Gordon

Matters of the heart have always brought out my irrational side, and when it came to Caroline my heart was a post-it note pinned to a bulletin board with no chance of getting free. She was so full of life, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she skipped around the office. She’d encourage herself with motivational phrases under her breath, and she’d laugh on days when everyone else was gloomy. I was smitten.

Which is why on a Tuesday in December when I overheard her talking to her mother on the phone about how she couldn’t find anyone to watch her pet cockatiel while she went home to visit, I wasted no time in hopping over to her cubicle. I explained that I’d happened to overhear, that I held a special fondness for cockatiels and that I’d be thrilled to look after hers, if she’d be willing. I was rewarded with a dimpled grin, her worries melting away at my words.

“That’s so sweet!” she chirped, more musical than any bird. “I don’t know how I can repay you.”

I waved my hand, basking in her gratitude. “Just treat me to a meal sometime.”

She nodded, eager, and my heart soared. “ Could I drop him off this Friday?” she asked, tucking a blonde strand behind her ear. “I’ll only be gone until next Thursday… is that alright?”

“It’s perfect,” I kneaded my thumb behind my back. “Just give me your number and I’ll text you my address.”

I spent my evenings that week cleaning up the clutter in my first-floor apartment. By the time Caroline pulled up to my curb on Friday evening the space was presentable enough, and when I opened the door for her I dare say she was impressed. I led her inside and showed her around, having carefully left a pair of workout weights I’d never used in sight against one wall and cleaned up the kitchen countertop so that it appeared that I only cooked with vegetables and spices. She laughed at a picture I’d hung on the wall of my brother and I when we were children dressed up for Halloween. 

She asked where I would keep Gordon. I showed her a table in my living room that I’d cleared off and covered in newspapers, as I’d seen bird owners do in movies. Then I followed her out to her car where I laid eyes on that fated fowl for the first time.

The cockatiel looked like a bird out of a cartoon, with his butter-colored feathers and rosy blush circles. An absurd tuft sprouted from his head, and there was a smug expression in his beady eye and stubby beak that I didn’t like much. He was my gateway to Caroline though, so I couldn’t begrudge him. I lifted his excessive cage out her backseat and carried him inside, then helped her fetch a bag of seeds from the trunk.

“Again, I can’t thank you enough!” Caroline beamed at me, pinning a note detailing Gordon’s routine to the cage and then surveying the setup. Her cheeks were rosier than Gordon’s from the cold. I assured her again that it was no trouble, and then with a glow in my chest I saw her to the door and wished her safe travels.

I went back in, where I glanced at the lengthy note Caroline had left on Gordon’s cage, then poured him a half-bowl of seed as instructed. He gazed at me, beak ajar. I could see his ugly grey tongue.

“Try not to be more trouble than you’re worth,” I tapped the cage, then went into the kitchen to clear the vegetables off the counter and put the prop weights away. I took down the framed picture of me and my brother, stashing it back in my closet, then went to the pantry and grabbed a bag of potato chips. Feeling better than I had in a long time, I flopped down on the couch, turned on the TV, and munched on my chips.

“Kwikck!” Gordon clucked, interrupting me. I looked over in annoyance and saw that he wasn’t eating his seeds. Instead he had climbed up the side of the cage and was gnawing on one of the bars.

I ignored him. If he wasn’t going to eat his seeds, that was his decision. Before I went to bed I refilled Gordon’s water bowl, changed the newspapers under the cage, and covered him with a blanket so that he could sleep. Then I looked again at the tedious note and saw one final instruction listed at the bottom.

Sing him a song.

Sing? Me? To a bird? I snorted, placing the note on the table. I had my pride, and my limits. Besides, Caroline would never know whether or not I sang to her bird.

I woke up refreshed, appreciating the filtered sunlight glinting through the curtains. Craving pancakes and coffee I stumbled to the kitchen, ready for a day of TV and online shopping. Half asleep, I filled the coffee filter with grounds and went to turn on the TV while the machine worked its magic.

That was when I noticed the note.

Caroline’s note had been shredded, left in tatters as if hacked to pieces by a dull pair of scissors. Or a beak. Gordon’s cage was still shrouded though, the blanket unbothered. Irritated, I flung the veil aside. The cockatiel was perched on an artificial branch, gnawing at a piece of rope. I wrinkled my nose, lowering my face to his level. He ignored me, focused on his meal of twine.

“Did you do this?” I held up a scrap of the ruined note. The pieces were too small, repairing it would be impossible. Gordon continued to ignore me, letting out one of his Kwikck’s and biting the rope. I saw that the latch on his cage was still secured.

But cockatiels were smart. I’d learned that from some brief research. Perhaps, without Caroline’s knowing, Gordon had learned to pick the lock of his prison.

Not a problem that couldn’t be solved. The real issue was that I’d lost the note describing how to care for him.

I got my coffee and sat down on the couch. My first option was to call Caroline. Would she believe what had happened? Or would she assume that I had lost the note and was making excuses? Asking for help on my first day of caring for Gordon would surely make me look irresponsible. Besides, I’d gotten the gist of how to take care of the devious cockatiel. Two meals a day, let him out for an hour of social time, cover his cage at night. All the little details were just the nit-picky obsessions of a bird owner. When Caroline and I were dating I’d suggest we get a dog instead.

First though I needed to make sure the treacherous bird didn’t escape again. I got dressed, downed my coffee, and grabbed my keys and wallet. I drove downtown to the hardware store, where I bought two sizable padlocks that could only be opened using their matching keys. Being a thorough person I checked with the clerk to make sure the padlocks were robust, and she assured me that they could keep a tiger inside its cage.

That evening I took Gordon out and allowed him to sit on my shoulder for an hour while I watched TV. He nibbled at my ear, nearly drawing blood. I reprimanded him, but he stared off into the distance and refused to listen. When I tried to push him away, he flapped his dandelion wings with outrage and cawed in my face. Then he bit my ear again. Then he spun around and whacked his tail feathers against my nose.

After twenty minutes, I was just about through with Gordon.

“Listen here, Gordo,” I seized him from underneath and carried him back to his cage, “You need to learn some respect. Otherwise, I’ll make sure your owner gets rid of you, you hear me?”

Gordon didn’t hear me. He bawked, pounding his wings in a frenzy as I stuffed him in his cage where he gazed at me, smug, knowing he could escape whenever he wanted to. This time I grinned back. Humming, I fetched the bag with the padlocks from the kitchen and hooked them both around the door to his cage, locking him in and dropping the twin keys by the TV, far out of his reach. Then I threw his blanket over him and turned the light off.

I drifted to sleep easily that night, knowing that the cockatiel was secure in his cage.

When I woke up, the curtains were still gloomy shadows against the wall. A sliver of moonlight irritated my eye, and I flung the covers aside. I could hear the TV. My groggy mind struggled to understand. I was sure I’d turned it off. Scratching my stomach, I slid my feet onto the cold floor and tiptoed into the living room.

Sure enough, the TV was on. More odd, it was set to a channel I never watched. A cool British voice narrated a pair of Macaws fluttering about in the Amazon jungle. Perturbed, I knelt down in front of Gordon’s cage. The blanket was still pulled over him, and when I lifted it both padlocks were secure. He raised a dull, sleepy eye, as though asking me what I was bothering him about.

I went to turn off the TV, and happened to glance at the couch. 

An open bag of potato chips was lying on the cushion, and beside them was an unmistakable puddle of bird droppings.

I whirled around, flipping the cover off of Gordon’s cage. He squawked, coming to life and flapping about his cell in a panic, crashing against the bars.

“What is this?!” I growled at him, seizing the cage and pointing an accusing finger at the chips and poop.

“Kwikck!!” shrieked Gordon, chomping on the bars. It struck me then that I was being insane. Here I was in the middle of the night accusing a cockatiel padlocked inside a cage of stealing my potato chips. The obvious explanation was that Gordon had relieved himself earlier in the evening when I’d allowed him to sit on my shoulder. I certainly wouldn’t be letting him out again.

As for the chips, I must’ve eaten them and forgotten.

Cursing myself for acting so irrational, I tossed the blanket back over Gordon’s cage and grabbed soap and towels to clean up the bird poop. Luckily, the excrement came off the couch easily, and then I tossed the half-finished potato chips in the trash and turned off the TV. It was the middle of the night. I couldn’t blame myself for my thought process. Yawning from exhaustion, I clambered back into bed.

I was roused by the sound of someone talking. My eyes snapped open, my pulse rising. It was still dark, the grey curtains formless shadows against the walls. I couldn’t make out the words, but I was certain now: I could hear a voice. I strained my ears. Someone was outside my bedroom, and they were talking. I had a home security system. If someone had broken in, why hadn’t the alarm gone off?

My every motion painfully loud, I slipped out of bed and knelt down on the floor. Carefully, keeping my eyes on the door, I reached under the bed frame and pulled out my toolbox from which I retrieved my crowbar. Whoever was in my apartment thought that I was asleep. I could surprise them, and gain the upper hand.

Conscientious of my creaking toe joints, I placed one foot in front of the next and moved towards the living room. The talking grew louder, a deep, ominous sound that filled my ears and crushed my spirit. Then, just before I got close enough for the words to become clear, the voice ceased abruptly. I stopped, my muscles cramped, my heart racing. I could hear nothing. No voices, no footsteps.

Nothing.

Whoever was in the living room was just like me, standing stock-still and waiting.

The two of us stood there for what felt like an hour, the sound of the vents flicking on and off the only interruption in our stand-off. Then, unable to bear the weight of the fear any longer, I crept as quietly as I could to the keyhole and lowered my face to peek out.

The living room was empty.

I flung open the door and ran into the room. There was nobody there. What was more, nothing had been changed. The TV was off, the couch clean, and the blanket was over Gordon’s cage. I stood there, panting, eyes flitting about the dark space searching for some hidden silhouette, but I found nothing. Had I imagined the voice?

That was when the doorbell rang. I yelped, I’ll admit, swinging the crowbar in an arc in front of my face before I realized what was happening. Evening my breath, I clutched the crowbar tight, glancing behind me with every step as I made my way to the door.

“Who is it?” I called, trying not to sound agitated. I checked the security panel by the door. It was armed, the light blinking. 

“Pizza,” a young voice croaked back. “526 Westerfeld, Apartment B? This is the right spot, yet?”

I opened the door, and must have been quite the sight because the tired pizza boy stumbled back in fright.

“That’s my address,” I panted, “But I didn’t call.”

“You’re not Gordon?”

At that moment I swear that time stood still.

“We got a call from someone named Gordon at this address,” the boy explained, meek. I dropped the crowbar and strode out into the yard, marching up to the pizza boy with clenched fists and bile in my throat.

“Gordon,” I snarled at him, “Is a cockatiel!!”

The pizza boy scampered back to his car, taking his velcro bag with him. I watched him go, then stormed back inside. At once a blaring siren filled my ears, tearing another yell from my lungs. I dropped to the floor, wailing, grasping about for my crowbar. Then I remembered: I’d forgotten to disarm the security system before coming back inside. Scrambling to my feet I returned to the monitor by the door and put in the code, gasping for precious air as the sound turned off.

“Gordon!” I shouted, slamming on the lights in every room as I stormed through my apartment. When I reached his cage I flung the covers off. The padlocks were still in place, and Gordon the cursed cockatiel was rocking back and forth with an innocent look on his face.

What were locks to a being such as Gordon? I had been wrong all along, I realized then, about the nature of our relationship. I’d threatened the pompous cockatiel, thinking I held sway over him and his fate, when it was really the other way around.

“Gordon,” I whispered, pleading. “Gordon, forgive me.”

Fingers shaking from delirium, I fetched the keys to the locks and undid the bindings I’d put on his steel mansion. I made sure he had fresh newspaper underneath him, and then freshened his food and water. Then, knowing this was not enough, I opened his latch and reached my hand in to beckon him.

He was hesitant at first, eyeing my shaking fingers with distrust. But then he hooked cold talons around my joints and allowed me to lift him out. I sat down with him in front of the TV, allowing the videos of macaws to play for the both of us for at least an hour as I scratched his tufted head and humored his biting.

Finally, I sang to him. I wasn’t much of a singer, but I mustered a nursery rhyme from when I was a child, plucking out the notes with my raspy voice. Discordant though I was, Gordon began to bob his feathered scalp and then preen under his wing. At last his beady eyes began to droop, and I brought him back to his abode where I shrouded him carefully in a blanket.

I turned off the TV, and fell asleep there on the couch.

On Thursday, Caroline got back from vacation. She showed up at my apartment with a new hat and an eager grin on her face, the sort that would have melted my heart before. I gave her a small wave in return.

“Should I come inside?” she asked, batting gorgeous eyelashes.

“No need,” I shook my head, stepping back to reveal Gordon and his penthouse already moved into the hallway. While I helped her get the cockatiel and his belongings to her car she asked me a dozen questions about how he’d been, asking if I had any funny stories I wanted to tell.

“He always does the silliest things,” she giggled, scrunching up her nose and stroking his beak through the bars.

“I’ve learned a lot from him,” I assured her, digging my hands into my pockets. It was cold outside, and I didn’t have gloves.

“So,” she flipped back around to me, bright lights shining in her eyes. “I said I’d treat you. Dinner? When are you free?”

I smiled, shaking my head. “Don’t worry about it,” I assured her. “It was enough just to get to spend time with him.”