Flying Without Wings
I was just about to jump to my death from a 5-story parking garage when I heard them.
“Do you have any spaaaaare chaaange? I need a cigareeeeeette!”
“Need a ciggie, need a ciggie!” * squawk squawk squawk*
Goddamn it. Not fuckin now. I don’t want this to be the last thing I hear.
John was on the beat again. His routine was standing at busy intersections, bellowing for spare change while slowly flapping his arms like a wild-eyed albatross that had lost its wing feathers but halfheartedly tried to fly anyway. The little friend on his shoulder had feathered wings and could fly away at any moment. But he never did.
Compton the cockatoo squawked and flapped his wings frenetically when John went begging around town. He had recently taught Compton how to say “Spare change please! Need a ciggie!” Compton and John were local celebrities. Videos of the duo were easy to find, and he they were no strangers to photobombing live news reports.
My act wasn’t as colorful, but my sidekick was.
My canary, Rocky, had been with me several years before I hit the streets, and he was the only living creature that I gave a hot damn about. Bought him on a whim at a pet store that was going out of business. He was an affectionate little bugger. He loved spending time on my shoulder, nuzzling my face and preening my beard. He bopped around and chirped his little heart out when he was happy and stomped his left foot and shook his head from side to side when he was mad, like a child having a tantrum. He could sense when I was sad and would playfully bite my earlobe and squeak. Sometimes when he sat on my finger, he’d cock his head to the side and stare at me with quiet fascination, and I’d stare right back and whistle. He’d snap out of his trance and cheerily mimic the tune back to me. Rocky loved music, and he’d memorized hundreds of the classic rock tunes I loved listening to.
That little yellow bird had more character and a bigger heart than any human I’d ever encountered. And I knew people, lemme tell ya. I worked in the service industry – the industry where all your hope in humanity goes to die.
I had been a bartender at a popular dive bar for 12 years when I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I immediately started treatment, but the effects of chemo left me too weak to work most days. I was eventually let go from my job and my health insurance plan went up in smoke right along with it. Rent and bills piled up, but I was too tired to care. Days drifted into months. My body was taking on a worryingly skeletal form, and my soul was running on empty - so I filled up on spirits that came in glass bottles. I had just polished off a pot of coffee and a pint of whisky when my landlord served me the eviction notice. It was 10:15 am on a Sunday, and I had until Tuesday at noon to get my wretched, shit life together and get out.
Taking only a few essential items, I spent a few months hopping from couch to couch. My parents were no longer living, and my extended family was scattered around the country, so I relied on friends. I had taken to heavy drinking, and my new normal state of being was in a blind drunken rage.
I don’t blame my friends for kicking me out. Hell, I don’t even remember it happening. Alls I ’member is waking up outside a homeless shelter with a headache from Hades. Next to me was Rocky’s cage, a tent bag and a duffle bag crammed with clothes and toiletries. Tucked in the front pocket was a folded-up note that read, “Sorry Mac. You will be safe here. Please forgive us, we will always be there with you in spirit. We love you.”
We love you. The nerve, ya know? I understand why they had to do it, man, I really do. But to throw the word “love” in there was like dumping a cup of rock salt into a gaping flesh wound. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that human love is a minefield of conditions and expectations that are impossible to live up to. Animals love ya unconditionally. They’re not gonna stop lovin’ ya just because you’ve fallen on bad times.
Rocky and I gave the shelter a chance. Free food was nice, but the evenings were treacherous. Throw the dregs of society into small quarters, what could possibly go wrong? If you didn’t sleep with one eye open, you’d soon find out just how wrong it could get. Rocky was the canary in the homeless coalmine – he sounded the alarm when anyone came near us. His night shrieks didn’t win him any fans, and after one sleepless week, I decided that we’d have to go it alone on the streets.
A few weeks later I was sitting on a bench with Rocky’s cage next to me and Rocky bouncing around my shoulders and head. The summer wind was making my t-shirt billow like a goddamn parachute on my bony frame. I’d put my favorite Red Sox ballcap upside down on the ground for coin collecting. Rocky started chirping classic songs – that day it was “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” “We Gotta Get Outta This Place,” and “Love Me Two Times” – and the coins rained down like manna from heaven. I was brown bagging a 40 oz of lukewarm Steel Reserve, ruminating on where we were going to sleep that night.
That’s when John and Compton scampered over, lookin’ like something you’d see in the throes of a fever dream. John’s eyes bulged cartoonishly from behind his coke-bottle glasses as he introduced himself. Compton screamed “Fuck shit!” and flapped his wings while banging his head. John’s skin was leathery and caked in filth. His appalling stench wafted into my nostrils uninvited. His dirty knotted hair bounced around Compton’s face as he excitedly offered me a place to throw my tent down amongst “friends” – a group of animal-possessing hobos.
Fuck it, why not. I was probably 130 pounds wet at this point (down from 185 pounds) and the chances of living out the rest of my days in relative comfort would probably be better in a group, and what better group than a bunch of animal lovers. Feeling surprisingly hopeful, I picked up my cap and turned my back to John as I carefully distributed my coins in different parts of my bag. I threw the cap on my head and followed John to a bridge by the Charles River. Underneath there were several tents and makeshift sheds. The Red Line trains traveling between Boston and Cambridge thundered and squealed every few minutes. Dogs were barking as we approached, but as we got closer the menagerie came into view.
A shirtless young man covered in tattoos and wearing filthy khakis was caressing and feeding wilted lettuce to a tortoise. Next to him was a 5-gallon plastic water jug with the top sawed off, covered with a mesh frame. Coiled up inside was a small red, black and white snake. Several mutts chained to poles barked and wagged their tails, hoping we’d come bearing food. A man and a woman were hunched together in by the wall, preparing their meal over a small fire. A tiny kitten tumbled playfully near the flames. An elderly man with long white hair and a beard to match was sleeping on his box bed and laying atop him was a rolled-up hedgehog. I caught sight of a very young woman leaning against the wall with a needle in her arm. Her head had rolled back, and she was drooling onto a large black and white rat nestled in her lap. It was a lot to take in. “This ain’t even everyone, but you’ll do just fine here with us!” John exclaimed as he clapped my back lightly, which sent me stumbling forward. I was growing weaker by the day.
Rocky and I lived peaceful lives there – as peaceful as it can be living with terminal cancer under a bridge with deeply troubled people, a horde of animals, and trains going by all hours of the day and night. We kept ourselves busy, Rocky and me. We’d get up whenever and head downtown to earn our wages with the winning combination of my pathetic physical state and Rocky’s beautiful singing. We did alright for ourselves. I even regained some faith in humanity, and all it took was for me to lose my health, my job and my apartment to find it. I didn’t trust anyone entirely, but there were many acts of kindness and compassion that took place under that bridge. Goes without sayin’ that there was some real dark shit that went down, too.
The darkest moment happened this very morning. When I opened my eyes, I saw Rocky’s cage had been knocked over and yellow feathers were strewn about the ground. Rocky was gone. Some of us were drinking 80-proof vodka the night before and I had blacked out. I was so weak, but absolute terror shot me with a bolt of energy as I desperately called out to him. He always flew to me when he was called. Nothing. Some of the others began to stir as I ran around in a complete frenzy, turning over everything in sight as I searched for my beloved friend. Kurt – the young tattooed man with the tortoise and the snake – was dead asleep. I vaguely recalled Kurt handling the snake last night. My eyes darted to the water jug. The mesh cover was off and there was no snake inside. The son of a bitch forgot to put the fuckin’ snake back. I pulled the burlap sack off Kurt and the creature slithered out. It had a large lump midway down its body. It was roughly the size of Rocky.
Nature had no moral code, and now neither did I. I stomped the snake to death while Kurt slept right through the carnage. My vision was blurred from the barrage of tears and my skull felt like it had split in two. I collapsed into the dirt and vomited to the sounds of dogs barking and a flurry of unintelligible voices. I wanted to murder Kurt, but I didn’t have the strength. The others would have easily restrained me had I tried. I got to my feet, grabbed my duffle bag, and told everyone to fuck right off to hell as stumbled straight to the liquor store.
I was certain the cancer would take me, not heartbreak. Rocky was my only real friend in this giant fuck up that was my life. His affectionate nature and his reliance on me kept me from goin’ over the edge. He was my tiny singing ray of sunshine. His untimely and gruesome death broke what little spirit I had left. It was my fault he was dead. The guilt weighed down every tired bone in my diseased body.
I’ve been sitting here on top of this parking garage for several minutes. I was about to jump when I heard John and Compton hustling for change nearby. Can’t a sad sack of shit die in peace for Christ’s sake? I’ll sit here a little longer. Wait for them to fuck off while I finish my drink.
It’ll give me the courage I need to fly without wings.