2019-06-02 - Conures Do Not Provide Therapy

Thank you. Going to walk. Your bird is nice. See you later. – Izzy

Alexander held the note in his hand, running his fingers over the paper-thin solidity of it, and laughed. It was an uncommon enough sound that Luigi, in his cage, whistled a brief alarm, then hopped over to rattle the door. Obedient to the insistent demand, Alexander opened the door with his free hand, then stepped back as the conure emerged in a flutter of feathers and indignation. It did several quick loops around the living room before crash-landing in his hair, clinging and scratching as he made his way down to his shoulder. Alexander met one bright black eye with his own. Alexander held still for this, as it was clearly his role in life. “She says you’re nice. You charmer, you.”

Luigi sidled close, then leaned into tap his beak briskly against Alexander’s stubbly cheek. He made a kiss-smack sound, then a throaty chuckle.

“This is why I don’t bring people home,” Alexander lied, as he crossed to the kitchen to make some chop. The fresh veggies and few precious fruits were pretty much all the fresh food in the house, and they were reserved for Luigi – except for a few piece Alexander absently ate while preparing the mix. “You shame me with your social graces.”

Luigi started crawling down his arm until he could hop to the bowl, and start walking around in the chopped fruits and veggies, nibbling contentedly. Alexander leaned a hip against the counter, and watched. “Do you think she’ll be back?” He breathed out. “Do you think she was even real?”

The bird stared up at him, a string of orange pulp dangling from his beak. Alexander reached down and wiped it away. “I have better table manners than you, at least.” Luigi immediately plunged his beak back into the slice. “She didn’t take anything,” Alexander said, frowning into the living room. Not that he had much to take – the conure was probably the most valuable thing he owned, and exotic birds were a tricky black market at the best of times. He was still surprised. Bringing a junkie back to your house on the basis of a decade old acquaintance was a stupid thing to do. He wasn’t usually that kind of stupid. Lots of other kinds of stupid, but not that kind.

“But I thought she was dead, Luigi.” He struggled for a moment to put into words the feeling of relief, shock, and sadness that had exploded in the pit of his stomach when he’d seen her, little frosh Izzy (but had she ever even attended any classes? He wasn’t sure), in the rain. He failed. “I’m glad she’s not.” Don’t get attached, his nasty little inner voice whispered, cynical and amused. She told you herself. She’s wired and wandering. In this town, she’ll overdose or flee into the night soon enough. If she comes back at all.

If she was even here.

Alexander rubbed the note between his fingers. She had been here. He chose to believe that, believe the rumpled couch and the paper and the ink. Was it coincidence to meet her on the beach? To take her to Two if by Sea? Or was it a nasty little trick, a prelude to an inevitable punchline: he was never going to save the girl. He couldn’t. He could kill one – (and just the thought brought back a flash of the feel of the electricity coursing through his fingers, the anger, the flash of pain and then the sudden silence under his hands as she fell) – but save someone? Anyone?

He felt a little like Charlie Brown, and the universe was Lucy, putting down that goddamned football one more time, and looking over at him with a shit-eating grin to say, “This time, Alexander. This time you might actually help make something better. You’ve almost got friends. You’ve almost got people who see what you see. Go ahead. Kick the football. I’ll hold it steady for you.”

And he was going to try, because he was always, reliably, that kind of stupid. Luigi abandoned the chop bowl, and squirmed under his hand, demanding scratches. Alexander obliged, feeling the paper-like rustle of the feathers beneath his nails as the bird cooed with appreciation. “What should I do, Luigi?”

Luigi just closed his eyes in bliss and twisted his head in frankly improbable directions, a tiny pulse of contentment and joy radiating outward like a warm breeze against Alexander’s skin. He felt himself relaxing, even as he remarked, “That’s not very helpful, you know. Not every problem can be solved with a pleasant scratch of neck feathers.”

Although there was no way Luigi understood any of that, Alexander still felt that the cant of the bird’s body revealed some deep, inner skepticism of that assertion. He sighed, and scooped up bird and bowl, relocating both to the cage, although he left the door open. “If she does come back, no biting.” The flick of Luigi’s bright red tail made it clear that there would be no promises made in that regard. “Be nice.”

Luigi regarded him with black-eyed incredulity. He was always nice. He was a very good bird. Just ask him! Alexander poked him in the beak to break the staredown, then cursed, quietly, to himself. “Food. There’s no food in the house.”

He grabbed his jacket. Even if she didn’t come back. Even if this was just a particularly vicious prank or self-loathing hallucination…well, it couldn’t hurt to have some sort of food in the house. Right?