You and Me, Bird

When you impulsively purchase the parakeet—a green-cheeked conure—you gotta stop using non-stick cookware. All well and good. You survive on heart-healthy Cheerios, Wendy’s, and other such vittles that don’t require Teflon.

Though it must be said, the warning in Petco’s Conure Care Sheet against non-stick stuff rings the doorbell of paranoia your parents programmed in you. An A-Z of health-related phobias that Dad continues vaccinating in the form of biweekly emails with subjects such as: Moscow Mule Mugs Causing Copper Poisoning, F is for Factory Farms, and Cancer-Causing Compound Found Where You Live.

The conure’s name is Ducky. You don’t know why you bought him. It has something to do with the way your anhedonia lifted when you saw his tiny bird body dangling from a big orb.

Hiii, you creepy little fucker, you cooed at him.

At this, Ducky hopped off the orb and onto a long horizontal bar. You stared at each other. The way he did that, it kind of melted your heart. Which was different. You’re accustomed to things breaking your heart. But melting? Maybe melted heart would ooze into your bloodstream and you could be an upbeat idiot, rather than the type of person who answers the non-question how are you? by saying I’m grate.

You’re pulverized, but nobody asks you to spell it out. What they hear is I’m doing great, thanks, and everybody moves on accordingly. You’re all for honesty, but folks ought to avoid the shame of answering a surface question with sincerity.

What really sealed the deal was the declaration DUCKY LOVES BATHS!! scrawled in purple marker on the glass of his cage. Reading that surfaced these forgotten memories. Like how your grandma used to let you stop up the bathroom sink full of water so your Playmobil people could have a day at the pool.

The sink is a bacterial breeding ground, Dad declared, putting an end to play.

Ducky will not be a bathless bird, you vow to yourself. He is slung over your shoulder in his cute You & Me Bird Carrier, scored on sale for $19.99. He himself was $350, not including cage, lining, disco ball toy, feed, assorted treats—shit, who’s counting? What are savings for if you can’t get yourself an occasional creature?

Cat food. You forgot cat food. The cocksucking cat food was the entire purpose of stopping at the Petco. And, well—since we’re back in reality—you hadn’t factored your husband’s existence into the equation of acquiring a green-cheeked conure. Another fight and the two of you ought to open up a new kind of dojo: Mixed Marital Arts. Combat practices inspired by the ancient physical and spiritual aspects of the martial arts, but for married suckers.

“What do you think about that? Mixed Marital Arts?” you ask Ducky, as you adjust the passenger seat heat so your tropical parrot can be more comfortable. “It is the age of the entrepreneur.”

More like entre-manure, the voice in your head always mockingly thinks at networking events full of piddling people with stupid ideas for startups. These agonizing affairs never fail to raise scorn within you. A scorn so sharp it is incandescent and can be measured in luminous intensity, like a light bulb. Hot to the touch, and God, you get so touchy.

Yet you manage to act normal. Nod, nod, nodding along. Buzzwords falling out your mouth like bees in the horror movie Candyman. What a terror. When was the last time anybody spearheaded anything in an air-conditioned office?

“You know, Ducky, there are people so business-brained they want to transcend their human husks and become corporations. That is their final form: corporation.”

You check if the conure is with you, but can’t see him. The You & Me bird carrier has an opaque plastic cover designed to reduce stress and anxiety for your on-the-go, toothless, beaked-jaw friend.

What are savings for if you can’t get yourself an occasional creature?

“At least sometimes they have open bars at these networking hells . . . ” you let your voice evaporate before babbling the unspeakable fact that corporate functions bring out a dastardly desire to detonate a bomb.

Not a bomb, not a bomb. You’re nonviolent! Nauseated by your own thoughts, you rationalize. The idea of a bomb came to you because it is pressurized and so are you in these situations . . . In rooms packed with people who believe skills add to their value.

Oh, there it is, value. Isn’t that what has got the whole globe ablaze. It’s a hard time to coexist, your mom once said to a jar of turmeric powder that she couldn’t seem to squeeze into her overly crammed spice rack. Your mother says all these off-the-cuff things. It’s hard for the spices to coexist and harder for the humans. Even a pacifist-type can be a container for destruction under just the right wrong circumstance. All our souls have swine flu.

Despite the rationalization, you’re sickened with how the idea of a bomb snuck in so seamlessly. The world doesn’t need any more added grief in the atmosphere, not even in thought form.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m only pretending to be good, you know what I mean, Ducky?” you ask.

Out of your peripheral vision, you catch him peering at you upside down between grayish twiggy talons. His hokey-pokey maneuver is laughable, but you’re made abruptly paranoid by his gaze. Perhaps malaise is visible to his dense retina receptors. Malaise might appear as a cloudy jelly-like substance orbiting your head. Birds can “see” the earth’s magnetic fields, so why not malaise?

He remains looking, unblinking, perceiving an offness wafting from your pores. What he’s picking up on must be the same adverse aura that people at conferences clearly sense. Once again today, nobody approached you to chat. The conversations you initiated stuck to a depressing script.

Step one: Introduce yourself by name.

Step two: Ask them so, what do you do?

Step three: Promptly forget each other’s names and remember one another only by your jobs.

Attending another convention was a mistake. You’ve been known to make sudden moves when flustered. Maddeningly trapped in yourself, you don’t know how to fix any of your leaking flaws and WHAM; you spontaneously do something—anything—to feel less stuck.

So here it is. Your near-life experiences have coalesced in this momentary identity. You are a woman speeding twenty miles over the limit on I-10 with a caged green-cheeked conure chirping by her side. And honestly? You’re ready to see your husband’s face when you tell him that you’ve plunged your shit-clogged-life by getting this bird. The impulsive act proved that maybe you have an ounce of control. You can make changes, starting with throwing away that toxic Teflon cookware.

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