Bird Man

When I first became aware of a man they called, “The Bird Man,” I decided it would make an interesting, “Person of the Street,” story. I became aware of this “Bird Man,” from a local tavern owner, who told me about the encounter he had had with the man. I knew I had to meet him. Apparently, he spends his days telling stories to the ravens in the park. He claimed people had witnessed as many as two hundred gathered dutifully about the benched man, listening intently to his tales.

I don’t actually work for the local newspaper. It is a shoppers guide type paper, but it gives me an excuse to do research for my short story collection, and being that the paper is what it is, no one basically asks if I’m an actual reporter or not. Never crosses their minds I might be pretending, as how many pretend reporters have you ever run into.

I followed the directions of the tavern owner, to a small park that adjoined a local church and cemetery. The cemetery and park were separated by only a narrow strip of what appeared to be, dead grass. After further investigation I determined the dying grass was the result of dog owners in the area bringing their dogs to this place, for no doubt, visitation purposes. 

One particular grave stone appeared to keep watch over the strip frequented by the neighborhood canines. There was a bench next to it, and upon that bench sat a man who appeared to be either elderly, or had been experiencing a difficult life. His coat was ragged, his bowler type hat sat arrogantly perched on his head, tufts of blue gray hair sticking out from under, and he appeared to be talking to a small gathering of crows. 

I could not understand what he was saying as the language he was using sounded foreign, at least to my ears. The ravens however seemed to understand; their heads bobbing in a coordinated fashion that reminded me of a chorus line production of, The Music Man. I wasn’t sure at first if I should approach the man and his ensemble, or wait until he had ceased speaking. As I was in the middle of the debate with myself about the correct manner in which to proceed, he stopped speaking. Some of the birds waddled off towards the cemetery portion of the area, and he remained seated, with a broad smile on his face, looking like he didn't have a care in the world.

I approached cautiously, not wanting to frighten him, or give him the impression I meant him any harm. He smiled at me as I approached and opened his long coat exposing the handle of a pistol tucked into an ammunition belt. “Can’t be too careful,” he said, placing the coat back over the gun. I have to admit I was taken aback by the revelation, but then it was the big bad city, and one must be prepared for any circumstance.

I introduced myself, he remained smiling but saying nothing. Every once in a while, he’d pat the handle of his revolver, no doubt reassuring it, I was no threat. I thought it best to wait to begin the interview until his story telling, if that’s what it was, had concluded. 

I did not get the distinct impression from the ravens that they were listening to a story. It was more like they were receiving instructions from a mob boss who ran a numbers racket from the park. But being reporting is my business, I thought I’d stick with the usual routine. “What sir might your name be?” He said nothing, so I pressed on, like I trained myself to do. 

“A friend of mine told me people call you the, Bird Man. I assume it is because of the birds that collect about you when you are speaking. Is that why you are called the Bird Man, or is there another less obvious reason?”

He continued to grin like he had no choice. A tight-lipped grin that you might find on a Sumo wrestler, or totem pole. I couldn’t make out actually if he wearing a mask, or his complexion was just pasty looking. His eyebrows too, looking closer, I could see they had been like painted on. This person with albino characteristics and clown like features, I wasn’t sure was a story teller as pre supposed, but possibly a bank robber, or someone in a similar line of work.

I have to admit I was beginning to worry, mostly about my own safety. I had not been shot in the line of duty in almost two years, and in the part of town I found inspiration, I knew my luck would eventually run out, but hopefully not on this day; I had a deadline to meet.

I stood slowly and began to retreat to a safe distance, when he grabbed my sleeve and yelled, “where you think you are going?” I didn’t have an immediate answer, so said nothing. “You’d best reseat yourself and I’ll tell you a story for your paper.” 

How he knew I was from the paper, I could only guess was from the name tag I wore around my neck, in hopes that if I should be injured or killed, they would know who to contact as I have no next of kin.

“Did I ever tell you about the day the crows chased Rudolph DeAngelo, the now deceased mayor of Manville Georgia, from the Capitol building as he was preparing to sign into a law a bill forbidding any air-is-tow-crats, from running for office? I suppose not. Haven’t known you that long yet.”

It was the strangest thing; I could hear what sounded like a beating heart coming from somewhere. It was making the ground kind of tingle like it was alive. I wrote it off, thinking it was just the noise from the hundreds of little bird feet tapping on the dead grass.

I was beginning to wonder if I should take my chances and make a run for it. Everybody knows Manville Georgia, is in Tennessee. I figured, being his eyes seemed more or less painted on, he’d have a hard time hitting me with that old looking revolver of his, and I would have a much better chance of surviving than if he decided to shoot me right next to him, cause I didn’t like his story.

I find at times like these, that praying is the first thing that comes to mind, but the last thing I’d rely on. I’ve seen too much praying and not enough running, in my time. I’ve written about it in my stories, but nobody seems to pay much attention. They still start praying first thing, and they usually end up paying the price. And as I’m preparing to make my break, he slips his coat back so I can see the gun handle, and stretches his leg out in front of me, just like he was reading my mind.

“You see that rock over there,” he says pointing towards this stone with no writing on it. What could I say.

“Sure, I see it. Someone you know?”

“Not yet,” he says.

I have to tell you I was getting more nervous by the minute. I was beginning to think this guy escaped from a psyche ward someplace and that tavern owner, Abner Haines, was going to get a good talking to, if I survived.

“That blank piece of stone over there could be you. The one next to it, is me,” he says smiling still. I didn’t know what to say. I’d never met a dead man before. 

“They put me there twenty-five years ago cause I couldn’t come up with the money to have myself buried proper like. What would you have done?”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“You see anyone here laughing?”

He had a point. I was beginning to think I needed a different line of fabrication. I don’t believe much in ghosts, but this guy was doing a fine job of changing my mind. I wanted to leave, felt If I didn’t leave, I was never going to.

“I ever tell you about this newspaper fella I met, here in the park. He got killed by a stranger who they said done it just to watch him die. Somebody made a song up about it to.” Well I hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I had no idea what he was thinking,

Then, as I was figuring I’d have to make a break for it, the birds come back. He starts preaching to them like he was a Reverend, and they were all in church waiting on the word. I got to studying the birds and they didn’t look like real birds any longer. I began to see each one had a human kind of face, if you looked real careful. It dawned on me these was souls, escaped souls I was looking at.

“Glory Halleluiah,” I says to him. And he says, “now you’re getting the hang of it. I wasn’t sure you was ever going to get over being you, and come out of there.”

I looked around and I was still sitting on the bench next to him, but now I felt like I wearing feathers, and my shoes was gone. He just kept smiling like he’d made a new best friend. 

“Am I dead?” I had to know.

“Let’s put it this way,” he says. “Now you are free to fly anywhere your little heart wants to go. But stick around if you can, this afternoon is story time. We all get up and tell our life stories to each other, so we don’t feel so bad about not striking it rich, or becoming a standup comic.”

“Nice of you to invite me,” I tell him, but he pretends not to hear me. “I got places to be, people to meet.” He looks at me like he’s disappointed. 

“Did I ever tell you the story about this fella I met who kept seeing people, and thinking they was birds?”