Joytime Killbox

by Brian Wood

  The owner nodded and said he had the perfect animal. “Twenty years in this business, this is the smartest thing I’ve ever seen. He’ll be a friend for life.” Near the back of the store he took her to an impressive cage that housed a small grey parrot. “Tell him a question,” the owner said. “Go on. Ask him anything. I’m telling you, this bird’s a genius.”

  She’d never talked to a bird before and this made her timid. She couldn’t think of a suitable thing to ask. “Hello there. How are you?”

  The bird jumped from his perch and gently clawed himself up the side of the cage. He nuzzled his beak through the bars. “Fine, thank you,” the parrot told her. “Y tu?”

  “See. What’d I tell you? Bird’s brighter than his tail feathers.” The owner reached his fingers in the cage, fed the parrot a treat.

  Indeed, she was amazed at this feat. But she was curious why he would sell a bird this unique, this intelligent. When asked, the owner glanced side to side; he leaned in. “Between you and me, I think he makes the other animals feel inferior.” He tilted his hand like he was tipping a scale. “Sad animals aren’t the best for business.”

  “Sorry,” the bird said. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  “You’re okay, little guy.” Through the bars, the store owner stroked the bird’s head with the back of his knuckle. “Even knows when to apologize. You can see, he’s a very smart bird.”

  She removed her checkbook and walked to the cash register. After licking her thumb, she flipped to the back of the book. Although she had received a healthy settlement and could easily afford the high price of the bird, she still felt moved to negotiate a better price. “Who shall I make this out to?”

  “Aquatics and Exotics.” He scratched his cheek while he watched her write the check.

  Before signing she added, “Throw in the cage and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  The store owner made a sour face and choked it. He held out his palm and nodded with reluctance. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas.”

  She made Christoph cover his eyes while she wheeled the cage into the living room. “It’s an African Grey.” She unveiled the parrot. “They can live to be 70.”

  Christoph eyed the bird. He looked at its white face and black eyes, the grey feathers that wracked his body, the flair of vermilion on his tail. To Christoph the bird seemed pretty simple for a rare thing from Africa. “That’s a long commitment,” he said.

  His mother put her hand inside the cage. “The man at the store said these birds are as smart as dolphins, can learn over 800 words.” She put her finger in front of his legs, pushed her knuckles into his breast until he perched on her hand. “Here.” She placed the parrot before him.

  The bird bobbed his head and sunk his beak into his feathers. He hopped onto Christoph’s broken hand. Christoph tried to recoil but the hand wouldn’t move. The bird sidestepped the length of the defective arm and settled on his shoulder. He polished his beak against Christoph’s shirt. The bird rocked and leaned his head into Christoph’s neck.

  “He likes you.”

  Christoph smiled at the thought of having something as smart as a dolphin on his shoulder.

  “Tu tu tu,” the parrot said.

  “Is that Spanish?”

  “Si. Yup. Yeah,” the bird said.

  Christoph brought his hand to the bird’s head and let him nuzzle his fingers. “I think he’s speaking Spanish.”

  “The pet store said they mimic all sorts of sounds. Phones, door bells, cars.” She went to pet the bird. It dodged her hand and hopped closer to Christoph. “Look at him. He really likes you.”

  Christoph let his smile go wider. With the bird on his shoulder he couldn’t think about his damaged body. “I’m going to name him Tutu,” he said.

  That night he put Tutu’s cage next to his bed. Christoph didn’t like the thought of Tutu locked and confined; he left the door open so Tutu could roam as he pleased. That morning, Christoph woke to find Tutu balanced on the corner of the night stand, cocking his head, waiting to be petted.

  One in a Million

  So it goes: Christoph loved Tutu. Tutu loved the park. Christoph took Tutu to the park.

  Everyday Christoph walked the promenade with Tutu on his shoulder. Christoph enjoyed their strolls. For reasons unknown to him, the park was full of other freaks with rare animals. There were invalids, veterans, and day drunks, a zoo of exotic bodies.

  There was the tattooed lady with dreadlocked hair that always rollerbladed near the fountain in her swimsuit. She would skate in small circles with a python scarfed tight around her head. There was the toothless man who wore nothing but denim. Shirt and vest and USA ball cap, all denim. He sat on the gazebo steps, his iguana clawing against his pant leg. He kept it on a leash, the collar made of stitched denim.

  Christoph enjoyed the spectacle. He liked how nobody noticed him. At the park no one paid attention to his arm or asked how he got his scars. Instead, all eyes and questions were focused on Tutu.

  “How much did he cost?”

  “Too much,” Tutu would say.

  “Can he cuss?”

  “Hell yeah,” Tutu would say.

  “Make him say something.”

  Tutu would shake his head and the crowd would laugh.

  “What does he eat?”

  “You name it,” Tutu would say.

  So like he’d done before, after walking the length of the park, and after taking a moment to let Tutu preen in the sun and talk to the crowd, Christoph began his trip home. He stood at the street corner, waiting for the traffic signal to change. But on this particular day, unlike all the others, Tutu decided to mimic the chirping sound of the crosswalk. With perfect pitch, timbre, and volume, Tutu parroted the crosswalk alarm. Three impeccable chirps. Pause and repeat.

  Christoph smiled at Tutu’s accuracy with the noise. Just like the real thing, he thought. Like to see Flipper do that. He figured Tutu deserved a sunflower seed. As Christoph reached into his pocket, a blind man mistook Tutu’s noise for his signal to cross. The blind man confidently stepped into the intersection, directly into the path of the Fourth Street express bus. With the impact, the blind man’s body exploded into flaps of clothing and skin. A mist of blood hissed on the crosswalk. Pieces of cloth flapped in the air like dead leaves.

  Tutu stopped chirping.

  A crowd vultured around the fresh body. One woman kept whimpering, “Oh Jesus, Christ, Jesus,” while most of the crowd gasped and held the sides of their heads. Some of them began to search the scene. Their eyes looked for something, anything, to blame.

  Through the air, Christoph felt the weight of their stares. It burrowed into his belly. His breath quickened and he scratched at his damaged arm. He took Tutu from his shoulder and placed him on the edge of the curb. He walked away briskly, leaving the bird to preen its blood-splattered breast.

  The Red-Faced Judge

  Because a jury of peers could not be found, Tutu’s judgment was biblical in its swiftness.

  Presiding was the Honorable Tal Dipple. Along with his reputation for dealing spartan discipline, he was also known for his narrow-set eyes, small ears, and propensity for courtroom perspiration. Beneath his robe he wore a necktie cinched so tight it strangled his throat. It forced his neck skin to spill over his shirt collar, making his face flush with blood. Tiny-eared and red-faced as he was, he maintained the constant appearance of a wailing infant.

  “You’re telling me this bird premeditated Robert Martin’s murder?” Judge Dipple said to the prosecutor.

  “Yes, Your Honor. You can clearly see in the Wikipedia article I printed out these animals are extremely intelligent.”

  Judge Dipple held his readers up to his face.

  “Please note that under the heading Mimicry and Intelligence, the article states performs cognitive tasks.” The prosecutor took a dainty sip from a water glass. He cleared his throat. “Cognitive, Your Honor.”

  “Objection,” the defense said.

  Looking
down from the bench, Judge Dipple examined Tutu. He did not like the way the bird disrespected his court. His claws wrote illiterate scratches into the lacquered table. His beak was prone to fits of squawking. He didn’t like the way the bird kept hopping in circles, pecking at the lead fishing weight crimped to his leg. But most of all, Judge Dipple hated Tutu’s round black eyes. He disliked how tight and focused they were, how they looked on him with objective indifference.

  Nobody looks through me, Dipple thought. Not in my court. He ran his finger under his collar. “Overruled.”

  The prosecutor went on. “He planned the death of poor, blind Mr. Martin. How else could the impossible timing be explained? From the report, it’s evident that this bird has not the mind of some feathered beast, but bears the intelligence of a dolphin.” The prosecutor pointed at his temple for added effect. Then he pointed at Tutu. “He has the brain equivalent of a child. Should we not hold children responsible?”

  Tutu did not object. Instead he tongued at his ankle. Tutu’s attorney tried to settle him but Tutu remained nervous. He would not take his gaze from the judge.

  Judge Dipple began to simmer. He couldn’t recall the last time somebody looked at him like that. Eyes cold and fearless. He could not think back far enough. And this failed effort made his anger grow. Sweat collected on his eyebrows until it pulled from his face. He watched the bird bite at the ankle weight.

  “Your Honor,” the defense said, “it’s obvious my client is under extreme emotional unrest. He was found abandoned, quivering. Covered in blood. In shock. The unfortunate accident at the park has rendered him unable to speak coherently. Look at him.”

  Tutu hopped and caught sight of Christoph in the audience. His head perked. “Chris-top?” Tutu said. “Chris-top?” In the back of the courtroom, Christoph slid down in his pew.

  “Help,” Tutu said. He bit at his ankle weight and twitched his leg. “Help, help, help.”

  Christoph tore his eyes from Tutu. He dropped his head.

  “Your Honor.” The prosecutor removed his glasses. He raised his voice over the bird’s. “Those were the same cries heard at the scene of the crime.” He pointed his glasses at Tutu. “The crowd screamed ‘Help!’ as they ran to the slaughter stream that was once poor Robert Martin—a defenseless blind man. This sick beast is trying to relive the carnage of that day. He’s trying to revisit the crime.” As if to plead, the prosecutor placed his hands under his chin. “Serial murderers do the same thing.”

  The Judge dabbed his hot, red forehead. He mopped the sweat from his lip.

  Tutu snapped his head. He periscoped his neck, focusing on a leg of sweat trembling from the judge’s face. Tutu lowered his beak and leaned toward the judge with his ebony eye.

  Judge Dipple was ignorant of the behavior of birds. He did not understand that in order to focus on anything in detail, a bird must cock its head. He did not know the twinkling pearl of sweat on his forehead wiggled down his face in the manner of a mealworm. He didn’t realize Tutu was curious why a man might have worms on his face. All Judge Dipple saw was the excruciating intensity of Tutu’s black caviar eye. This bird was sizing him up. This bird was judging him.

  “Guilty,” he said, as he clapped his gavel with such force that the sound block lifted into the air. “Bailiff, get this animal out of my court.”

  Taco Night in Pelican Bay

  As a corrections officer, Hiram was accustomed to the bizarre. But this was the first literal animal to come through his cafeteria.

  It was Wednesday, which meant they were serving Navajo tacos. The inmates were in high spirits. Hiram was not.

  “150% capacity and they got the nerve to send me a bird,” he said. “Kind of horseshit is that?”

  The cafeteria cook perceived this as rhetorical and did not answer. Instead, he placed a piece of fry bread on a plate and slopped it with taco meat.

  Hiram watched the bird hop into the serving line. The parrot perched himself between two food trays. His claws clinked against the aluminum bars. Tutu rocked his head up and down, eyeing the foreign food. He leaned his eye toward a pile of diced tomato.

  “What do I give him?” the cook said. He wiped his hands on his apron. “He on dietary restrictions? Never fed no bird before.”

  Hiram let his wrist dangle over the taser on his belt. He tugged his mouth to the side. “Like I know?” If the cafeteria were a gladiator arena, Hiram was the emperor. He took pride in keeping a clean, tidy stage. Hiram rocked his weight from leg to leg. He nodded toward the right. “Give him some salad or something.”

  The cook shrugged and made a plate. He reached his arm over the sneeze guard and placed the food before the bird. “Here little guy. Chef’s special.”

  Tutu hopped to the plate’s edge. He ran his beak across the wet strips of lettuce. His feathers flared. He scratched at his beak.

  “I don’t think he likes it,” the cook said.

  “This look like a buffet?” Hiram said. “He takes his shit like everyone else. Or go hungry for all I care.”

  One of the prisoners took a tomato off his plate. He cradled it in his palm, held it out for Tutu. “Where you from partner? How’d you land in a nest like this?”

  Tutu lowered his head. He eyed the food with caution.

  “Here,” the inmate said. He waited for the bird to take the food from his hand. “I ain’t bite you. There you go. Nice, huh? You want another?”

  Tutu took pleasure in the cool tomato. His feathers flattened and shined a brilliant grey. He swayed and let the inmate pet the side of his head.

  “Don’t fuck with my bird, Peanut. I’ll bust a ruckus in your ass.” Hiram flexed his hands against his belt.

  “I wasn’t meaning no harm, boss. He wants a tomato.”

  “Touch him again,” Hiram said.

  The inmate glanced away before leaving the line.

  After swallowing the delicious gift, Tutu let out a melodic chirp. A beautiful noise floated above the scraping plates and the cafeteria chatter. Tutu pressed his head against the glass and sang. His talon reached for the tomatoes.

  “Look now, see. Got him all riled up.”

  Tutu hopped forward. He tapped his beak on the sneeze guard. His tongue snubbed against the glass.

  “Enough,” Hiram said. He wouldn’t stand for this childish behavior, even from a bird. “I said that’s enough.”

  But Tutu kept on.

  Hiram, the Fisher

  Hiram hated animals. His whole life he’d had one pet. And even that was short-lived. When he was a child, his neighbor’s cat had a tremendous litter. They couldn’t give them away. Hiram asked his father for a kitten.

  “Dirty filthy things,” his father had said. “I’m pulling doubles to put a roof over your head. Your mother breaks her back in there, keeping it clean. And you want to invite animals into our house?” His father’s mind was set.

  That same week, at the county fair, Hiram was drawn to a carnival game. A kiddie pool was filled with water and seeded with a school of live goldfish. For three tickets he could reach into the pool and keep anything he grabbed. Packs of children gathered around the pool, plunging their fists, savagely punching at the water. Hiram paid the attendant and took his place at the edge of the pool. He licked his lips and rolled up his sleeve. He knelt and peered into the sloshing water. Golden fish scales glittered on the waves. He watched the fish, studied their behavior. They huddled into orange clouds; they scattered and regrouped. Hiram held his hand above the water, waiting like a hunter, holding the air in his lungs. As a milk-skinned boy splashed the opposite side of the pool, sending the fish in a feverish escape, Hiram knifed his hand in the water. He pulled his fist from the pool. He opened his hand to find two fish skittering in his palm. Two! He cupped the fish gently, like he was nesting a baby bird. He presented his catch to the carnival worker who tossed the fish in a plastic bread bag. The man filled the bag with water from the pool and knotted the top. He held the bag out for Hiram. “Winner, winner,” he said.
“Fish for dinner.”

  Hiram kept the fish under his coat when he got home. He took his mother’s glass Jell-O mold and layered the bottom with pebbles from the garden. He poured cool water into the bowl. Up in his room, he slowly shook the fish into their new home. He set the fishbowl on the carpet. Hiram lay on his belly and rested his head in his palms. His eyes watched the fish mouth at the water. He watched them swim to the bottom and nibble at the pebbles.

  “I’ll call you Batman,” he told the bigger of the two. He pressed his finger against the bowl. “And you can be Robin, since you’re smaller.” Late into the night he watched Batman and Robin flap and dart. He watched them kiss the water’s surface. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. He could hardly believe they were his.

  On his way home from school, Hiram used his allowance to buy fish flakes. He held the tube of fish food in his hand like a sprinter’s baton. He ran the length of sidewalk to his house. He was eager to feed the duo. As soon as he passed the threshold of his home, his father called him into the bathroom.

  “Look what you did,” he said. “Look at your mama’s Jell-O mold.” He pointed to the fishbowl on the counter. “Look at the mess you made.”

  Hiram kept his eyes on the clean linoleum floor.

  “See what happens when we have pets?”

  Hiram nodded.

  His father lifted the toilet seat. “Go on.”

  Hiram didn’t move. He scratched at his shin with the toe of his sneaker.

  His father took a knee in front of Hiram. He took the boy by the chin and forced him to look him in the face. “I am your father,” he said. His anger kept his mouth tight as he spoke. “And you know my mind. Go on.” He shook the boy’s face as he let go of his chin.