Birdy

we can keep in the loft. Nobody even knows we have pigeons, so nobody suspects us. With our witch, we’re the biggest pigeon-nappers west of Sixty-third Street.
    We start taking extra pigeons out to Cheltenham or Media on the train and selling them. Not much chance of anybody recognizing them way out here. We’re making three, four dollars each weekend that way. Working a whole paper route every day you can’t make that.
    And do we ever have great pigeons in the loft. Makes our old loft look like a pig sty. Birdy insists on keeping those first blue bars and, of course, we keep the ashes. Then, we have the sweetest pair of blue checks you ever saw. Checks as clear and unblurred as a checkerboard and they’re big but still slim, with high heads. They have feet red as persimmons and clean. Banded birds, both of them, beautiful. I could watch them all day. I really go for quality pigeons. We have two pairs of red bars almost as good, so good anybody’d trade three pairs of purebreds for either pair.
    The witch is in and out. Sometimes she’s gone three, four days at a time. Even though she’s making us all that money, I wish shewon’t come back some time. She gives me the willies. I don’t like the way Birdy is with her, either. They’re creepy together, especially when he’s wearing that stupid pigeon costume.
    I take another peek up and down the corridor. For a loony bin, it’s awful quiet. Most rooms have double doors. The outside door only has a small glass window so you can look in at the crazies; the inside door has bars. I’m sitting in the space between the two doors.
    It’s a lot better looking hospital here than the one at Dix. I’m in plastic surgery there and everybody’s in and out all the time. We have to wait two, three weeks, sometimes a month, between operations. We’re not sick so they let us out while we’re waiting. I’m heading home between operations; big hero in the hoagie shop. They tell me one more will do it; but I’ll never be able to grow a beard on that part. Who the hell wants to grow a beard anyhow?
    – Hey, Birdy boy!! Remember that old corny we had? She really had hot pants for you, buddy. How’d you like a little pigeon nookey, right now, huh?
    I have a feeling for a minute there I got to him, just the way his fingers unfold and fold again. He really could be putting this whole thing on. What the hell, it’s no sense bucking for section eight. They’re letting everybody out anyway.
    That corny used to parade back and forth in front of Birdy, cooing low and shimmying down her back the way a pigeon hen does when she wants a cock to jump her. She’s flirting with him, the witch. When Birdy’s spread some feed on the floor, she doesn’t go down and hustle with the others; oh no, she flies over on Birdy’s hand and gets him to feed her. She makes all the same moves a hen makes when she gets fed by a cock. Birdy even puts some grains between his lips and she picks them out. Christ, sometimes I used to think Birdy actually thought he was a pigeon.
    To bend the tree or fill the sail is nothing. Knowledge only, not knowing. A bird knows the air without knowledge.
    I want to see if I can remind Birdy of when we went on the treasure hunt. This was after the gas tank and after they made us break up the loft. We’d already graduated from elementary school and Birdy was going to a Catholic school. I’m going to Upper Merion, the public school. My parents are Catholic too, but they’re Italian Catholics and don’t go to church much. Birdy’s old man and old lady are big for mass and all that crap.
    Anyway, I have to write a story for my English class and since I have practically no imagination, I decide to work this gag on Birdy and write it up just the way it happens. We’re reading ‘The Gold Bug’ in class and maybe it gave me the idea.
    – Hey, Birdy!! How about when we went looking for old man Cosgrove’s buried treasure? Jesus, what a riot.
    I came over to Birdy’s place with the map. I’d spent almost a week making it and getting everything else ready. I have it all browned with fire and burnt on the edges. Christ, it’s a masterpiece. It’s all in code and we figure it out in Birdy’s room. We move a model for one of Birdy’s crazy birds off his desk so we can spread out the map. It’s raining that day.
    Birdy’s always making bird models. He makes them with balsa wood and paper the way you make a model airplane, only his are bird designs with