“Hammerhead! Hammerhead!”
I looked around in all directions, but for the life of me had no idea who had announced my entry into the bird café. The small space was filled with a handful of tables and chairs, as well as several comfy-looking loungers and sofas. Colourful tapestries, paintings, and area rugs—all depicting tasteful and beautiful avifauna artwork—were hung around the café in-between various wooden poles, each with thin horizontal dowells jutting out with dozens of brightly-coloured birds perched upon them. A blue jay and a budgie frolicked together in a bird bath near a small display case that featured pastries and baked goods, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at a few of the items listed on the chalkboard above the counter, which included Cuckoo Cold Brewed Coffee, Osprey-ssos, Tropical Toucan Tea, and Macaw-iattos. I had to give it to Sykes, the man was nothing if not consistent with his trademark peculiar panache.
“Hammerhead! Hammerhead!”
There it was again.
I scanned my surroundings, and with the non-stop chirping, tweeting, and trilling, it felt like I was walking across the wooden foot bridge in the aviary at the Vancouver Aquarium.
It took a few moments, but I located the source speaking my squared circle nickname—a small, white-faced, black-beaked grey parrot. However, unlike all of the other birds in the Avion Café, this particular winged warbler wasn’t resting atop a perch. Instead, the feathered chatterbox had its talons partially wrapped around one of Buffalo’s beefy extended forearms.
The giant of a man sat with his back to me at a table in the rear of the café. He kept his upper arm elevated for the parrot to give it a full view of its surroundings, while Buffalo himself sat slouched forward with his head hanging. I approached them, then pulled back a chair, which dragged loudly across the floor.
SQUAWK!
“Hammerhead! Hammerhead!”
“I taught him your name,” said Buffalo, with his leviathan-like lats still facing me. “He likes to say it.”
“I can see that,” I replied, before taking a seat.
“Mister Sykes talked to me through the curtain. He said if I stopped smashing that the ‘Hammerhead’ come visit.”
“He did, eh?”
“Yep. I stopped smashing. For now.”
“That’s good, Buffalo. That way no one can get hurt.”
“I no hurt anyone. I’m just so angry about cousin.”
“I know.”
“But now … now I’m feeling the sad.”
I didn’t know how to respond. A few moments went by before Buffalo’s head started bobbing up and down, and while they were far from quiet, I imagined for a guy his size they were his equivalent of soft cries.
“I feel the sad so bad, Mister ‘Hammerhead.’”
I let him shed some more tears for a while, saying nothing. Even the parrot seemed a bit unnerved by his huge pal’s emotional outburst, scuttling up and down his arm a couple times before flapping its wings once and shaking its head. When the time felt right, I spoke.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Buffalo nodded and sniffed, wiping his nose on his other massive arm. The table shook as his feet thumped on the ground and he turned around to face me. The goliath’s nose was red, his cheeks were streaked with tears, and his eyes were puffy from crying. When I realized he couldn’t yet bring himself to look at me, I reached across the table and gently patted his shoulder. Buffalo nodded, then forced a smile and lifted his head.
“Thank you, Mister ‘Hammerhead.’”
“You can call me Jed.”
“Does that mean we can be friends?”
“Sure, Buffalo. We can be friends.”
The behemoth nodded and although it was only for a moment, the smallest of smiles appeared on his face.
“Here,” I said, offering the bag of birdseed to Buffalo.
He ripped open the bag effortlessly with his thumb and index finger.
“We feed him together,” declared Buffalo.
I nodded and we spent the next couple minutes pouring handfuls of birdseed onto our palms and taking turns feeding the parrot, who seemed delighted and moved back and forth between us. A couple of times the bird’s black beak nipped both my hand and Buffalo’s, but while I winced in momentary pain, Buffalo only giggled.
“Silly bird,” he said. “That tickles.”
If that tickled the thick hide of the man, then I sure as hell was glad we were having a calm conversation and sharing a quiet moment with a friendly bird as opposed to any alternative measures that might have been required to settle him down and ensure his one-man riot ceased.
“Mister ‘Hamm—’ … I mean, Mister Jed?”
“Yes, Buffalo?”
“I gots so angry I stills don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“How cousin died.”
I looked up at Buffalo and am not exactly sure what it was that made me say what I did next. Maybe it was that his marble-sized doe eyes were filled with more innocence than a deer in the forest. Or perhaps it was his oversized blue denim overalls and how they made him look like a ten-foot toddler. Hell, maybe it was the fact that one might just be more willing to trust a person who has a friendly parrot nestled on his arm. All I know was that in that moment, amidst more birds than I could count, and after the longest day of my life, I simply didn’t have the heart to lie to the hulking, heartbroken, and now seemingly harmless man.
“I think it may have been my fault.”