Billy Purgatory: I am the Devil Bird

by Jesse James Freeman

  Billy grabbed her tighter when he jumped the railroad tracks and was about to fly across Highway 9 even though there was a line of semi headlights barreling their direction. If he'd just kicked vampire ass, then some bubba hauling a load of cantaloupes was the last worry on his mind.

  “I'm not going anywhere with anyone,” she whispered. “There's nowhere I'm safe. They're after me.”

  Crossing the highway isn't the ideal place for your passenger to decide to push you one direction and herself the other, but that's what happened. Billy exchanged those green eyes flying away from him, back towards the side of the highway they had come from, with eighteen-wheeler headlamps as he slid onto the pavement and before the line of big trucks. He saw the girl picking herself up from a stand of weeds she'd used to lighten her fall and for that half second he considered moving her way, but he'd slid too far towards the other side of the highway and those damn trucks were way too close.

  Billy grabbed his board and sprinted out of the path of oncoming death and stood helplessly out of breath on the other side of the road, cut off from the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen by a line of trucks and trailers that never seemed to end.

  When the road was finally clear, the girl was gone.

  After the night of that rescue, Billy's life would never be the same again, beyond the fact that he was kind of a knuckle-head and still cared only about skateboard tricks and barbecued hot wings. A very strange week would begin all the same, and time or memories would never make much sense afterwards.

  Worst of all Billy didn't even know her name.

  Chapter 2

  I Am The Devil Bird

  Billy Purgatory was ten years old, and according to his teacher, was neither gifted nor a genius. The opinions of the principal and the guidance counselor lady weren't so hot either. Sometimes even the school janitor would stare at him and shake his head. “You just ain't right, kid.” What did any of it mean, what was genius anyhow? What qualified genius-dom? His science book was full of dudes with crazy hair and moustaches that were supposed to be geniuses. Billy figured maybe the peak of his own hair didn't shoot up high enough for any of them.

  The topic could continue to be debated forever Billy guessed. What didn't seem to be open for discussion was the fact that everyone at George A. Custer Elementary agreed that Billy needed focus and something they called “a life plan.” So when career day finally came around, Billy loudly proclaimed to all that he was going to grow up to be a skateboarder because that's what he was already and he wasn't changing his mind about it. Billy hadn't really picked skateboarding; it had chosen him. It was the only thing he ever stuck with, mostly because his old wooden board was the only thing he'd never been able to break.

  Jammed under Billy's bed were parts to air rifles, wind-up robots and dud firecrackers. There was a chemistry set lodged under there somewhere that occasionally leaked a green ooze across his bedroom floor. He'd been told by the kid from down the street, Artie Wusenkrantz, that it tasted like gasoline and sour apple candy. Billy had dared Artie to stick his tongue in the stream of smoking goo and Artie had complied because Artie wasn't a genius either. Artie was never allowed to come play at Billy's house again, but on the upside, Billy had gotten to ride in the ambulance with Artie.

  Riding in an ambulance, or anything, was a novelty - there was no family car, and Billy did the majority of his traveling on his skateboard. He never walked: walking was for losers. Teachers and doctors and the guy in the beer truck;that was their way. Well, the beer guy did have a truck, but it's not like it did any tricks.

  Billy's skateboard was one of two constants in his life. The only things that didn't mysteriously vanish or, even worse yet, never were. Nobody else seemed to understand how important that board was to him. The other kids surely didn't get it - neither did their fireman dads or their lawyer moms who had tried so hard to get Billy excited about all the normal stuff they did all day and how important it was to be a productive member of society.

  The only other consistent thing in Billy's life was his father. Billy didn't call him that though. He'd always called him Pop. Billy's Pop would have laughed at all that career day stuff. Pop didn't have crazy hair but Billy was pretty sure he was a genius. Pop told him stuff they didn't let you in on at school, like how there was supposed to be future stuff already, like moving sidewalks and monorails and jetpacks. Pop told him that the government had lied and screwed people out of all that stuff and the only reason we ever went to the moon was to bury Jimmy Hoffa up there.

  Pop had it all figured out. Pop and the guy who drove the beer truck that is.

  And while constant in Billy's life, Pop didn't leave the house much and hadn't exactly penciled in career day like all the other parents had. Billy's mom might have been a lawyer or a teacher or a fireman for all Billy knew, but Billy had no idea where she was.

  Billy would one day in the near future ask Pop where Mom was? They'd be riding in Mrs. Scopas' old Cadillac, which was borrowed when Pop had an important errand to run. They'd be out on Route 9 and Pop pointed to the other side of the highway at a vine chocked stone wall. “Last time I saw her she was on the other side of that wall,” Pop would say.

  “Is she still over there?” Billy would ask.

  Pop would just shrug and have another beer. “Put your seatbelt back on, boy.”

  So Billy had flown solo on career day. One of the other kid's dads implored Billy to consider an exciting job in construction when he got older. “We'll start you sweeping floors, kid.” The old dude ruffled Billy's hair while his little jerk-off son stuck his tongue out at Billy behind his daddy's back.

  “Yeah, thanks but no thanks, Mister. Billy Purgatory ain't no street-sweeper,” Billy countered. Normally, this would have ended the offer for now, but left it open for future consideration, had Billy's fist not proceeded to shove Daddy Construction's little angel's tongue back into his mouth.

  “You hear me? Billy Purgatory ain't no street-sweeper!”

  Billy was asked to leave career day early by the principal. The principal also told him not to come back to school for the rest of the week. So, Billy sailed down the school steps on his board, off to practice his chosen career. Billy always had tons of new trick ideas and school just got in the way of that.

  Billy was the best skateboarder in the whole town. Well, he was the only skateboarder in his whole town, but he figured that was because the other kids knew they didn't have a shot at his title.

  Billy's Pop had told him about the olden days when kids used to go outside. Sometimes, Billy would walk out to the street in front of their house and survey the landscape, not one more kid in any direction. Billy had heard rumors that on the north end of town where all the rich kids lived there were birthday parties and swimming pools and fancy baseball diamonds. Kids whispered that there was a lake somewhere nearby and there were motorboats and vacation homes.

  If any of that was true it was all dandy, but none of it had to do with Billy's life. All Billy had were the wrong side of the tracks and the old harbor full of rusting ships and rat-chewed warehouses.

  It's not like he wanted to hang out with any of those kids anyway. They were ignorant to the way of the board and high adventure. The only kid that he even talked to was Artie Wusenkrantz, and not because he wanted to, but mostly because he followed Billy home everyday – or tried to - the kid had short legs, no wheels and got winded quick.

  When he considered Artie, Billy couldn't help but find his devotion admirable and kinda gutsy, especially since Billy had talked him into burning off the tip of his own tongue.

  Nobody at school ever talked to Artie. Everyday Artie'd run onto the playground and push the merry-go-round as fast as his fat legs could go and then jump aboard and ride it all by himself while the other kids stared. He made racecar noises going around in circles until he got dizzy and couldn't hold on anymore. Ultimately, Artie would get thrown off that spinning hell-wheel and land face first in the dirt. This replayed thousands of times
every recess as Artie once more tempted the fates and lost. Regardless, it was always a big hit with the other kids and they'd point and laugh as Artie dusted himself off and spit dirt out of his mouth.

  Billy and Artie weren't friends, but he never laughed at the kid when he slid into the dust. Billy kinda wished that one day Artie would be able to hang on and show them all, but Billy knew that'd never happen. Billy didn't have any friends at all if you wanted to get all technical about it. Artie was annoying, and Billy would rather not hang out with him, but that didn't mean Billy rathered hang out with anyone who'd go out of their way to make Artie more of a joke than the universe had already made him.

  Billy didn't talk to the popular kids ever, except for this one day when he found himself face to face with the girl that everyone was all crazy about - their leader - Mandy Brickstaff. “You know, Purgatory, we had a vote and you're the least popular kid in the whole school.” Billy thought about it a second and pointed to Artie lying in the mud, “Even less popular than him?” Billy shot back. Mandy smacked her gum, “Oh yeah. At least he makes an effort to entertain.”

  He'd made a judgment call that no matter how awful a person Mandy Brickstaff was it would be wrong to punch her lights out when she decided to twist the knife further, “And that ugly scar across your face creeps us all out. Someone must have dropped both of you on your heads when you were born. Did the doctor slap your face instead of your ass?”

  Billy crossed his arms and stared her down and she eventually slithered backwards into the nest with the rest of her snakes. He was never going to give her the satisfaction, and he didn't care about what any of them thought.

  Billy Purgatory was a Lone Wolf.

  Billy, free of career day and sailing down the streets once more, spent the rest of the sunshine skating around the abandoned concrete plant and what was left of King Neptune's Fun Land water park. Billy liked taking his board down the old slides, long since dry and free of fat ladies on inner tubes that would have gotten in his way. He'd never once seen another soul out there, even the truant officers and cops didn't look for him there, not that they would be looking for him today.

  That's the night that Billy's life began to change and the whole world went bat-crack insane. Billy decided later on that it all had to do with the chicken that lived in his backyard.

  The chicken and what would go down in the near future at the baseball diamond – that's a story for a different time and place, and when Billy thought about the past his mind always half-piped right over Devil Birds and vampires.

  II

  Standing at his front door, Billy pulled out the big ring of keys he kept hidden under the loose floorboard of the porch and went to work on the locks of the front door. Billy's Pop was what you might call ‘security conscious’ and Billy had to strain to reach the top keyhole. Skeleton keys made a click, clack, click and finally Billy pushed inside.

  There was Pop, like always, sitting in front of the TV.

  Billy's Pop was named Ulysses S. Purgatory. He'd been in 'the Nam.' Billy asked him to tell stories about it all the time, but Pop never said much and what he did say was just sort of crazy. Billy knew that his father had been Special Forces and something bad had happened over there. Something about Laos and someone named Medusa. Billy knew this lady that hung out on the corner, and he'd heard her tell some guy while she leaned into the window of his car that her name was Medusa. Pop had said that wasn't the same lady.

  Pop hadn't been able to teach Billy to skate because he'd lost a leg in the war. Pop sort of limped around on a wooden one. Uly Purgatory had come back from the war and joined the Lucifer's Circus Motorcycle Club. Drinking and hell-raising and lots of scary tattoos followed. Billy had overheard most of this from people around the neighborhood. Everyone seemed to like Pop just fine, but it was no secret they kept their distance just the same.

  If Pop had been some natural badass, that was all ancient history. Nowadays it was shorts, a bubba work shirt, chopper rusting in the garage, and the wooden leg propped up on the coffee table. To Billy, he was just Pop.

  Pop didn't look over when Billy walked in. He never did.

  “Pop, how come you always watch those shows where they fix up houses? Are you gonna fix up our house?” Billy slammed the front door shut and all the locks death-trapped back into place.

  Ulysses stared at the tube. “Nope, but I like leavin' my options open.” Then (always), “Son, I think you need a beer.”

  “I'm ten, Pop. I can't drink beer.”

  Uly kept staring. “You're right, son, but bring your old man one, will ya?”

  Billy grabbed Pop's beer and then sat on the couch with him. Pop cracked it open and sucked it down, “You still hanging out with that fat kid lives down the street?”

  “I don't actually ‘hang out’ with him…”

  “Nah, it's good. Keep him around.” Pop took his last swig. “Just remember, boy, if a firefight breaks out, that kid's on his own getting out of the jungle. Fat kid's a great decoy.”

  Billy crinkled his forehead. “Firefight?”

  Pop crushed his beer can. “Might not make sense now, but that's solid tactics. They won't teach you that in Algebra class. Can't learn it playing Chinese checkers.”

  “What's Chinese checkers, Pop?

  Pop smiled. “That's what Nixon said. Two weeks later he's lying dead in a South American rum hut while Castro's got the Secret Presidential Carlsbad Cavern Tourist Wallet.”

  “I don't remember that from President's Day…”

  “Replaced Nixon with a robot, boy. Covered the whole thing up.”

  Billy started jumping up and down on the coffee table. “Pop, lemme show you my new trick!”

  Pop broke off the aluminum can tab. “When's the last time you checked on the bird?”

  Billy started to lie, but Pop cut him off. “See if he needs anything.” Billy jumped down, knowing protest wouldn't work no matter how dramatic.

  “Stupid chicken.”

  “Rooster,” corrected Billy's Pop.

  “All the same when it hits the bucket, Pop.”

  Billy remembered being even a littler kid and finding Pop out in the backyard one day. Pop was hammering old broken boards and rusted wire together. Billy got really excited; he'd been begging for a tree house.

  “Tree house? Enemy owns the skies, son. Stay low, keep your powder dry and bring me more nails.”

  Billy grabbed an old coffee can full of nails. No tree house, no trapdoor – another life's goal smashed.

  Old Yalos Ramirez was the local landscaper. The people in the nice houses across town got him to cut their lawns and trim their hedges into animal shapes. Pop wasn't into landscaping, said it made his wooden leg hurt. He'd normally let the grass grow up good and high before he cranked up the lawnmower and have a few beers while making wild circles around the yard. When it was mostly cut down, Pop would throw anything that burned into the firebox on the grill and barbecue pork ribs. He and Billy would sit on the fresh cut backyard and eat ribs until they passed out. Billy liked the ritual of it all and didn't care that Yalos didn't get all fancy with their yard.

  Thus, Billy was shocked to find Yalos' truck in the driveway. “Awe damn, if Pop don't mow the yard anymore how's he gonna get drunk enough to barbecue?”

  Billy found Mr. Yalos standing in the backyard, fanning himself with his straw hat. The thing Pop had been building was done and Billy realized it was some kind of shed with square patterned wire across the front. It was dark inside and Billy strained to see what was in there, because something definitely was. Something big and snoring that smelled like cheap tequila.

  “Mr. Yalos, what is that in there making all that racket?”

  Whatever it was slammed into the wire and Billy saw bright white feathers.

  “Chicken Diablo, little Billy. They used to fight him in the old country.” Yalos's words were always measured and thick. Billy liked to hear the old dude talk.

  “Like, chicken fighting chicken?”
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  “No,” corrected Yalos, “Rooster fighting men.”

  “Badass.” Billy was impressed and that rarely happened when an explosion wasn't part of the mix.

  “He would drink the mezcal and he fight all the men in the village,” Yalos began his yarn. “He beat them all too. Then Devil Bird would make sweet love to all their ladies. Finally, they banish him.”

  “Couldn't he just go back and live with the other chickens?”

  “No, he was much too big by then,” continued Yalos. “And much too drunk.”

  “What did he do then?”

  “He fight bears, alligators, horse, some tigers…”

  “He always won?” Billy was wide-eyed.

  Yalos nodded. “Oh yes. He won against them all, every creature just as fast as Adam could name them in the Garden.”

  Billy let Yalos go on because this was getting good.

  “The Gates of Hell opened for him then, and the bird walked in to fight the Devil. People say he was so angry and drunk because the Devil stole his wife. The bird and el Diablo fought for many years, so much fighting that it began to wreck the world above. The fire pits roared and made the volcanoes. Demons cheered and their breath caused tornadoes. The bird's sweat flew off his feathers and then we got the typhoon.”

  Billy jumped up and stood on his board for emphasis. “That chicken beat the Devil?”

  “You never win against the Devil on his own turf. The Devil was so impressed at how he had fought though that he lent him his name. This is why they call him now The Devil Bird.”

  Billy looked into the pen again - the Devil Bird was huge, bigger than Pop. The bird was on his back and empty tequila bottles already littered the pen. His snoring was like a train jumping the tracks and the Devil Bird let rip a giant belch that shook the chicken wire.

  “He's all yours now. I am too old to care for him any longer. Goodbye, little Billy.”

  “Wait, Mr. Yalos, why do we have him?” Yalos was already shuffling to the gate and Pop was working on a cigar out by what had long ago been a fence line.