Free Bird

By Gary Campanella

When my wife says, I’ll be gone four days, make sure you keep the bird alive, I understand. Pets are important.

The bird is a yellow cockatiel. It has a cage, but we never cage it in.

We start out fine, the bird and me. Everyone is happy. I watch television late into the evening, later than usual. I watch sports and movies without negotiation. The bird watches with me, its signature crest flying high. Day three is warm, and I open the back door, letting air flow through the house. I start laundry and listen to the bird chirp from its wooden perch by the window.

Then I hear its wings flap. I hear it fly through the kitchen and into the living room and back where I fold the laundry. It flies straight out the door. I chase after and reach the door in time to see it circle the yard once, flapping awkwardly at first, then fly gracefully up and away, like a wild bird, toward the trees behind our house. It was a little bit beautiful.

I look and look but the bird is gone, and close the door too late. 

I return to the laundry but can’t fold or focus, and so I walk the neighborhood, looking for our pet. I climb steps to the front door of the house that I think is the right distance away and knock. A woman answers. I’m sorry to bother you but my bird just flew away, and my kids will be heartbroken. I don’t have kids, and I’m not sure why I add that part. She leads me through a spotless house to a nice backyard with apple trees. I stare into the trees but see no yellow bird. I thank her and leave my information in case she sees a yellow bird later in her trees.

I try the next few houses too. No luck. 

Then I give up. I hang my head, walk home, and call my wife in shame.

Well, the bird is gone.

It died?

No. The back door was open, and it flew out the door.

Really?

It never even looked back.

Did you look for it?

The laundry continues. Later the doorbell rings. I ignore it at first, probably Amazon, but then look outside in time to see an old man with an oversize helmet getting onto a mini-scooter. I call and he turns, revealing a long beard with no mustache.

Can I help you?

Did you lose a bird?

I did.

It’s in my yard.

The guy rolls away slowly, and I walk fast, following him to the house I was at before.

The guy points to the top of an apple tree. It’s up there.

I don’t see it. Maybe it flew away.

No. It’s still there. See it? It’s at the top.

I look harder, crane my neck, but still can’t see the bird. The old guy acts like I’m too dumb to see a bird in a tree. Right there. It’s right there.

I see it at last, twenty-five feet off the ground, enjoying a view.

The old guy produces a long pole with a small basket at the end. Try this.

What is it?

The guy sighs. You use it to pick apples from trees. That’s an apple tree next to you.

So it is.

I take the pole and reach into the tree. I have no strategy. I stretch the pole as far as I can, stand on my toes, and move closer. It doesn’t matter. The pole isn’t long enough.

The old man is hovering. I’ve lived in this neighborhood for forty years, since right after I got married, right after I got back from Vietnam. The neighborhood was totally different then. No Vietnamese for one thing. Don’t get me wrong. I love that there are so many Vietnamese here now.

I keep trying to catch the cockatiel with an apple picker. My efforts devolve into smacking the branch, hoping it will fly down. Each time the bird steps lightly away.

The old man keeps talking. You know, you’re lucky I’m here at all today. I spend my Saturdays at the Y, but they just told me I can’t go back there because someone said I was staring at women.

What?

I know. They accused me of being a pervert.

My attempts to bat the bird from the tree grow more exaggerated, but it’s not coming down. I surrender. I lean the pole against the house, and start to leave when I see a garden hose coiled on a spool attached to the house. I say for no clear reason, Can I use your hose?

The old man frowns.

I think if I get her wet she’ll freak out and fly, but she won’t be able to fly with wet wings.

The old man looks up at the tree and tugs at the bottom of his beard. That just might work.

I grab the hose and aim at the bird. I hit it with a stream of cold water. The bird tries to fly but flutters to the ground like a clumsy chicken.

You got him!

Back at the house, I place the wet yellow bird carefully on its perch. I close all the windows and turn up the heat.

I leave the room, leaving the bird alone to reflect on its few hours of being a free bird. I call my wife.

I got the bird!

You did? How did that happen?

No idea. This guy whose backyard I searched before came and got me. I squirted the bird with a hose, and it fell out of the tree and I grabbed it.

You squirted it with a hose? What made you think of that?

No idea.

I’m so happy.  I was so sad, and now I’m so happy.  So whose house did you say it was at?

No idea. I haven’t seen him before. He’s an old guy rocking this long grey beard with no mustache.  He drives a little scooter.

Oh, that guy. I know him. I’ve seen him at the Y.

Gary Campanella writes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His work has appeared in print and online publications. He holds a BA in English from Ripon College and completed MA work at the University of Massachusetts and Emerson College.  He has attended Bread Loaf and Napa Valley Writer’s Workshops.  He lives and works in Los Angeles. 

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Why we chose this piece: We really enjoyed the dry, absurdist voice in this story. Gary’s characterization of the neighbor leaps off the page with his dialogue alone. We like that it’s about the bird but also not at all about the bird. There’s a lot of ambiguity and ambivalence mixed with the understated humor that worked really well for us.