Bird Act

5:06 flash

I had a tough act to follow. A little guy with doves up his sleeves. He paced around the dark, tiny green room, stuffing their little heads back into his cuffs every time they popped out. But when he hit the stage, he grew ten feet. Strutting and preening, a true commander. And the doves were so fantastic, and when his act was over, the people called him out with wild applause and he bowed again and again.

A buddy had loaned me his stove pipe hat. He found it at a tag sale, one of those table top affairs in a church basement.

“Do something with this,” he’d said, “Maybe there’s a rabbit inside.”

So I walked out on stage, after the bird man, with the hat on my head, jaunty and askew. Ripped jeans, Ramones t-shirt, hat.

Somebody out in all that endless darkness beyond the glare of the spotlight hollered, “Punk rock Lincoln!” So I grabbed my balls, flipped off the crowd, hocked a phlegm wad, and stormed off stage. I mean, that was my whole act that night. That was it. Out of nowhere. All of a sudden.

My buddy said I could keep the hat so I left it on my head. At the tavern across the street, we started downing piss beer, pint after pint. I forget what we were talking about—maybe Lincoln, maybe freedom—when this girl came over. She was crying. Makeup all down her face. And she was holding a bird, a pigeon.

“You’re Punk Rock Lincoln.” Through tears.

“Own it,” my buddy hissed, so I said that I was. And then, “What is that?” It took me a minute to see the pigeon in her hands, actually. It wasn’t moving.

“Well, do you know the bird man? The guy with the birds? I thought he’d be here. I want to talk to him.” She stroked the bird’s back, little strokes, fingertips, gentle.

“About that?” My buddy pointed to the pigeon. It suddenly seemed he wasn’t drunk.

“Help.” She looked down at the bird. “Please.”

“I hate to tell you, but I think it’s dead,” my buddy said, but I said, “Wait. Just a minute.” And I tore the hat off my head. “Drop it in.”

“Jesus Christ,” my buddy said.