Free To Fly

Reg blotted his sun ravaged forehead with a crusty, crinkled napkin he retrieved from his pants pocket. He let out a throaty sigh, his breath meeting the heavy, hot July air, tasting of engine fuel and sausages sizzling from the nearby hot dog vendor.

Plunging the dampened napkin back into his pocket with a clammy, shaky hand, he zig-zagged his way through a plight of other humans like him, couples chattering with shopping bags swaying in their hands, their mouths open in laughter, as if to swallow him. An old man trudging toward him, his wooden cane supporting his gait, wielding from side to side like a hockey player ready to strike that puck when the time was right. Reg would be his puck. He saved himself from the old man and the cane, swerving like a domino into a five-some of boisterous teenagers. It was the teenagers Reg dreaded the most. They and children.

He braced himself for the challenge, tucked his chin into the sweat-soaked Tom Petty 2017 Tour concert t-shirt he wore. He never did see that concert. He bought it from a vendor selling them down at the lakeshore and then bragged to his mother how wonderful the concert was.

He tried to dodge through the five-some until a cackle of laughter snapped his ears, and his frenzied eyes rose to meet the eyes of a lad about fifteen, a lad with black hair and purple streaks.

"Frog man!" the boy shrieked, followed by a belly laugh.

The other boys orchestrated with hoots and howls.

"Hey, don't he look like Freddy or Jason from Friday the 13th?" a taller boy chimed.

"Is it Halloween?" the third smaller boy piped, as if to seek the award of approval from his friends.

Sweat draped Reg's face now, dripping from the burrow in his eyebrows and streaming down a crease from his eyes to his flat nose. He tasted the salt in the permanent scar from his top lip, or at least what was left of it.

"He's crying!" the fourth boy with a shaven head poked.

"Get away!" the victim in Reg's soul unleashed, as he lunged through the five-some like a tsunami on solid ground.

The voices and the laughter were only echoes in his mind now, though his ears still stinging, as the door to complex 5301 closed on his back like a sweet slap. The slap that football players did to their team players when they got a touch down.

The engine smells and sausage scents, and traffic grumbling all behind him now. And the humans too.

The elevator was ready and stared at him with a bright red "G". Ground, or ready to Go.

Instead, the stairs to the third floor were just as ready as was he.

"Mr. Gulthry," a light female voice swathed his aching ears.

Except for the the bank teller that he met with today to withdraw forty three dollars and some cents he had left in his bank account, no one called him mister. Or anything at all. Except Frog Man.

He had his key ready to ply the lock on his apartment door 304 when the elderly lady peeked out from the sliver opening in her door, two doors along from his.

He tried to not to show his annoyance, even as the sweat caked his Tom Petty shirt to his back now. But her voice was like a cool glass of water on parched lips, as were his now.

"Would you mind looking at my faucet for me? The darn thing keeps dripping like a siphon," the grey haired woman asked.

"All done, Mrs. Cannon," Reg announced sheepishly. "Just needed tightened."

He placed the set of pliers on her counter sink, lined with flowery painted canisters of sugar, flour and spices.

"Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Gulthry," Mrs. Cannon voiced with pleasant and honest appreciation, as she clapped her hands together.

"Thank you...thank you..." a strange echo mocked from another room.

Reg must have appeared perplexed, even with his scarred frog face, for Mrs. Cannon shooed her hand and a giggled a fairy giggle.

"Don't mind him, " she said with a giggle still purring from her voice. "That's Lovey, he is my budgie," she explained.

Reg forced a smile as knot tied in his groin.

"Do you want to meet Lovey?" Mrs. Cannon shuffled in her pink slippers, waving a hand to lead him from her quaint kitchen.

"N...No..." Reg stuttered. "I...I've got to go, now."

Another human with a ploy to hurt him. Attack him. He turned for the safety of the door.

"Oh, but Lovey won't hurt you," she exclaimed in a soft but demanding manner.

"Oh but they do!" Reg retorted, the victim of his soul gushed. "I was attacked by seagulls when I was a boy! I was feeding them bread Momma gave me to feed them and they...they came at me...they all attacked me...my face!"

At that, Mrs. Cannon's smile faded, and she cocked her head with empathy. She clutched her worn hands together to her chest. Her pale blue eyes filtered his own cold eyes that had seen less than empathy in his years. He blinked. He tried never to meet another human eyes again.

He fumbled for the door handle that was cool in his perspiring hand.

Before she could utter 'sorry', the door closed behind him.

Day after day. July bid its farewell, August rushed in. Reg stayed in the safety of the four walls of his apartment, like a caged bird.

Click-click-click-click.

Reg awoke from a shallow sleep, muddied by deep dreams. The sound was relentless and unsteady, like a tap dancer learning her first steps.

He slid off the torn, tartan grey couch where he slept most nights to the comfort of the late night western movies accompanying his residence.

He followed the sound. Click-click-click.

Closer and closer. Toward the balcony door. The sound was pronounced now.

Curiously, he turned the door handle and the door summoned his cautious urgency.

"Thank you...thank you..."

Reg reeled, felt the inner victim in his soul scream, and before he could shut the door, the green and yellow vision fluttered and grazed his cheek, inviting itself into his own cage and finally perching on top of the old television console.

Thank you...thank you," the budgie quirked again, bobbing his yellow head fervently and then whistling and chirping.

"Love ya...love ya..." the budgie swayed his head from side to side, up and down, unaware of Reg's inner victim's terror.

Shielding his head with his arm, like an armor, he rushed past the talkative bird and out of his own cage.

Entangled in his old, worn pajamas, he grumbled as his knuckles rapped on apartment 306.

Silence.

He rapped again, this time with fervor.

"Are you looking for Mrs. Cannon?" a male voice breathed over his shoulder.

Reg did not care he was still dressed in his pajamas. In fact, he didn't care he looked like Frog Man now.

"I...I am!" Reg stammered, almost spitting into the young man's sullen face.

"She passed away last week," the young man quietly said. "I am her son. We...my wife and I, cannot find her bird. Mom never kept him in a cage, she said birds should never be caged. We think...we think she left her balcony door open and he got out."

Reg could not remember what he told the young man, exactly, the inner victim in his soul wept. He only remembered that the young man was relieved that Lovey was indeed okay, and the man shook his hand...yes...shook the hand of the Frog Man.

Reg turned the lock on the balcony door. Locked.

He stopped at the wall mirror above his tattered sofa. The frog man smiled at him. He smiled back. The razor sharp scars that lined his face, the top lid that hung over his left eye, and the upper lip that barely existed except for a small line of tissue. For the first time frog man could smile in the mirror.

"Love ya, love ya," the small voice sang, then whistled that sexy whistle boys give to girls.

Reg surrendered his finger as Lovely flew from his spot on the television console and hooked his soft feet around it.

"Ditto," Reg said.

"Ditto, ditto," Lovey bobbed his yellow head.