Bird-Friends

Pat, an adult of no specific distinction and Noorindersky, another adult of nondescript characteristics walk uncomfortably close to each other. Step by step they mosey through a beautiful parkette, which is like a park, only smaller with less to offer the general public other than a sample of green space in an otherwise concrete jungle. 

The parkette or pocket park, if you will, is filled with an unnatural amount of birdsong. Noorindersky looks up and around at the noise, wondering if they should be pleased or concerned with the sounds. Pat nibbles on health-inspired nuts, covered with sugary seeds, layered in chocolate infused agave syrup that spikes their blood sugar with every chew. 

“I thought those were for the birds,” remarks Noorindersky.

“You thought wrong,” replies Pat through lip-licking bites. “Want some?” 

Before Noorindersky can reply, (and it looks like a ‘no’) an especially sharp shriek is heard from a hungry bird. Noorindersky glances up abruptly looking for the shrill chirper. Before long, Noorindersky realizes Pat has sat on a wooden bench a few steps prior, leaving Noorindersky to walk solo. Circling back, Noorindersky sits a few inches away from Pat, watching the quick demise of the bag of seed covered chocolaty nuts.  

“I want a memorial plate on this bench,” Pat declares.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“This bench?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” 

“I want a name plate drilled into the centre of the bench, engraved with a nice description,” explains Pat.

“I asked why, not how.”

Pat stuffs more clusters of syrup encrusted nutty seeds into their mouth. Noorindersky waits for Pat to swallow and pick their teeth as they’re bound to do. Leaning back, Noorindersky lifts their hands behind their head, whistling softly and easily.

Noorindersky doesn’t realize at first, but every bird in the mini-park is silent. Noorindersky looks to the right, then the left, then finally look ups. Sitting quickly upright, arms down by their sides, they listen intently. Concern, (or is it fear?) takes form in their features.

Finally a soft tweet-tweet-tweet fills the air and then another and Noorindersky breaths in deeply.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That, silence?”

“Did I hear silence?” There is a slight sarcasm to Pat’s tone. “Is that a trick question?”

“Never mind.” Noorindersky leans once again into the back of the bench. “This park,” they begin but Pat interrupts.

“Parkette.”

“This parkette is…”

“Is what?”

Noorindersky thinks ‘unusual’ then ‘eerie’ but then settles upon, “Stressful.”

“That’s because you’re stressful. You’re projecting your mental state onto the park just like you do at home. How can a park be stressful?” 

“Parkette!” a piercing chirp from the sky corrects. 

Noorindersky looks up alarmed. Pat looks at Noorindersky irritated. 

“Did you hear that?” asks Noorindersky but Pat doesn’t respond, instead seeming bored, peering inside the bag of sweetly crusted coco-nutted seeds. “It wasn’t me.”

Pat sighs, “Let’s promise to be more like Leonard.”

Leonard is their orange domestic long haired cat who naps in every possible position in every possible location of their penthouse condo for almost 20 years. Leonard has successfully napped on the stovetop, on the shoe rack and even manages to nap in the crisper drawer in the fridge, regularly. 

“Leonard doesn’t stress over spilled milk,” says Pat. “Leonard takes it all in stride. Leonard enjoys life’s simple pleasures; naps, crunchy treats and birdwatching.” At this Pat looks up to the sky, tilts their head to the left and smiles. From the right, a well-timed feathery, brownish-black blur swoops down for the bag of crunchy treats, tearing it from Pat’s hand before disappearing upwards. Pat snaps their head to the right, towards Noorindersky accusingly.

“It wasn’t me,” Noorindersky cries. But Pat’s eyes have narrowed and before Noorindersky can explain further, Pat begins.

“Loving fur-face and tender soul who appreciated life’s quiet moments and who, if they could, would nap deeply, on this bench basking in the peaceful song of bird-friends.”

Pat pulls out a tissue and dabs at their eyes which have become moist. Noorindersky’s expression of confusion begins to shift to that of compassion. They place a comforting hand on Pat’s shoulder.

“That’s what I want the bench description to say,” Pat says softly.

Noorindersky nods their head to indicate that they understand, which is a lie.

“Will it all fit? I mean to say, it’s rather long for a bench description.”

“We might need to get more than one gold plate.”

“Gold?”

“Gold-plated.” 

Noorindersky lets out a breath of relief. Expenses have been strained lately.

“Do you think they’ll let us paint the bench orange?” Pat inquires.

“Why would we do that?”

“As a tribute, a representation of their sweet orange-ness.”

“Who’s sweet orange-ness?”

“Leonard’s! Who else?” Pat seems irritated again.

“Leonard?”

Little, short, chirpy chuckles can be heard from the trees. Noorindersky stands quickly, looking upwards, scanning the sky.

“Why, what’s happened to Leonard?”

“You know what happened.” Pat is narrowing their eyes again. “You left the balcony door open.” Noorindersky shakes their head but Pat continues. “You did! And you know Leonard loves the outdoors, the fresh air, the birds!”

The chirpy laughter can be heard again and Noorindersky turns around as if the sound were behind them. Pat is standing now and Noorindersky turns to them so that they’re face to face.

“The least we can do is memorialize Leonard on this bench.”

“The bench is for Leonard?” Noorindersky exclaims.

“Who else?”

“I thought it was for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Why would I need a bench memorial?”

Noorindersky doesn’t know what to say. 

“Why would the description have said ‘fur-face’ if it was for me?” 

Now Noorindersky really doesn’t know what to say. Pat begins to touch their face self-consciously then stops, pointing a stubby finger. 

“You never liked Leonard.”

“That’s not true.”

“Ever since they peed on your shoes.”

“That’s…not true.”

“Ever since they peed on your pillow.”

“That’s…not…true.”

“Ever since they peed on…”

“I did not hate Leonard!”

“But you didn’t love Leonard either, did you?”

Noorindersky thinks about this for moment which is the wrong thing to do because it seems to have indicated to Pat that their theories were correct.

“See!”

“Leonard and I have…had a complicated relationship.” 

“I knew it.”

“But I have, had an appreciation and a deep respect for Leonard that I hope was mutual.”

“Then how could you have done it?”

“Done what?”

“Killed Leonard!”

“I didn’t!”

“How could you have been so careless? The screen door, the balcony, orange fur everywhere.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“If it wasn’t you, then who was it?” Pat turns away from Noorindersky and wipes at a tear.

A tuft of fierce fluffiness attacks Noorindersky from behind, then another dives in from the side. Noorindersky squawks and ducks.

“We’ve got to get out of here.”

Pat turns to see Noorindersky on their knees.

“Then why are you down on your knees? Why are you begging for forgiveness, if you didn’t do it!” Pat plumes.

“That’s not what I’m doing.” 

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m being attacked.”

“Attacked?”

“Yes.”

Pat folds their arms superiorly.

“By God? For your sins, you mean?”

“No, not by God! By the birds!”

Pat stares at Noorindersky for a moment and then looks up and around. The gentlest, most pleasant peeping permeates the atmosphere.

“No.” Noorindersky stands and contemplating whether birds have ears, they whisper, “Don’t believe them. They are the liars. They are the real culprits here.”

“You’ve really lost it Noorindersky. First Leonard, and now you want to blame the birds.”  

And with that, Pat walks away shaking their head. In a few steps they’ll be out of the parkette and back to the urban city atmosphere of their life. Noorindersky begins to follow but stops upon hearing the hysterical chirping from Leonard’s supposed bird-friends. 

“You think it’s funny?” Noorindersky yells to the sky.

The birds chirp-snicker.

“He peed on my playstation! That self-important, pompous purring piece of shit!”

The birds chirp-snickers get steadily louder and louder and the urgent sound of wing flapping can be heard all around. 

It has begun. 

First one bird swoops down hitting Noorindersky in the shoulder.

“Hey!”

Another aims from behind.

“Ow!”

And still another from below, (that one is hard to explain) and Noorindersky takes a hit right in the groin. 

“Ah!” Noorindersky yells out dropping to the ground.

Still the feather-faces don’t let up. More join in until there is a swarm of frenzied fowls charging from all sides. For some reason, Noorindersky yells out for Leonard, more than once, repeatedly in fact. But the birds just laugh and tweet and roar and peck until Noorindersky’s cries blend into their beak-chatter. For the flock of bird-friends are not yet done playing their game.