I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to them. Picasso walked up and bit me on the ankle.
That did it. I took the cage outside. Picasso followed me. 10,000 flies rose straight up into the air. I put the cage on the ground, opened the cage door and sat on the steps.
Both birds looked at that cage door. They couldn’t understand it and they could. I could feel their tiny minds trying to function. They had their food and water right there, but what was that open space?
The green one with the yellow breast went first. He leaped down to the opening from his rung. He sat gripping the wire. He looked around at the flies. He stood there 15 seconds, trying to decide. Then something clicked in his little head. Or her little head. He didn’t fly. He shot straight up into the sky. Up, up, up, up. Straight up! Straight as an arrow! Picasso and I sat there and watched. The damn thing was gone.
Then it was the red one with the green breast’s turn.
The red one was much more hesitant. He walked around in the bottom of the cage, nervously. It was a hell of a decision. Humans, birds, everything has to make these decisions. It was a hard game.
So old red walked around thinking it over. Yellow sunlight. Buzzing flies. Man and dog looking on. All that sky, all that sky.
It was too much. Old red leaped to the wire. 3 seconds.
ZOOP!
The bird was gone.
Picasso and I picked up the empty cage and walked back into the house.
I had a good sleep for the first time in weeks. I even forgot to set the alarm. I was riding a white horse down Broadway, New York City. I had just been elected mayor. I had this big hard-on, and then somebody threw a hunk of mud at me… and Joyce shook me.
“What happened to the birds?”
“Damn the birds! I am the mayor of New York I”
“I asked you about the birds! All I see is an empty cage!”
“Birds? Birds? What birds?”
“Wake up, damn you!”
“Hard day at the office dear? You seem snappish.”
“Where ARE the BIRDS?”
“You said to put them out if they kept me awake.”
“I meant to put them in the back porch or outside, you fool!”
“Fool?”
“Yes, you fool! Do you mean to say you let those birds out of the cage? Do you mean to say you really let them out of the cage?”
“Well, all I can say is, they are not locked in the bathroom, they are not in the cupboard.”
“They’ll starve out there!”
“They can catch worms, eat berries, all that stuff.”
“They can’t, they can’t. They don’t know how! They’ll die!”
“Let ’em learn or let ’em die,” I said, and then I turned slowly over and went back to sleep. Vaguely, I could hear her cooking her dinner, dropping lids and spoons on the floor, cursing. But Picasso was on the bed with me, Picasso was safe from her sharp shoes. I put my hand out and he licked it and then I slept.
That is, I did for a while. Next thing I knew I was being fondled. I looked up and she was staring into my eyes like a madwoman. She was naked, her breasts dangling in my eyes. Her hair tickling my nostrils. I thought of her millions, picked her up, flipped her on her back and stuck it in.
22
She wasn’t really a cop, she was a clerk-cop. And she started coming in and telling me about a guy who wore a purple stick pin and was a “real gentleman.”
“Oh, he’s so kind!”
I heard all about him each night.
“Well,” I’d ask, “how was old Purple Stickpin tonight?”
“Oh,” she said, “you know what happened?”
“No, babe, that’s why I’m asking.”
“Oh, he’s SUCH a gentleman!”
“All right. All right. What happened?”
“You know, he has suffered so much!”
“Of course.”
“His wife died, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Don’t be so flip. I’m telling you, his wife died and it cost him 15 thousand dollars in medical and burial bills.”
“All right. So?”
“I was walking down the hall. He was coming the other way. We met. He looked at me, and with this Turkish accent he said, ‘Ah, you are so beautiful!’ And you know what he did?”
“No, babe, tell me. Tell me quick.”
“He kissed me on the forehead, lightly, ever so lightly. And then he walked on.”
“I can tell you something about him, babe. He’s seen too many movies.”
“How did you know?”
“Whatchamean?”
“He owns a drive-in theatre. He operates it after work each night.”
“That figures,” I said.
“But he’s such a gentleman!” she said.
“Look, babe, I don’t want to hurt you, but—”
“But what?”
“Look, you’re small-town. I’ve had over 50 jobs, maybe a hundred. I’ve never stayed anywhere long. What I am trying to say is, there is a certain game played in offices all over America. The people are bored, they don’t know what to do, so they play the office-romance game. Most of the time it means nothing but the passing of time. Sometimes they do manage to work off a screw or two on the side. But even then, it is just an offhand past-time, like bowling or t.v. or a New Year’s eye party. You’ve got to understand that it doesn’t mean anything and then you won’t get hurt. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I think that Mr. Partisian is sincere.”
“You’re going to get stuck with that pin, babe, don’t forget I told you. Watch those slicks. They are as phony as a lead dime.”
“He’s not phony. He’s a gentleman. He’s a real gentleman. I wish you were a gentleman.” I gave it up. I sat on the couch and took my scheme sheet and tried to memorize Babcock Boulevard. Babcock broke: 14, 39, 51, 62. What the hell? Couldn’t I remember that?
23
I finally, got a day off, and you know what I did? I got up early before Joyce got back in and I went down to the market to do a little shopping, and maybe I was crazy. I walked through the market and instead of getting a nice red steak or even a bit of frying chicken, you know what I did? I hit snake-eyes and walked over to the Oriental section and began filling my basket full of octopi, sea-spiders, snails, seaweed and so forth. The clerk gave me a strange look and began ringing it up.
When Joyce came home that night, I had it all on the table, ready. Cooked seaweed mixed with a dash of sea-spider, and piles of little golden, fried-in-butter snails.
I took her into the kitchen and showed her the stuff on the table. “I’ve cooked this in your honor,” I said, “in dedication of our love.”
“What the hell’s that shit?” she asked.
“Snails.”
“Snails?”
“Yes, don’t you realize that for many centuries Orientals have thrived upon this and the like? Let us honor them and honor ourselves. It’s fried in butter.”
Joyce came in and sat down.
I started snapping snails into my mouth.
“God damn, they are good, baby! TRY ONE!”
Joyce reached down and forked one into her mouth while looking at the others on her plate.
I jammed in a big mouthful of delicious seaweed.
“Good, huh, baby?”
She chewed the snail in her mouth.
“Fried in golden butter!”
I picked up a few with my hand, tossed them into my mouth.
“The centuries are on our side, babe. We can’t go wrong!”
She finally swallowed hers. Then examined the others on her plate.
“They all have tiny little assholes! It’s horrible! Horrible!”