Welcome
to the Jungle, College Bird
[5:31AM] You're not the kind of character who would ordinarily find
yourself in a situation like this. But here you are. Deadlines are imminent;
still, the cursor blinks incessantly at ground zero. It is somewhat
taller than the words you're about to type and, at the moment, your
ego. You're barely hanging on to your sanity.
[5:32AM]
You're choking back the grounds at the bottom of your fifth pot of coffee
in as many hours. Though this rarified terrain is not unfamiliar and
you sense that you are not alone in your current predicament, the details
are fuzzy. More caffeine might clear things up. Then again, your madcap
rush for the finish line could be a result of too much of that already.
[5:33AM]
An inward-looking search for scapegoats--coffee, time, alcohol, insanity,
your professors-comes up short. You've nothing to blame but your reflection.
The garbled pair of sunken eyes that stares back from behind the black
glass of the beaming monitor split out the sides--grave-ward--in early
crow's feet. They, like the fallow tracts that graze your mouth, are
just vaguely familiar. Reality strikes with the anvil-like force of
a hammer-punch to your guts and groin. You no longer recognize your
own face.
[5:34
AM] This epidemic lack of clarity may yet result in a prayer to the
Almighty, or a Faustian pact with the devil.[5:39AM] It does, but you're
not entirely sure which. However it went, your supplicating appeal for
that glossy brand of Hollywood productivity--imbued in celluloid and
set against a driving-triumphant soundtrack--is ungraciously denied.
Drooping eyelids betray your accelerated heart. If you can get one more
cup down, you might be ok. You can't. Black coffee tastes only slightly
less bitter than you feel.
Your
ears ring and your mind howls while your eyes skitter and assail the
walls of your room. White on white on white on white. Books, torn remnants
from academe, and 160 pages of rough drafts and rougher rewrites spell
out the execution of forests in every direction. [5:41AM] A vast republic
of voices echoes across the vacant corridors of your skull. Tonight
their quarreling tenors settle on Nazi dictatorship. You are near the
center of the second final solution. Paper-thin corpses pile up in wire
wastebaskets, and at least four of the six surrounding mass graves rise
sunflower high. They mock you like eviscerated topiary animals. Their
dismembered limbs catch the wheels of your throne. [5:46AM] You have
to contort your body like a drunken Spanish belly dancer to escape the
glowing screen, so you don't. You can't really. You don't have the time.
[5:54AM] Your fingers can't keep up with your mind. [5:55AM] Thesis
arrives in a sharp bolt of firing neurons:
Murder
appears in the literature of different times and places an environmentally
driven, but necessary means of escape from an author-perceived cultural,
ideological and political hell.
You
wonder precisely what that means, but are quite sure it has something
to do with killing to escape a repressive environment. [5:57AM] Continue:
While
literary murderers serve as vicarious mechanisms for authors to exact
violent retribution on what they perceive as the evils of a particular
society at large, they interestingly and problematically embody at
least one aspect of this diabolic environment. Because murder is depicted
in the literature of different times and places as an ineffective
means of escape from and atonement with a poisonous environment and
literary killers embody some aspect of this atmospheric frenzy, they
are cast as automatonical, double-edged weapons striking out at both
an author's vision of hell and themselves. In skewering their murderers
on the sharp points of their pens, authors come to their own catharses
One
page, two pages, three pages, four. Hurt. Maim. Graduate College. Murder.
[6:16AM] The reckless tapping of keys warrants frequent returns and
edits. "Helk" becomes "Hell" with an alacritous
flick of your digits, and then, in a fluke slip of your wrist, "Help".
The winking cursor curses you whenever you stop. Hurt. Finish. Maim.
Graduate College. Hell. Murder. Escape. Write:
The
Christian Dostoevsky, however ironically, rose from the ashes of his
St. Petersburgian prison with Crime and Punishment, a novel that enlists
murder as a means of signifying the humanity of its protagonist.
"Too
typical," you think. Delete. Ground Zero. Continue. You could type
for miles and not finish.
There
is one spare moment in the six o' clock hour. [6:59AM] You use it--rather
selfishly--to suck in the first real breath you've taken since midnight.
The exhale disturbs pages sleeping three feet away. The word "fuck"
forms on your lips. This is your life and has been for as long as you
can remember. You might be able to reconcile this burgeoning hysteria
with your rapidly dwindling sanity if only you could visualize the benefits
of such ambitious scholarship. You can't. You have to get the hell out
of here. There's no better place than the park.
Good
Mourning, Sweet Prince(ss)
It's
[7:11AM]. Lucky time. No such luck with the weather. You see: Gray up.
Drizzle-snow down. Little of note in between. Feel: Macabre repression.
Cold. Miserable. Sick. Murderous. As always, you have more work to do,
so you pencil in your most optimistic appraisal of the scenery:
Diamond
Park --the diamond as locals call it--is an ovular expanse of walkways,
statues, grass, and benches. A 200 year old island city of Maples,
Oaks, and Chestnuts waves in lush green to the turned-off T.V. gray
above. Their great, looming shadows, paired with stony cathedrals
and that slow-moving, Old Town way of American life, recall the quaint
charm of yesterday's New England fishing villages. I might turn a
corner and happen upon a re-enactment the Boston Massacre, or catch
a Northern Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher strolling arm in arm, hand
in hand. All smiles, no frowns.
You
easily conjure thoughts of white picket fences, battle-drums, musket-fire,
and bright eyed boys and girls donning the tri-cornered bonnets of sailors
while sucking lollies. They quickly dissipate. You look back on what
you've written as though it was your epitaph. Words do you no justice...if
only you could think of the right one. For some unidentifiable reason,
your brooding can be nothing but poisonous; your pen refuses anything
but satire:
Robins
belt tunes from their nesting branches and the occasional cardinal parades
its sanguine fancy. Squirrels showcase their fluffy tails like they're
walking Rodeo Dr. and the barking of people walking their dogs is audible
between the thick rays of sun. Sidewalks sparkle and children laugh.
Everything sits nicely in its right place. The dead watch from underground
cells. In June, even a cemetery can try on the role of a lively park.
In
January, most parks are cast as cemeteries.
Trees
stand like thin and swaying skeletons, separated from the burial shroud
of white snow only by their aging brown bark. The stories of the great
men-Washington, Champlain, Tecumseh, and Crawford--who have passed through,
but not settled down here are recorded on plaques--rusting funeral markers.
The
Epiphinial knowledge that Diamond park is no exception arrives most
explosively in the form of a wind-slap that cuts at your cheek. Winter
inundates you in awesome waves. To personify this cold, to give it "icy
fingers" or "chilling breath," is to sweetly
fuck an idea. Cold attacks in ways that a person can't. It tears fingers
to fleshy, teeth torn tips and packs hollow bones. Maybe you'll freeze
like that news worshiped caveman and be uncovered years later when some
more perfect race of ?-sapiens masters the bizarre, cryogenic-technology
of reanimation. Like the feebly grunting cavemen, you'll be dragged
on global lecture tours along with a simpering Walt Disney, resurrected
in all his servant-beating, foreign culture-raping glory. Bitterness
will dwarf your soul if you continue to assail the season. At least
the local town-birds are interesting. They don't have to kill to fly
away. Besides, you've always enjoyed fucking ideas more than people.
You collect yourself, the scraps of your sanity, your pen-journal, and
prepare to study
Ornithology
in Diamond Park
is
best undertaken without binoculars and books. You say that you want
to get in there, really stir some shit up, and get to the bottom of
the Avian Sapiens that flap around without wings. You want to observe
them--occasionally without them observing you--in their natural habitat.
Gorillas in the Mist isn't enough. You want to know them and what drives
their tenebrous patterns of migration, mating behavior, their soft affections,
and their glorious heartbreak. Free of influence, suggestion, and the
ticking of scientific instruments, they will abandon their nests in
great numbers and reveal themselves. They will take wing, rise on updrafts,
and fly North, South, East, or West. Anywhere but here. But they don't.
You quickly realize that birds of all feathers flock in the Diamond.
The
Abandoned or Homeless Bird (A largely overlooked species blown willy-nilly
from their nests to eclectic habitats all over Crawford County. From
wooded nooks amongst the ivory-tiered palaces of Shadow Oaks to more
lowly, income-controlled housing developments-- Forest Green, Elm Street,
and Gill Village, just to name a few-the homeless bird meanders the
Diamond and wracks his or her brain for answers to the question of what
happened. Unemployment? Sickness? Debt? War? Bad luck? In June, they
frantically push shopping carts full of Ramen Noodles and Marlboros.
They recline on park benches and hang out in gas stations. They often
hurry during winter months, clutching their bags of plastic and muslin
like goose down to their heaving chests for warmth. You can often hear
the dull beating of their blood when they walk. Their crunching steps
announce boiling hunger. Although city officials would like to pretend
that they don't exist, between 2 and 3 individuals are observed per
day) flies mostly at night. [9:32PM] It's cold again and you
wonder what you're doing here straddling a cannon. Not here specifically,
but what you are doing in this life. You are entirely alone, but not
desperate. Just cudgeled by January a little. Three sweaters fail miserably
in stopping winter's entry. Ice chews at your beating heart. It is inside
and reproducing, ebbing and flowing, dividing and conquering. You can
make it, though. You are the perfect island.
What
might have been your optimism is anon thwarted by solitude. Your island
shrinks around you like the whooping walls of an asylum cell. Its statues,
pocked by sleet and acid-rain, are black and foreboding. Backlit in
yellow-orange-red by streetlights, they cast down shadows that could
swallow you whole if given life. As cars encircle the island, light
falls in love with shadow. They dance hand in hand to the unearthly
tune of frolicking silence. The unhappy children of this wedding-dance
play hopscotch, but have no faces. They are deaf, mute, and twist light
in attempted pronunciation. Because they can't speak, they can't win.
Their games might continue forever were it not for an impending dawn
or the territorial invasion of rapacious shadows.
The
grim-reaper creatures of this silence, born of larger church and building
shadows, do not bound around like cheetahs or swoop like falcons. They
crawl and ooze, slug-like, leaving each blade of grass a more scared
and stoic version of itself. Like The Blob, they eat children, engulf
them. Nothing is left but the dark . . . and terror.
So
much for misanthropy. You'd go swiftly the path of the loon on a desert
island. You remove a pen from the spiral binding of your notebook and
try your hand at magic:
The
Southern tip of the Diamond is home to a canon. It is massive, dated
and couldn't spit fire if struck by the storm that percolates in the
sky. The barrel is more than six feet long and covered by a thick sheen
of ice. Gnarled ropes of the stuff mesh and cling to the bottom, winding
around each other like braids. They end in wider pools that disappear
beneath a thin crust of snow. The canon glows in soft halflight, somehow
ethereal. It is an inhuman gun. Cumulonimbus clouds roll over on each
other. Smoke, more wispy mist, trails up and up from my cigarette in
thin tendrils and seems to meet the rolling charcoal clouds. The mixture
looks like black coffee boiling. In the pale light, the canon beneath
me looks something like a God would balance in his palm------------
The
gripping sense of Deja Vu that you have seen it all before quickly decays
when the dark sound of flapping wings interrupts your meditation. A
homeless, bearded beard glides in to roost in the peripheral. Though
you can't feel your fingers, you sense his approach. Neck hair stands
on end. [9:37PM] Behind you. Motion. He's behind you.
[9:37PM]
Precognition. [9:38PM] His hand is on your shoulder, and you wheel around
cat-like, assuming a posture that shouldn't appear defensive, but does.
You:
"Yeah? Something I can do for you?"
Him: "Whatcha doin' wif dem earins? Tryin' ta bean individual?"
A little laughter coming out his mouth, but more his throat, sounds
like muddy gravel tossed in a cement mixer.
You: "Umm. Not really. I kind of like the weight." He has
since backed off--not more than two paces.
You
wonder what he wants, but are alarmed. It's not often that people walk
right up and touch you. In fact, you enjoy entertaining the notion that
no one can colonize your island without express permission. Though you
struggle to do so, you cannot strip from memory the clammy feeling of
that spongy glove against the nape of your neck. Your skin refuses to
forget its slimy give and the forcefulness of contact. You look up at
his face. It is destroyed by age, smoke, and winter. His frantic black
cross and uncross like opposing lines of turret-fire. A dull, long,
and yellowed beard erupts from everywhere that male-hair grows. You
look down at his shoes. Worn, rider-jeans taper down to ankles no wider
than your wrists. Sockless feet peak from stress-cracks in his old leather
work boots:
"Leks
ta me like yur tryin' ta bean individual," comes from under the
bill of his POWMIA ball cap. Another laugh crackles in his lung like
a paper grocery bag crunched underfoot.
"Seems to me I'm trying nothing your hat isn't," stands in
for your revelatory retort.
"You dunno the fest thing about what I breaved inta my lungs or
about comin' back when dey don't care boutcho."
Despite
cool attempts to explain your understanding of Agent Orange, its chemical
makeup, and its sick etiology in the body, this bird was right. His
dark bird-call made sense. You didn't know much of anything. You didn't
know the "fest" thing about being cold or about starvation
or about the dense jungle or about roving Viet Cong or about waking
up fearful and breathless or about the forgotten names on the Wall or
about looking into the crazy-spiraling eyes of death or about the super-solider
drugs they gave you so you couldn't "get hard" or about or
about or about. What you do know is that sometimes you don't have to
go looking for birds. Sometimes, they find you. Sometimes you don't
want them to. There are certain birds you'd never want to meet, such
as
The
Patrolling, Predatory Bird (A fire-arm packing species that cruises
the Diamond in beefed-up automobiles. His motto, "To Protect and
Serve," seems a glaring contradiction. You've heard that this species
of bird sustains itself primarily on KrispyKreams; that they, in fact,
spend more time burying their feathers in powdered sugar and Honey Glaze
than doing either of these two things. Then again, this might be another
one of those senseless generalizations that you hear so many of nowadays.
What you do know is that this bird walks with its chest puffed out and
likes coffee. Thankfully, only 3 to 5 individuals are recorded per day)
is mostly blue. There are usually two in a hunting-pack, but
more in a pinch. His battle cry pierces the murk almost every night.
It is shrill, fierce, and aggravates that ultra-sensitive place in the
cortex where the most cells are lumped together. Though often loud,
he can be very quiet. You realize that tonight is one of those silent
nights.
A
cop hungry for action kills his lights in an alley just across the street.
He might have his eyes on you, but you're not sure. He has no reason
to pounce, so you take out your pen and journal. You will not be shaken.
For
such a small city, Meadville has a disproportionately large police force.
In my experience, it is also one of the most cocksure in the nation.
The Pennsylvania badged-blue knows they are making as much, or more
money than just about anyone around-excluding doctors and lawyers. This
way, they can afford to cruise-- cuffing the snatchers of bicycles and
defiling vandals--in Wayfarers or comparably expensive sunglasses.
The
scant glow of parking lights stops your hand. You don't realize that
your pen has fallen and is irretrievable beneath the snow. The bird
has softly taken flight. It makes silent rounds, circling above the
shallow alleys. It does not accelerate but rather drifts in the air,
stalking its prey. The two pairs of eyes inside are searching, camera-like,
for delinquent activity. Soundlessness is arrested only by the squelch
of dampened brakes.
Technology
has made this predator imperfect. Even the smallest light announces
the phosfluorescent crest that flanks its side. The ferocious cant of
its wheels, its rimless tires, and the slight 20 degree tilt of its
headlights in on each other are three more cues to sprint."Coppah"
his prey sometimes shrieks when the red and blue sonar flashes against
the bricks and mortar of gloomy burrows. Stolen bicycles speed away.
Mohawks with spray paint run scared and scatter. You, however, have
learned to pay attention to these kinds of details. They might save
your life. Or at least your freedom. After seeing its cousins fall in
loping flashes of gold and bone-white amongst swaying prairie stubble,
a gazelle similarly learns to look out for lions. Survival of the fittest.
You will not be taken. You will analyze. You will document. And, most
importantly, you will make fun.
The
patrolling, predatory bird has a peculiar habit when he lands. He always
stands, Gestapo-like, with one of his feet above the other. You don't
know whether this gesture marks power or idiocy. You just know that
it exists. When balking at prey on stairs for noise violations, one
of his feet usually ascends two steps. The other remains firmly planted
below. If scrawling a speeding citation, one foot goes up bumper-high.
The other kisses pavement. You've witnessed him perform this balancing
act for up to fifteen minutes, an impressive display that rivals the
constitution of even flamingos. Whenever an elevated flower pot is close,
he stops there momentarily. If right handed, it's the left foot that
goes up, and vice versa. Always one foot. Always above the other. You:
Always one foot. Always in front of the other. [9:35PM] Walking away
often frees your body, but punishes your ears. The cacophonous prattling
of
Argumentative
Birds (A species likely to be seen in large numbers in the Diamond
regardless of the season. They shout in Winter., argue in Autumn, exchange
heavy-handed words in Spring, and still hate each other in Summer. Time,
weather, and topic of contention matter not to the argumentative bird.
(S)he lives for it. Usually, over 100 individuals are observed in one
day shrieking about nothing in particular.) abounds in the Diamond.
They squawk and squabble like Parakeets. They jabber like Cuckoos and
bawl like Morning Doves. Sometimes, they share a nest. Sometimes not.
It's difficult to tell, but you'd like to think that they don't. Must
be hell. Tonight [9:00PM], you catch a couple prepping for migration.
"Vrrrrrrrrrrrrruummmmm." The nondescript four-door sedan starts
without a problem, but needs scraping. There's as much ice inside the
car as out.
The
interior of Diamond Park is, as it was last night, empty. Street lights
blaze red-orange and a nearly full moon watches. Statues are your only
company. The wind is hard, like sharp glass against your cheek. Radio
static bits of communication ride the air and forsake January silence.
Everything seems far away [9:05PM], even the suck-puffing sound of your
breath. Voices are whipped around like plastic bags in a storm.
"I
think the intention...no, idea is...." The birds across the street
are locking talons.
He scrapes, she sits. The car belches out the back. You can tell it's
burning oil.
Her window goes down. "Fuck you, Adam."
"Adam" opens the door and leans in. "What, bitch?"
It's
so cold when he says this that more exhaust comes out of his mouth than
the muffler. "Bitch" remains silent. "Adam" speeds
up his scraping, pissed.
You
are perversely drawn to this, though it disgusts you. Your mind wanders
back to something you recorded here not two weeks ago. A "V"
of Canadian Geese glides North overhead. Their silhouettes cut sharp
figures in the milky clouds. You recognize them as geese only because
of the "Quanck" sound they make, and wonder what they are
doing back so soon. Misinformed biology, perhaps?. You envision the
flock "Quanck," North too soon, "Quanck" regaling
each other with stories of warmth, love in the sun, "Quanck"
pine-lined lakes, and blue-based mountains. "Quank, Quank, Quank."
Ice finds their wings instead, a silent predator gamboling in a slow,
sexy strut, and they start dropping like Icarus. "Quanck, Quanck,
QUAAAAAAAAAAAANCK!" You feel a bit on the descent yourself. Cold
can freeze the heart and feel like fire on the skin.
The
air is clean, though, and sweet. The geese continue on in their V unaffected.
The statues will never age. You find yourself wondering-the geese farther
away, the statues dead but unforgotten, and the warring birds resolved-if
you'll ever do anything statue worthy in your life. You'll be ok if
only you can make it to the week-end. Friday comes and with it
Foolishly
Cruising Birds (A bright, colorful, and tumultuous species likely
to be seen in large numbers on at least two of the seven days of the
week; usually 300-400 individuals are recorded on Friday and Saturday
nights between 10PM and 2AM) sojourn in the Diamond each weekend.
[11:12PM] You are determined to capture the essence of their flights
without fancy. Again, the pen-sword comes out and with it paper:
Friday
night in the Diamond is the equivalent of feeding time at the zoo. The
lions are hungry. The tigers are ravenous. The rhinos are famished.
Even the pachyderms are starving.. They park and they bark, lining the
ovular perimeter of my island in coarse battalions that might resemble
tail-gate parties were they not so obstinate in hiding their hunger.
A failure to evolve along with current fashion trends has rendered their
plumage the antithesis of camouflage. One can't appear too obvious in
silver faux leather, Gap Khaki, animal print sweatshirts, or, in the
case of the townbird, painted-on Levi's. Neon-doused cars also threaten
to hide the real desire of the Foolishly Cruising bird. Still, one question
forms on whetted lips: What's for supper?
Cruise
line, Full effect. Bright Lights, Small City. Loud Horns, Low Trucks.
Very few of them bounce on hydraulics. Many speaker systems out price
the cars they ride in, and many birds will ride home pulsing with these
speakers.."So Fucking Drunk". It's ok. You're working on a
buzz of your own. You watch in feigned awe as they circle, recording
the pattern. Bright birds and Drab ones join the mating foray off North
Street, continue down Chestnut, veer left on Park Avenue, left again
on Liberty or Popular, and complete the loop by twirling left on South
Main. Rewind. Play:
It's
like watching a large flock of geese migrate in stop-motion or being
caught head on in the Running of the Bulls. Alcohol, the consummate
social lubricant, inevitably makes an appearance. There was once an
analysis conducted about the prevalence of this glorious liquid. It
demonstrated that Meadville has more bars per capita than nearly any
other city in America. I think that's probably bullshit, having spent
several weeks in Seattle, but strangely, the climate there is virtually
identical-barring a more temperate winter in the Washington metropolis.
If one ventures off Diamond island to the edge of Chestnut Street,
he or she might see three of Meadville's most popular drinking ponds
filling up with an unusually happy amalgam of CollegeBirds and so-called
Townees. The basis of all societies is exposed in full view. Sex.
The continued growth of the gene pool. Or its shrinking. It's really
a beautiful thing-the unstitching of seams, the blending of worlds,
full-on collapse.
You
are standing near a statue commemorating Meadville's brave firemen.
Incidentally, it is only a three minute walk to the old fire station,
which is now Mickey's--another bar. You once heard the proprietor--plumed
out in Prada--going on about his endeavor to "retain the old 1920's
look" while, at the same time, "shrugging off big-box downtown
development". In recreating Mickey's, he posited that "Meadville
was beautified." Additionally, the town's denizens would be able
to experience the "relaxed charm of an Irish speak-easy" and
"socialize free of modern influence". If this is the case,
you wonder, why indeed has the "2nd Floor" been converted
to a wildly humorous dance shack complete with small strobe lights and
a DJ who plays little but rap and country western? Apparently, the old
fire station no longer puts out flames. It tries to start them. Sadly,
the fodder is age-old and un-ignitable.
The
light at the Chestnut/South Main intersection turns a blood shade of
red. A couple of foolishly cruising birds pulls up and jeers from a
Low-Riding, Red Pick-up with floor effects. "Fuckin' Yuppie!"
one of them shouts. Purple neon emanates from the undercarriage, and
on top, smolder spills out the windows. "Yeah, that's right! I'm
talkin' to you. [HAHNAHHAHA] You fuckin' yuppie!" From the look
of it, it seems they're smoking NewPorts. "Ports," as they
might call them. "Thought you all you fucks were high on Dad's
money in Cancun this weekend! Soakin' in rays. Screwin' each other like
monkeys. You fuckin' Yuppies make me sick!" Beers in hand, they
look more than happy to be harassing you. Led Zeppelin's "Black
Dog" is followed by a track off Radiohead's "O.K. Computer"
on what you're convinced is a factory stereo system. The odd musical
marriage excites you as much as the couple slugging Bud Light inside
the truck. Both men are drunk and holding it well. One is clean-shaven,
even stylish. The other-- a pronounced hater of yuppies--wears his hair
long and combed back to the side. You wouldn't be surprised if one of
his tattoos read "MOM," but his tri-hawked, blond-tipped beard
would frighten even Hell's Angels. Who are you to insist they recognize
their own latent homosexuality? Especially when its vocal counterpart
makes you laugh this hard. "Bub-bye, you sssilly boysssz,"
you think. Green light, Go.
The
light turns red, and a White Thunderbird revs up. The trunk thumps and
rattles like an unbolted elementary school desk-top. The driving bird
wears his sunglasses at night. Stone Cold stare, greased hair, eyes
dead ahead. Expressionless. He looks cool, you think. Cooler than you,
anyway. One hand is on the wheel and the other appears to be adjusting
the volume. Something by Juvenile rolls out the window, pollinates
your ears, and increases the bass rumbling in back. It sounds good,
and you feel a strange mélange of panic and shame. You know
every beat, every rhyme, and even . . . every drum fill. He makes
no eye contact with his female passenger pigeon, who seems equally disinterested.
She hits a joint as though it was the last one on Earth, flips her bottle-black
curls with a nervous hand, and glances absentmindedly out the window.
The light turns green and you start walking toward the Hunter Heiges
Sabo Pavilion in the center of the park. Someone has recently opened
the gate and illuminated the interior. It's not a Pavilion. Doesn't
warrant the title anyway. It's a Gazebo, small and little used. You
perch on the steps and try to relax. More birds float past. Rewind.
Play. As time slips, tangles, and drifts, you notice more of them stumbling.
Church
Going Birds (A species that comes out of the nest in full dress;
usually 1000 to 2000 individuals are recorded between 10AM and 2PM on
Sunday) stroll around clucking, swinging their arms in that comfortable
way that should intimate nonchalance, but more keenly resembles panic.
Their desperate attempts to repent for the drinking-inclusive events
of yet another weekend draw your attention. You witness a 40 something
male, going dusty gray on top and pillow soft in the middle, maddeningly
adjust his daring monochromatic tie four times in the twenty-odd feet
between
his car and the door of the Unitarian Church. His flock of five straggles
behind. Not uncommon. All the bigger birds are waving at and calling
their kids into one of the five multi-denominational churches. You take
out your pen, your paper, and you go to work:
Separation starts early along with want. The air is tumultuous
with conversation and blurry with erratic motion. I get the strange
feeling that I'm visiting a Disney World mock-up complete with happy
boys, girls, and giant- teethed costumed vendors dropped into central
Manhattan, if only for a fleeting moment. The kids are always running
ahead or lagging behind, amazed by the sights.
The
great bells ring [12:00PM], some striking in unison. One male is wearing
a smaller version of his father's suit. It is a typical flat black,
three-button model, slit in back to accommodate growth from the McDonald's
they'll likely share later. Dad says something like: "Come on,
fast as you can. The bell's ringing." The kid shuffles his feet,
his shiny loafers-the same as dad's from this distance-and slips on
the sidewalk. Dad gets upset, red-faced, and shakes his arms. Johnny
has ruined his church clothes.
In
several years, you think, Johnny will be ruled by school bells. He will
be herded, cow-like, into classrooms where he's not likely to pay attention.
Then the bell-sizzle of an alarm every morning. Then girls-boys, sex,
cars, drugs, Prom, college, Job, marriage, kids. Mid-life crisis. Gray
like Dad. Grandkids. Then the unmistakable grave-charm of the biological
clock resonating in the AM without an available snooze button. Then
funeral quiet.
Northeast,
just beyond the fountain, a snowman is dying. He's a fat one-like Dad--carved
and crafted by hands not unlike Johnny's. His face, once smiling, bears
no recognizable expression. His back sags, and his plastic pipe droops
loosely from melting lips. It's not a mouth really, but more a collapsing
hole. You press gently on his mid-section, finding it wet at first,
then a little resistant where the heart should be. Without much warning,
the structure gives. His time is up.
Militant
Birds (A common species confined to a mauve, low-standing complex
just off the Diamond and more specific tasks. They traipse and they
kick up dust. It's difficult to tell what else they do. No one is talking,
probably because they don't want to wind up dead. Usually between 20
and 30 individuals are observed in one day) wear camouflage, walk
carefully, and never seem to leave their nest just across from the never-bubbling
fountain. At least twelve of them mill around, pecking at the ground
with goose boots and carrying olive-colored satchels that look heavy.
You wonder what hell could possibly warrant covert operations in Meadville;
moreover, why it is that these birds desperately want to make more birds
in their image. They've extended a plume-clipping, open-ended invitation
to the world: "JOIN OUR TEAM." You surmise that this has something
to do with taking on foreign birds, flying high, protecting the security
of the greater, imaginary nest, and all that shit. They'll offer to
give you just about anything-$ mostly-for your membership in their folds.
One with a smooth, Southern drawl chimed you out of sleep at [8:00AM]
last week.
"BRIIIIIIIIING!
BRIIIIIIIIIIING!" [click] "Huhlo?," you manage to eject
before he cuts you off....
"Good mornin'. My name is Sargent.....and I'm callin' to let you
know that it isn't over yet."
"Excuse me?," you cough, harvesting the crust from sleep-infected
eyes.
"The war. It's not over yet. Have you thought anythin' 'bout your
future? Most people your age haven't. Explorin' a career with the United
States Army/Navy affords one the opportunity to travel, education stipends,
and, as I think you'll find, builds character." This guy is reading
off a card.
"Not interested. I'm already quite a character. . . I don't think
I could stand being built."
"Really? Do you mind if I ask why?"
"Not at all." You mine your soul for a good excuse. "I'm
bloody fuckin' crazy. Every day I have to take three types of psychotropic
medication before breakfast. Twelve a day in all. Sometimes thirteen,
including your garden variety antipsychotics. I'm currently operating
on Colonipin, Zoloft, and Haldol. I also take Risperidol when the voices
come on. Furthermore, I experience frequent schizophrenic breaks with
reality. Besides, I don't trust myself with a gun. Have a nice day,
Sir."
You've
rather successfully dealt with these overzealous, doctrine-pushing birds
before and feel they deserve no more attention. Other birds need all
the attention they can get.
Wal-Mart
Bound Birds (A non-native species so common that it threatens the
welfare of other birds; usually 3000 to 5000 individuals are recorded
per day) need help. Rather, they need to help themselves. You
often notice them plugging around the Diamond in just-washed cars. The
feeling that you need to write about this is inescapable:
Traffic
in Meadville, as with most small towns excluding those in Vermont, points
one of three directions: toward or away from Wal-Mart and not. 322 is
an always congested stitch of highway, and the Diamond represents one
of several major intersections that cars must traverse en route to here
or nowhere. It seems as I sit here, gracing this abandoned monument
to downtown with one lively presence, that I'm able to discern between
those that are, and are not Wal-Mart bound. Implicit in this recognition
is that I also record the birds returning from said franchise. The ones
that are Wal-Mart bound, well.....the birds inside seem happy, as though
they might find something, something, or something to fill the vacancy
of a life without purchase credit and plastic. A set of dining room
coordinates for the nest or matching separates for the bath, maybe.
The ones that aren't seem unhappier, emptier, and less alive. I am,
of course, being facetious.
With
the scathing analysis out of your system, you are able to devote some
attention to the facts you've gathered. For instance, Wal-Mart employs
970,000 downtrodden-birdies at just above minimum wage. They also raked
in 137 billion dollars last year. The clear profit margin puts them
just below General Motors, but well above Coca-Cola, Microsoft, and
everyone else. You sense that there's something to this relationship
between autos $a$n$d$ Wal-Mart. Cars are needed to get there. You wonder
what happens behind closed doors between G$M/W$M, but also question
the backwoods, Paul-Bunyan, Charlotte's Web, down-home ethic
of the corporation itself.
Sam
Walton's wife didn't like big cities, and that's why Wal-Marts grow
up miles outside of town, right? Wrong. Such mythological business practices,
you're convinced, are comparable only to political campaigns. Maybe
George Washington didn't lie about chopping down Cherry Trees, but Wal-Mart
is certainly tonguing a lot of smoke up a lot of asses. Zoning just
one half mile outside of any downtown center is exponentially cheaper.
Besides, a building that is, on average, 62, 057 square feet larger
than competing franchises won't fit between Savings Banks and Dollar
Stores. Building away from town also puts the glass and mortar monstrosities
closer to major interstates. Convenient, yes, but deadly. Last year,
the C.E.O. said this: "At Wal-Mart, we make dust. Our competitors
eat dust." This confidence, you think, is the closest anyone will
come to admitting to killing a million
College
Birds (A browbeaten species common to the area during 8 of 12 months.
Usually 1500 to 3000 college birds are observed between Sept-Dec and
Jan-May per day) with one stone. They fly in from everywhere
under the sun and, on average, spend about three and a half years of
their life here in Meadville. They cavort, meander in numbers, and return
to large nests with smaller compartments. In their little cells, they
work and they play. Some succeed. Some don't. You know of several distinct
types of college birds.
The
Freshman Bird is the least likely to survive the rarified air of
the intellectual Alps. Many of them have just recently learned to fly.
Some of them can't fly at all. Rather, they are delivered--bleary-eyed
and limp-beaked--by Mom Bird and Dad Bird with everything that a young
egg-breaking fledgling could possibly need to survive four months of
inclimate weather-a computer, new plumage, cash, health insurance, and
powerful mood stabilizers. During the first weeks away from Mom &
Dad bird, the unfortunate freshman bird spends a lot of time squawking
about his or her "major," "plans for the future,"
and "friends from highschool". S(he) is also repeatedly tested.
Alcohol. Unless a young bird has spent their ugly-duckling, highschool
career building a vast tolerance for this substance, he or she is likely
in for a sad lesson. Its wonderful effects can also be rather un-wonderful.
If consumed in large quantities on an empty stomach, sickness ensues-unconsciousness-drama
soon after. You remember the time you were forced to drag your sick
nest-mate home at [3:30AM]. You took the long way home, drunk, laughing
the whole way. Your arms shook under the dead weight, but you didn't
care. This was fun. When the predatory birds stopped you mid stride,
you told them: "It's ok, he hit his head on...the floor... We were....playing
basketball". Then...Nothing. They let you be, for once. "Get
him to bed," the fat one said, his right foot propped on the bumper
of a parked car. "And don't let it happen again." It happened
again, more times than you could probably count.
Sex.
While most freshman birds don't arrive as downy virgins, they quickly
experience the many splendors of an ever-widening pool of potential
romances....or one night stands. In shaded branches or in the dark recesses
of the small nest compartments, it happens. And it is glorious. In the
morning, there is love, shame, more, the pustules of disease, or nothing
at all. Oh, how all of these can hurt. You often see the freshman floating
about in the morning, wrapped in a storm cloud of misery, its tear-drenched
feathers raised in a hopeless attempt to conceal the salt-shine. The
soft-warble, when it reaches a certain pitch and pathetic timbre, always
tells this tale of heartbreak. Most get over it. They have to. Adaptation
is essential to the Freshman Bird.
The
Transitional Bird is a species that has worked out many of the kinks
of the freshman bird. Not all, but some. Many can't wait to get out
of Meadville. By this stage of development, they are familiar with its
gray skies, academic mists, and have doubtlessly found their niche amongst
the competing influences of bird-populations too numerous to quantify.
Their plumage has too evolved. Little make-up is necessary for the transitional
bird. They flutter about in pajamas, their feathers disheveled. Some
freshman birds try for this look with bedhead and other hair products,
but they never manage to pull it off like the transitional. You can
tell the transitional bird is not new. A little glimmer in the eye has
fallen away, and they carry their satchels in that special, "I
know what I'm doing" way. "I know how to study. I know what
professors suck. I know what professors are cool. I know all about this
place. I know that I'm almost old enough to legally purchase alcohol.
Almost. I know. I know. I know." But they don't, not really.
The
King Bird knows what's up on the hill. On average, he or she has
spent three years of his or her life learning the ropes and adapting
to the rigors of a life in small town America. Some nurture the other
types of college birds. Others exploit them. Others go the path of the
recluse and build their nests with the words of dead poets. While the
king bird is excited to fly, it faces still at least one great challenge-The
Comp. It is an exercise of intelligence. It is a culminating effort.
It must be scrupulously proofread and brilliantly executed. You've heard
stories about people passing with "A's," about certain projects
reaching a caliber worthy of publication. You'd like to out do them
all, but you probably can't. All of these birds, however different,
have at least one thing in common.
They
need Wal-Mart. Many, regardless of the stage of their evolution, swarm
there in numbers to stockpile everything from dish soap to dog leashes
for scholastic hibernation. You, however, have been banned from the
premises of said franchise. It happened one day in March. Three hours.
An all-inclusive shopping-free. You felt as though your brain had been
sucked out through your nose or blended like a frozen margarita. You
had stopped to get something to eat-Popcorn Chicken-in the deli. It
looked good. Long since departed with your vegan-life, you craved the
taste of flesh in your mouth. You were distracted by the seventeen flavors
of ice-tea in a nearby cooler. You didn't pick up the chicken from the
counter. Your business, your ambling walk from aisle to aisle, continued
thoughtlessly. You checked out. The bill, if you remember correctly,
came to $99.04. You exited the monstrosity, joyous to be leaving, and
ignored the straw-haired blowhard with a walkie-talkie on your left.
She spoke to you in a fork-tongued, snearing tone: "Did you forget
to pay for something?"
"I
don't know you're talking about."
"This
is what I'm 'talking about'." She holds up the untouched popcorn
chicken.
"I
didn't even touch that," you say.
"That
really shouldn't matter, should it? You ordered it. Didn't you?"
You
are shamefully led through the store by two plain-clothes Gestapo. They
hold their heads high. Yours sinks. Five minutes later, you're in a
little seen back-room. The walls are cement grey, and a wall of computer
terminals stares at you. A banner on the wall reads: "The 10-Foot
Rule: Always Smile When You Come Within Ten Feet of a
Customer." You sense that this would be a good time to make a joke,
but are sadly mistaken. A balding middle-aged
bird didn't appreciate your humor. Blowhard threatens to sic the predatory
birds, but you propose another option.
"How
about I just never come back here. I hate this fucking store anyway."
"I'll
need you to sign something, smart-ass."
"Done.
Do it. Draw it up."
The
fine print of this contract details the ten-thousand dollar fine you'll
be paying if you ever again set foot on "Wal-Mart Property".
You figure that soon you'll have to leave the country.
On
the way out of the office, you say, "Smile! At least now you
can take your kids out with the hundred and some dollar bonus you've
received for my incredible and ridiculous apprehension!"
You
haven't returned since. Though your fellow college birds might learn
a few things about the way Wal-Mart does its business after listening
to your story, you often hear a lot of them chatting from tree-tops
about how convenient it is. Wal-Mart is certainly that. You know well
the almost complete absence of time that a life of books and preparation
for flight can press upon the poor college bird. The Wal-Mart brand
of one-stop shopping presents a brilliant solution. The institution
itself has recognized this. You've read that THE LOOP-that strange college-sponsored
bus-route--now runs to Wal-Mart and back several times a week. How convenient.
THE LOOP, though, will shortly become THE NOOSE that strangles that
comparatively buck-toothed community of TownBirds that the institution
often expresses a desire to help.
You
are not a fanatic, merely unaware of your place in all this. You're
not sure whether you're a college bird, a town bird, or both. You walk
the fence uncomfortably, and it's a long ways down on both sides. This
is one of those moments in your life when everything is falling apart.
At the same time, it's all coming together. You consider your options.
You pack, unpack, and repack your bags. You drag your lake for stars.
You weigh your alternatives. You think. You feel. You panic. You rejoice.
You check your wings. You return to the park.
Birds
of a Feather (A species for which there are only 2 to 9 records
in the last 21 years and cannot be expected with any certainty; only
one individual is recorded per day, per season, and, if you're unlucky,
per lifetime.) [8:45PM] It's April. You wonder where the time went.
A gray, dewy mist hangs in the air like bar-smoke. Contrails separate
on the horizon like stained cotton. Twilight descends on the Diamond
in a haze of soft pinks, reds, yellows, and purples. Just as the sky
starts to resemble Van Gogh, you realize that you are not alone on your
island.
The
homeless bird you remember so well rests just three benches over. Not
too close, but close enough. He cuts a waif-like figure when he stands,
but sits now. His legs are splayed around a beaten blue duffle bag.
The same worn, hip-rider jeans he scarcely filled last time taper down
to the same leather work boots. His ankle bones protrude though paper
skin. Three more bags sit on and around the bench. Long, yellowing hair
sneaks out from under his stocking cap at angles you imagine only mathematicians
might calculate. He coughs, expelling smoke, and adjusts his weight
against the cold backing of the bench. You know that it's cold only
because you are similarly reclined. He coughs again, louder this time.
The broken sound of dry wood being chopped echoes madly against the
vaulted roof of the Gazebo. For fifteen minutes, he's been writing in
a journal. His hand moves much more quickly than your own. You can't
look away.
You
wonder what he's putting down, what he's getting at, and what he's doing.
Your hand is paralyzed and your pen runs dry. He shuts his book and
collects his things. One bag goes around his left shoulder, one around
his right. He clips his pen to the spiral binding of his diary and zips
it away. He stands and your eyes lock briefly. You shiver. He doesn't.
People don't stare like this. He smiles as he treks away from the Diamond,
down Chestnut Street, past Northwest Savings Bank, and farther still.
You don't know where he's going, but bag your journal and follow.