say the perfect white cube of an apartment isn’t perfect anymore, so I guess that’s progress. She threw a mug at the wall. It made a deep impression.
I didn’t want to say anything to jinx it—but for the last few days I’ve had the sense something special is about to happen, and voila this morning I’ve got a little keet, fully hatched, looks like a nude alien. It’s the first for my girl, who is on it and ready to be a mom.
Cause for celebration.
Smiley faces all around.
I’m about to be cut off. She’s unplugging me until I come to my senses. Will log on from school. Good night.
Hey, sorry to be MIA. I hit a rough patch, and I’m in Germany of all places.
Loud chorus of hallelujahs.
Answered prayers.
ArMyRose, you’re alive! I was so scared. I have a lot to tell you.
I’m dictating this to someone, so forgiven any errors. I’m near Naturpark Pfälzerwald, the forest and the ruins of medieval castles. Citizens hike the trails, stopping for a glass of the local Gewürztraminer. The earliest traces of human settlement in Landstuhl are from 500 B.C.
You don’t quite sound like yourself.
Something may be lost in the transition.
Does he mean translation?
Yes.
What town are you in?
Landstuhl. 250 miles from here to Dachau.
That doesn’t sound good.
I don’t think it’s him. I think he’s been hacked.
You’re always so negative.
ArMyRose, something happened. I was savaged by Alexander, and then I told my mother about it, and now I’m back to having a babysitter, which isn’t so bad. She’s like two years older than me and better at French, and she brings snacks for both of us.
The young lady was molested.
I don’t think it’s right to tell other people’s stories.
Sometimes when she speaks, it’s as if we need an interpreter. New York is not like the rest of the world.
If I’d been there, GirlyBird, I would have punched his lights out.
I know you would.
Are you all right, soldier?
My mother . . .
Honey, let ArMyRose have some space to tell us what’s going on. We know you’ve been missing him—but give him a moment.
Fine.
My battle buddy’s name was Melvin. He lived long enough to be an organ donor: Someone here in Germany is carrying his heart. I am wearing Melvin’s hat, a knitted cap his mother made that he wore under his helmet. It’s stiff with sweat and blood and smells terrible. I can’t take it off or I will come apart. I need the compression on my head. It’s the only way I can feel.
ArMyRose, things here have been very strange. Word gets around. I think the doormen know—they’re looking at me funny. It makes me self-conscious. And I’m at a standoff with my mother. We’re not speaking, so I can’t even ask her.
GirlyBird, growing up is the work of a lifetime. When your parents named you Grace, they had something in mind—let that be your guide.
They named me after a dog.
Is there anything we can do for you?
The thing about budgie owners is we are all mothers at heart, caretakers of the most innocent.
There’s an old man who comes through every day asking if I want anything—newspapers, books, phone cards. Every day I tell him I want nothing. Regardless, he hands me a chocolate bar. I have 16 chocolate bars in a drawer by the bed. His eyes are a beautiful blue gone cloudy. I think the chocolate is his personal version of community service.
Soldier, are you injured?
We were on a routine clearing mission. I got out to investigate something, and the earth erupted beneath me, like a volcano. I don’t think I ever hit the ground. I was flying through the air, and then the air became a plane and then a blur, almost like being underwater for too long, a kind of fog.
Same. It’s like pea soup here, murky.
I wake up, and a man is standing over me. The man is holding a small wooden house in his hands. “Öffnen die Tür,” he says. Just outside the house, arms outstretched toward a spot where her husband once stood, there is a female figure in a red skirt and a white top. “Öffnen die Tür,” the man says, and then he opens the top of the house and music starts to play. The female figure spins in a circle, dancing by herself. When the song is over, the man closes the top, opens his other hand, and shows me the husband—the missing figure who used to be attached. The figure is wearing lederhosen and brown pants. “Father?” I ask. The man shrugs. I fall asleep again. Is it my father? Is that my house in his hands? I am home running in the woods behind the house, I am jumping over a fence, I am climbing a tree, so high that I can see everything, only it’s not my yard—it’s entirely bombed out, a ghost town. I wake up, and the man with the music box is gone. Was he ever there, or did I dream the whole thing?
My mother told Alexander’s parents about my skirt. Twenty-four hours later, he got shipped off to wilderness therapy in Oregon. That was the prize. It’s pretty funny, because he’s seriously afraid of the dark.
I look down and think am I shorter than before? I don’t even think I was done growing. I fall asleep wondering, do they plant the legs they cut off? Are there limb forests somewhere in Germany?
We’re glitching again.
Awhile back, when I had the dream about riding my bike at twilight, I left out something. I was riding from my best friend’s house toward home so fast, diving into the night. I could hear my mother calling me, her voice cutting through the ringing crickets. When I got to the house, she was crying. She told me my grandfather had been called home.
So weird, every time it’s about to rain, my girls pack a bag. They put all their favorite things in the far corner of the cage and wait.
Hurricane season is upon us: a reminder birds need a go-bag same as people—current photos in case you get separated, wire, pliers, duct tape, travel cage, blanket, food and water, bird leash.
I’d like to see a keet on a leash.
Animals are the first to know when things are getting weird. When I first got here, I used to see all kinds of birds, magpies, laughing doves. I always knew it was a bad sign if we rolled into a place and there were no birds.
I’m sure you know they’re doing excellent work with prosthetics.
Maybe instead of a keet you’ll get one of those wounded-warrior dogs?
There is great solace in the animal kingdom.
While I was sleeping, someone left me a questionnaire. “When you have been in difficult situations in the past, how have you handled them? Describe the activities you were doing before this happened. Which of these activities do you expect to resume?” What I really want to know is how you jump up and run outside when you hear the bells of the ice cream truck.
ArMyRose, does that mean you’re not coming for the bird show?
GirlyBird, my arrival is delayed.