Every morning it wakes me up without fail. And the damn thing won't let me go back to sleep. I don't know what attracts it to me, but this little bird perches on a tree by my window and won't stop chirping until I get out of bed. No, chirping is too soft a word. Chirping is what cartoon birds do. I can sleep through chirping. It caws. A loud, annoying, car-horn-like caw. Like a crow.
The worst part is I've started getting up before it gets here, which means I get to listen to the entire show. Sometimes I'll jump out of bed and look out the window, but the damn thing flies off before I can catch a glimpse of it. I've got some nice calluses on my knuckles from punching the wall.
So it was no big surprise when it started cawing this morning. It happened when I was in that nice world between dreams and reality, when your eyelids get all heavy and flaky with sleep, but your mind still thinks you’re on some tropical island or ice skating on the ocean. I was on a game show. There were flashing lights and cash was flying through the air like snow. I could feel the money pile coming up to my neck. The host was saying something, and no matter how I answered I got more money. Honestly I didn’t even know what we were saying; we were speaking in that dream language that’s half noise, half random words. It was a good dream, one that I have often. Me getting something for nothing. Anyway, all the falling money was about to completely cover me when the cawing started. It cut through everything like a foot tapping in silence. At first you try to ignore it, but your ears focus on it and soon it’s all you can think about. So, my gibberish speaking game show host and glorious piles of money were all replaced by the incessant cawing of that damned bird. Then I became painfully aware that the heaviness in my eyelids was the only real part of it all. I have to roll across Grace’s side of the bed to get to the window. The bird flutters away, as always, before I can look outside. And, as always, I punch the wall next to the window. My fist slams into the smooth, knuckle-shaped grooves, and it doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as it used to.
The rest of the day goes by like every day since I retired. I stand in front of my closet and contemplate putting something on. This is a pointless ritual; it’s easier just to stay in my boxers. My eyes inevitably land on Grace’s blue dress, hanging in the corner, faded, covered in dust. It used to be so immaculate. She wore it every Sunday for twenty-five years. I don’t know how she kept it so blue.
My kids are gone and happy. They haven’t been by for a few years, but they’re doing their own things. Jack’s a lawyer, Ann’s married with two kids. Last time Jack was here, he set up the satellite dish. I get lots of channels, but I hate dealing with the remote, so I normally just leave it on Cartoon Network. I like to watch old episodes of Looney Tunes, back when cartoon violence was funny. I particularly relate to Wile E. Coyote, though it’s sad how he never catches the Roadrunner. Why couldn’t they let him win? Just one time. That’s all I want to see.
Of course, he never wins. And I never win. It seems like all my thoughts go back to that damn bird. The Satan bird. One day I looked up Acme in the phone book to see if I’d have more luck with them than Wile E. Coyote did, but it turns out they just sell bricks. Today I can’t really think straight. Everything in my head is dead birds or dying birds. Birds impaled on little stakes. Decapitated birds. Crucified birds. I know I have to kill it to get back to normalcy.
I have to go to my closet to get changed, and I regret it as soon as I get there. Grace’s blue dress is hanging right there, and I can’t focus because it takes up all of my vision. I push it aside before I get too worked up and grab the first shirt and pair of pants I can get my hands on. The pants are dress slacks, the same pair I wore to church every Sunday for twenty-five years. The shirt is just a plain white t-shirt with a red cross printed on it that I got for giving blood in the late eighties. It smells and it’s way too tight, but I’d rather wear it than face the closet again. So I go to Wal-Mart, and people don’t stare at my ensemble like I thought they would. They just let me pass them by. I’m just some shadow in their peripheral vision. At sporting goods I buy some shells to go with the shotgun I bought about thirty years ago. Grace let me buy a gun but she wouldn’t let me buy ammo. She liked the idea of the threat of a gun, but was afraid of a loaded weapon.
I drive back home and pull the shotgun out of the closet, keeping my eyes closed to avoid the blue dress. I load it, wipe the dust off the barrel, and set it down on Grace’s side of the bed. It looks ugly there, unwanted. So I take it off and set it underneath the window.
I stay up watching Cartoon Network until my eyes are red and dry. All my body wants to do right now is go to sleep, but my mind’s still burning. I have to kill that bird. When the sun starts shining light lines through the blinds, I go back to my bedroom and take position underneath the window. The bird can’t see me, otherwise it won’t land on the tree outside. I know how it thinks. It’s been haunting me ever since Grace died.
My ears are waiting for the terrible cawing of that infernal bird, but my internal clock knows exactly when it will appear. It’s like the bird’s been hard-wired to my brain, and all I want to do is remove the foreign matter. I just want everything back to normal. I look over at my bed and it’s big and empty and unmade. I miss sleeping in it for as long as I like. I miss sleeping in it with Grace.
Something clicks in my head and I turn to the window. It’s time, my body knows it. The cawing starts on schedule and I wait till halfway through the second caw to stand up and blow the shit out of that son of a bitch. My head’s filled with exploding feathers and silence. But, when I reach the window, it’s gone. I don’t even hear it flying away. There’s just the rising sun, the unmoving tree, the calm morning. My fist is pounding into the wall and I don’t know why I’m doing it anymore. The smooth grooves in the wall are dripping with blood, my blood, and I can’t stop punching. My hand is throbbing and swollen. When I finally stop, it’s too painful to open, so I just leave it balled in a fist. I sit down, my back against the window. The cawing starts again, but I’m too broken to even want to look. I walk over to my desk and grab a pen and a pad. I start writing; the words are shaky because I have to use my left hand.
Reasons why I shouldn’t exist
1. I don’t do anything anymore.
2. Nobody cares.
3. Grace is dead.
4. I’m hardly a dot on a speck on a thought in the mind of time.
5. I’m old.
6. I hate what I’ve become.
7. I can’t even kill a single bird.
I look at the list for a while. I can’t think of a reason to start another column, a set of pros to balance out the cons. I grab the shotgun and put the barrel in my mouth. It tastes cold and metallic. The cawing’s getting louder, but that’ll be over soon. Everything will be back to normal. I pull the trigger. Nothing. It doesn’t budge. Is it jammed? It’s been sitting in my closet for years. Outside my window, the bird is cawing even louder. The noise fills the entire room. I’m about to really lose it. I start slamming my hand against the gun, hoping it might unjam and blow out the back of my head. Then I see the safety’s still on. Laughter is escaping out of the edges of my mouth around the gun barrel. I can’t even kill myself properly. It’s so funny that I add it to the list.
8. Can’t kill myself properly.
Once my laughter subsides, I flick the safety off. I’m about to pull the trigger when I notice that the bird is going nuts. It’s still cawing, but now its wings are slapping against the window. I figure I might as well try to cross seven off the list. I stand up, turn around, and point the shotgun at the bird.
As soon as we locked eyes, I let the shotgun drop. It wasn’t an ugly black crow like I thought it was. When it flew away, its immaculate blue wings curled up like the edges of a dress caught in the wind.
