Uncle Mickey

Sixteen

The red telephone on the desk in his bedroom rang.

"Hello," answered Michael.

"Hey, it's Rick."

"Hey, Rick, how are ya?"

"Good... hey would you be interested in a parakeet?"

"Umm... yeah maybe."

"My brother Scott... have you met Scott?"

"No, I don't think so--"

"Anyway, he's got a parakeet he wants to get rid of.  He's got two birds, and one is enough.  I think he'll give the cage away, too."

"Really?  For free?"

"Pretty sure."

"I think I would be interested."

"You wanna go over there tonight?  I can come pick you up."

"Sure... let's do it!"

~><~

Rick drove Michael over to his older brother's place, basically a studio apartment with a pretty big kitchen table that served as the centerpiece.  It was the resting place for lots of papers and sketch pads and colored pens.

A white cockatiel screeched over and over again from its perch atop a cage over in the corner.  He eyed us for a few minutes after we'd come in, and then relaxed when Scott introduced us.

"Ratzi it's okay, you know Rick, and this is Michael," he said, pushing his hand under the bird's breast so that it hopped onto it.  Ratzi bobbed his head up and down, and his crown feathers raised up and down.

"Anyway, over here is Nikki," Scott went on.  He motioned his other hand toward another cage over in the other corner.  "C'mere Nikki!"

A little powder-blue budgie parakeet was sitting quietly inside his cage. 

As Scott moved toward the cage, Ratzi leapt from his hand and flew toward the kitchen table, landing atop it and skidding on the papers.

Scott opened up the cage door and stood back.  Quickly the budgie hopped to the entrance, and then took flight into the room.  He flew up to the top of the curtains at the window.

"Yeah, he's a good bird, but I've got my hands full with the cockatiel," explained Scott.  "Ratzi isn't that bright, but he's beautiful.  One time I was eating some soup at the table, got up to get the toast out of the toaster, and Ratzi was on the table, and he wanted to walk over toward the toaster.  The soup bowl was in the way, so did he go around it?  No, he walked right through it.  Right through the soup."

Nikki the budgie wasn't very friendly toward Michael.  He wouldn't come anywhere near him.  However, Michael decided it was a really good deal... an unwanted bird and a free cage.  He was confident he could tame Nikki and win his confidence later on.

"I'll take him, if you're sure you don't mind giving him away for free," he said.

"Oh, I'm just glad he's got a good home," said Scott.

Nineteen

"Watch this," said Michael to his guest, as he looked across the room to the top of the torchiere lamp, where a little bird sat perched.

He made a bird tweet sound, and rocked his outstretched finger up and down in the air.

Instantly Nikki the blue budgie flew over and landed on his finger.

Michael chirped a bit to Nikki, and then Nikki responded with some very enthusiastic chirping and singing.

Twenty-Two

 "I think your bird is sick," said Michael's mom.

Michael still lived at home at age 22, since he got on fairly well with his parents, and he was saving his money so that one day he could move out and travel to someplace exotic and adventurous.

"Yeah, I know something's really wrong with him," replied Michael.  "One of his toes has fallen off.  He won't even eat lettuce right now."

Lettuce was one of Nikki's favorite treats.  Lately, however, Nikki wasn't showing interest in much of anything.  He just sat on his perch, feathers fluffed, having the appearance of permanently shrugged shoulders.

"You know," offered his mother, "the best thing might be to put him to sleep.  If he's suffering..."

"Yeah, I know.  I've been thinking about it.  I was talking to Joey and he said his mom ran a hose from the car's exhaust pipe to a hole in a shoebox and killed their parakeet that way."

"What I'd suggest is putting him in the freezer.  Put him in a little ziploc sandwich bag.  Birds can't take the cold, so he'd be gone pretty quickly."

"Yeah.. I dunno.  Maybe...  I want to see how he does in the next few days."

~><~

Michael sat on the bench at a bus stop on Hesperian Boulevard in Hayward.  His Mexican History class for the night had been about what really happened at the Alamo, according to the Mexicans.  The story differed quite a bit from the tale as it had been told during Michael's grade school days.  Evidently, Davy Crocket didn't die fighting, but was rather captured and later executed.  It had been really fascinating.

Now, however, as he waited in the cold night air, he thought again about what to do with Nikki.

Nikki, his beloved friend, the one who had once tried to go swimming in the Betta fish bowl.  He'd perched on the edge, bent down to get a drink, and fell in.  He was pedalling his spindly little legs so fast it was amazing.  Michael had immediately scooped him out, so grateful that he'd witnessed the event, and had been there to rescue him.

Nikki, who had once flew out the front door and had a grand adventure in the trees of the neighborhood .  Evidently all memory of his beloved owner had faded, because he was singing loudly and flying from tree to tree, and resisting all efforts for capture by Michael.  (He was finally lured to Mike's finger by a big green leaf of lettuce, whereupon his owner immediately clamped a thumb down over one foot to prevent his flying off again.)

Nikki, who during particularly loving times would regurgitate seed to "feed" Michael, who had been serenading him with an earnest imitation of bird song.

Suddenly Michael noticed someone had approached and was now sitting down at the other end of the bench.

It was an elderly gentleman, with a big grey overcoat, a black scarf bunched around his neck, and green fabric cap on his head.  His chin had a goatee of a few days growth of grey stubble.  His eyes were hidden in the shadow of the brim of his hat.

After glancing over at the man, Michael went back to his thoughts.

"Too cold!" said the old man, trying to start a conversation.

Michael sort of looked over, and grunted nearly inaudibly.

"Going to Chabot?" said the man, referring to the community college just behind them.

"Yeah," answered Michael, who was really not a big conversationalist.

There was silence for a minute or two.  Then the man spoke again.

"Know when the 42C is supposed to get here?"

"Umm... I don't have my watch with me, but probably in a few minutes," said Michael, leaning forward and looking left down the wide street, trying to make out the taller lights of a city bus among the several cars traveling up and down.

"No watch on me, either," said the grey stubbly old guy.

After another few moments of silence, the man spoke again.

"Know anyone who has a parakeet they want to get rid of?"

This time Michael had more to say, and he answered, and they began a conversation about budgerigars.  The old man explained that his had died a couple weeks ago, and he was going to find a new one, hopefully for free, to replace him.

Michael let on that his budgie was ailing and that he was thinking of euthanization.

"Does he have any quality of life?" the stranger asked.

"No, I guess not.  He just sits there on his perch.  And his toe fell off.  Doesn't sing or even look in his mirror."

"Probably vitamin deficiency.  Though if you've had him as long as you say, it might just be his time to go.  The don't live much over 10 years, usually.  Is there anything he enjoys?  My bird used to let me scratch his head sometimes."

Michael hadn't thought of that, but now he remembered.

"Yeah, you know, my bird never, ever let me touch him or pet him.  He'd always turn his head and try to peck me.  Now that he's sick, though, a couple of time he's let me scratch his neck and the back of his head.  It's pretty cool.  He actually leans into my finger, like he loves it," said Michael, looking off at nothing, imagining it.

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, my Mom says I should put him to sleep, put him in a plastic bag and put him in the freezer; that he'll be gone in just a few minutes."

"Oooo...." said the man, making a sound of disapproval.  "Are you sure that would work?  How long would it take him to die?  You'd probably be suffocating him, not really freezing him to death."

Michael just looked at the man without saying anything.  There was something about this guy... he reminded him of his Uncle Charlie a bit.  With a full beard he might even pass for him, here in the streetlamp-lit dark.  He chuckled audibly a bit at the thought, then realized that he wasn't really listening to the man.  He heard the words, but they were glancing off.

"Funny?" said the man.

"No... no.  Sorry, I was thinking of a joke someone told me."

"Oh yeah?  How's--"

"Well, what's the best way to euthanize a budgie?" said Michael, talking over the man.

"The main thing is, well, what you have to ask yourself, is he truly in pain?  Or does he get some enjoyment out of life still?  I have no doubt the little guy is dying.  But does he need you to finish him off early?"

"I think he's suffering," replied Michael.  "He doesn't sing--"

"Imagine if you did put him in the freezer bag," interrupted the old man, looking past Michael down the street, watching the lights of the oncoming cars for a moment.  "How long would it take?  Suppose you leave him in there 5 minutes.  Then you go and check.  And he's still alive.  Laying in the plastic bag.  Breathing rapidly.  Trying to get enough air."

Michael didn't say anything, but he felt revulsion for the old man now.  What a sick thing to say.  Who was this weirdo?  Homeless bum.

The old man continued.

"You might not be able to forget that the rest of your life.  He thought you were his friend."

Michael turned his face away to look down the boulevard for the bus again.  He saw the familiar destination sign atop an approaching set of lights.

"I am his friend," he muttered, as he stood and moved toward the curb.

When the bus pulled up, Michael boarded first.  A bit annoyed at the turn of the conversation, he simply paid his fare and walked to the back of the bus, wondering if the old man would follow and try to continue talking with him.

Evidently the geezer didn't even board the bus.  Kind of odd since at this time of night the only bus that ran down Hesperian was the 42C.

"He was probably gonna hit me up for money eventually," thought Michael to himself.

~><~

In the days that followed, Michael decided that he'd spend just as much quality time with Nikki as possible.  After work, before school, after meetings, he would gently reach into Nikki's cage and cup him in his hand, pulling him out to hold him close, and scratch his feathered head and neck.

Nikki really seemed to enjoy it.  He'd turn his head to get some more on a different spot.  His eyes would close as if bathed in pleasure.

More toes fell off during the next couple of weeks.  A friend told Michael, "that's why you should give them vitamin supplements."  Educational, but hardly comforting.

Then early one morning, while it was still dark, Michael suddenly awoke and sat up in bed.  He thought he'd heard the sound of something hitting the newspapers at the bottom of the bird cage.

He reached over to switch on the light and got up to see how Nikki was.

Nikki lay motionless.  There was no breath in him.  He was gone.

~><~

Just fifteen minutes later, outside in the cold, Michael lay Nikki down in the small grave he had just dug under his bedroom window.  He scraped the earth back in, covering the small blue body of his years-long friend.  Then he stuck a popsicle stick in the ground as a temporary headstone, and went back inside the house.

Instead of returning to sleep, Michael kept the light on, and wrote in his journal about Nikki's demise.

Then when it was time, he showered, breakfasted, and went off to work.

Forty-Two

Michael sat at a little sidewalk café table with his wife of eleven years.

For them it was happy hour instead of the rush hour it was for those in the cars that drove past down Market Street toward the edge of the city and on toward the suburbs.  A few headlights had already been turned on, now that the sun had set and twilight was just beginning.

Holding his wine glass motionless before his face for a moment, the distant lights of an approaching bus reminded him of something from long ago.

"Did I ever tell you about 'Uncle Mickey'?" 

"Only about 100 times," said Jilly, with a wry smile.

Michael frowned slightly, and took a sip.

"No, go on, tell me," said his wife.  "What made you think of him?"

"I'm not sure," replied Michael, staring off at nothing in particular.  "Sometimes you just remember stuff.  People."

Jilly fondled the stem of her glass, silent for a moment.  The sounds of the city filled the air.

"He wasn't your real uncle, was he, if I remember?" she said.

"No...  no, he was just this guy, looked like a bum, really, that talked to me one night after school, when I lived in the Bay Area."

"Why do you call him 'Uncle Mickey'?"

"Not sure... he reminded me of my Uncle Charlie a bit, though I guess he didn't really look anything like him.  I just...  I just regret not asking more about him, not talking to him more."

"What did he look like?" she asked.

"That's funny I don't even remember.  It was night, it was dark, and all I can remember is seeing his chin with a little grey beard, like a goatee or something, or like he hadn't shaved for a few days.  Yeah, he mostly looked like a bum."

"What did he say to you?"

"I don't even remember.  What I mean, though, is back when I was in my twenties, I was still pretty shy.  I hated people!"

"Like I still do," chuckled Jilly.

"And for some reason, now I love them.  Especially old people... I know they're still teenagers inside.  I love asking them about their past, what were their favorite radio shows, how much gasoline cost, that kind of stuff," said Michael.  "Oh and by the way, you don't hate people.  You like people!"

"No, I don't."

"You like me, don't you?"

"Maybe."  She was smiling and looking in his eyes.

Michael smiled back for a moment, and then went on musing.

"'Uncle Mickey'.  I wished I'd talked to him more."

They sat in silence, drinking their wine, watching the traffic go by.

A pet store delivery van drove past.  On the sides were the images of some animals, a kitten, a lizard, and a couple of parakeets.

He thought pleasantly for a moment about a parakeet he once had named Nikki.

Sixty-Eight

Michael heard the front door open downstairs.

"Hello-ohhh," he sang out, getting up and descending the stairs to greet his wife.

"Hey-ee" she responded.

"How are ya?" he asked, before giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"Oh I'm exhausted..."

"Jilly... I'm sorry.  But hey, can I tell you something?" he asked.

She sensed the strange excitement in his voice, and so gave him her attention as she pulled off her overcoat and hung it up in the hall closet.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Come over here and sit down for a minute," he said.

"Whoa... is it major?" she asked, as they walked into the living room and sat on the sofa.

"No, not really," he said.  "I'm just stoked about this, that's all.  Okay... well, listen, remember Jason, the guy with the pirate treasure thing?"

"Ummm.... pirate treasure?"

"Well, no not necessarily 'pirate', but he's salvaging a ship found in the Philipines?  Not him directly, but he's coordinating investors.  Remember?"

"Vaguely."

"Well, I don't know if it's a scam or not, but he doesn't think so, and anyway, every year he goes down with his wife to this conference in Mexico, and they do a presentation."

"Let me guess.  He wants you to go with him," she said with slight frown.

"Yes, he does.  His wife is sick, the flu I guess, and anyway, it's free!  He's paying for the air fare and hotel and I'll be back in 5 days.  Do you mind?"

"No," she said tersely.

"Look, I know you don't--"

"No, it's fine," she interrupted, "I'll watch some movies, I'll hang out with--"

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" he gushed, kissing her face repeatedly.

"Will you get paid?"

"I don't know about that, he didn't say.  But I don't care, I'm just looking forward to checking out the conference.  Might see some celebrities!"

"What is the conference about, again?  Bunch of stuff, right?" she asked.

"Yeah, I think it's called 'Extraordinary Inventions Conference' or maybe 'Extraordinary Technology Tradeshow' or something."

"Maybe it's called 'Conference of Amazing Scams That You Can Invest In,'" she laughed.

Michael laughed too, but then continued:

"No, this stuff is real.  Remember Magic Johnson, the basketball player, who had AIDS?"

"Not really.  He had AIDS?"

"Or he was at least 'HIV positive'.  Yeah, this was years and years ago.  Well, anyway, a few years later, he's all active with promoting 24 Hour Fitness gyms, and no more mention is made of him being sick.  Like he doesn't have AIDS anymore."

"Yeah?"

"Well, Jason told me that he went to one of these conferences, and bought this 'Rife Technology' machine that kills viruses with electrical frequencies.  Now the AIDS foundation is all mad at him because he's not their spokesman anymore, and they're discrediting him, and saying he never had it in the first place."

"Did he?"

"Heck yeah!  He came out in a national news conference!  This was before you and I had even met; it was a long time ago.  My point, though is--  oh wait, yeah, see, the FDA doesn't like stuff like this, because it ruins the drug companies' business.  That's why they have this conference every year in Cabo San Lucas now, so the FDA can't shut them down."

"Interesting," she said, half-heartedly, stretching her arms over her head.

"So there's lots of rich people that go down, listen to the presentations, buy stuff, invest in stuff, like hopefully Jason will get some investors in the sunken treasure ship thing they're trying to excavate.  He says they have some amazing, unbelievable stuff down there.  Super advanced technology, and there's new things being introduced every year."  His enthusiasm greatly exceeded hers.

She yawned, and said "Can we take a walk?"

"Sure!" he said.

"It's pretty cold out there.  You might want to bundle up.  I'm serious.  It's freezing out there."

"Can I borrow your black scarf?" he asked.

"Sure, and hey, wear that new hat I got you at Ross."

He laughed out loud.  "The one that looks like I've embraced communism"?

"It looks good on you!  Wear it."

"Okay" he said, going off to the hall closet, while she ran upstairs to the bedroom for a few minutes.

She changed out of her skirt into some jeans, and freshened up.

A little while later, she came down the stairs.

It seemed strangely quiet.  Michael wasn't humming, or singing, or making any noise.

Had he gone out to the mailbox?  She'd brought the mail in with her and had set it down as soon as she'd come through the door.  She hadn't heard the front door open and close.

There was no sound of the bathroom fan.

It was silent.

"Michael?" she called out, now at the bottom of the stairs.

Silence.

With a start, she suddenly noticed that Michael was sitting on the living room sofa again.  He'd put on his overcoat, her scarf, and his new green cap.  

He was sitting there, staring.

"Michael?  Michael, what's wrong?"

He kept silent for a moment, with a very confused look on his face. 

Then he spoke.

"I just saw Uncle Mickey."

"Uncle Mickey?" she said.  "Where?  Is he outside?

"In the bathroom," he replied.

She turned her head toward the bathroom, which was silent and dark.

"He's in the bathroom?" she asked, with a puzzled look.

"No..." replied Michael.  "In the mirror."