by Kirk Jockell
Candice bowed and stretched her back and as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes said, “Whatcha think’n ‘bout? Your new girlfriend?”
Nigel smiled and said, “No. Not exactly.”
Candice squeezed her thighs on Nigel’s hips and said, “Well, let’s see if I can’t get your mind off whatever troubles you.” She reached down and grabbed the back of his legs and began a slow grind and wiggle. It didn’t take long for Nigel’s body to react. Candice made a slight adjustment or two. She took him with her hand and raised her hips. She gasped as she settled back down. As she caught her breath, she said, “Well, there you are. Good morning to you too.”
Candice worked her magic and Nigel was happy to put off his thoughts of the Bowery Station tokens, the gang from Charleston, and the parrot boy. With a ten-mile smile, Nigel reached back and grabbed the curtains and slung them together closing the gap.
Later, Nigel slipped out from under the covers and left Candice to her dreams and pillow hugging. He took a quick shower and donned a fresh uniform: shorts, Columbia fishing shirt, flip-flops, visor, and Calcutta sunglasses. Minutes later he was having more coffee with Brian in his apartment. Nigel could squeeze in one more cup. It was 0945 and he has a personal moratorium on coffee after 1000.
They made small talk about the day before, and Nigel congratulated him on two successful shows. “Right on, brother! Right on! It was a good day all around,” Brian commented.
They both laughed like hell as Nigel described the little, naked, potbellied guy running around the street chasing people with his curling iron sleeve over his pecker. And Nigel rolled his eyes when Brian brought up the gal from Charleston and the tip-bucket kiss. It did, however, serve as a reminder for his visit.
“So, Brian, do you know anything about an unsavory-looking cat with a parrot that runs around the Apalach and St. George Island area?”
Brian’s face went sour. “Scrawny looking little shit with dreadlocks?”
“That sounds like the guy,” said Nigel. “Has one of them Doctor Doolittle parrots, except it’s red.”
“I don’t know much, but I know enough. His name is Jessie or Jess, at least that’s what folks tell me. More importantly, he’s a pain in my ass. I don’t like him.”
“Really?”
“The son of a bitch is a bum. He shows up with that damn parrot and disrupts my show. He asks for money or beer from the tourists in exchange for having a picture taken with that nasty bird. The tourists love it, naturally, until he starts asking for money. Matt and Lisa had to tell the fucker to stay away. Folks were complaining.”
“Really?” Nigel said again. “How long ago was that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe three or four months ago.”
Nigel didn’t say anything.
“But that’s not the big thing. I could give a rat’s ass if the guy gets a free beer from time to time. It’s that fucking bird. It’s loud as shit and won’t shut up while I play.”
“Maybe it wants to hear more Buffett covers.”
Taking slight offense to the Buffett comment, Brian said, “Screw you, Nigel!”
Nigel laughed and said, “Easy, brother. Just poking at you.”
“I’m sorry. I just don’t like that guy or his damn bird. And to make matters worse. I can probably expect to see the bastard later today.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m back on the island this afternoon, playing at Parrothead’s and the owner likes it when he shows up.”
“Forget about him. Sorry I brought him up.”
“Why did you bring him up?” asked Brian.
“Ah nothing.” Nigel changed the subject, “So ... what time do you start playing?”
Oyster Radio was playing on the radio as Nigel’s truck headed back toward St. George Island. Lost in Florida, a Tom T. Hall song finished up right before the local news. He glanced at the stereo and smiled as Michael Allen reported.
“A Georgia man, identified as Frank Little of Darien, GA, was arrested on St. George Island yesterday after the Franklin County Sheriff’s Office responded to calls of a naked man chasing a woman around a house on Baker Avenue. When deputies arrived, the man was in the middle of the street wearing nothing. Little did show some discretion by containing his penis in a large black tube. The deputies described the incident as bizarre with one deputy stating, ‘he was running around performing lewd and obscene gestures with the tube, laughing like a hyena the entire time.’
“After refusing several requests to surrender quietly, Little was brought down with a Taser, taken into custody, and charged with public intoxication, indecent exposure, and false advertising. The black tube was later identified as a curling iron sleeve belonging to his girlfriend. The girlfriend refused to press assault charges, but became angry with the deputies when she learned the black sleeve wouldn’t be returned immediately. Little was later released on a twenty-five hundred dollar bond.”
As Nigel stepped on the back deck of Parrothead’s, Brian was well into his first set. Nigel took a corner table way in the back to listen and observe. The place was packed with tourists and from the looks of the tip jar, Brian was having another good afternoon. Brian didn’t even notice Nigel was there, but with all the bikinis and tanned skin running around, Nigel would have been disappointed in him if he had.
It wasn’t until he was about to start his second set that Nigel piped up and yelled, “Play that Colorado song.”
Brian found Nigel in the back and said, “Right on! You got it, stranger.”
Colorado is more than an original Brian Bowen song; for Nigel it carries a special significance. As Brian was introducing the song and providing insight to its inspiration, Nigel strolled to the front, made a contribution to the tip jar and moved to an empty bar stool so he could hear better.
It was through this song that Nigel first met Brian, not face-to-face, but by radio-to-ear. Nigel was poring over nautical charts while at the CPO Club on Key West Air Station. He was just passing through, sailing his boat and putting distance between himself and a murder for which he remained a suspect. The barkeep was streaming Oyster Radio over the Internet and, for some reason, when Nigel heard the song, Colorado, it stuck.
The next morning Nigel and his boat, MisChief, got underway, heading 270 true. The only destination was the western horizon in front of them. He had no idea where he wanted to go. He didn’t know. The only thing he knew were a few catchy lyrics from a song he heard from a Forgotten Coast radio station out of Apalachicola. That was enough, and he changed course for Port St. Joe.
In many ways, it was Brian and Oyster Radio that were responsible for Nigel stopping and dropping a hook in St. Joe Bay. Had he not changed course, had he continued heading west, he would have never met Candice, or Red, or Trixie, or any of the other characters, including Brian, that were now such an important part of his life. It was by way of Colorado that Nigel found this sleepy part of the Florida panhandle. It was Colorado that brought Nigel home.
Nigel was kicked back, sipping his beer, and enjoying the song when he noticed Brian get distracted. He didn’t sing the upcoming chorus. He continued to play behind scrunched eyebrows and gritted teeth. Then everybody on the deck became startled. A screaming squawk filled the air, followed by immediate whistling and laughter. Nigel turned his head and there he was, the guy believed to be named Jessie and his scarlet macaw.
Brian was right. Their presence was a complete distraction. Had it not been for the bird’s incessant chatter, it might have been okay. After all, the bird was beautiful and the guy seemed to have a modern-day pirate charm about him. It all fit the mood and environment of Parrothead’s. The problem, though, was it wasn’t okay. The guy was a pirate, and, to make matters worse, he and his parrot were fucking up Nigel’s favorite song.
When Nigel came off the bar stool, Brian smiled and started to sing, picking up where he left off.
By the time Nigel got to the parrot boy, the bird was already sitting on a lady’s shoulder a
nd laughing in her ear as she posed for a selfie with her phone. Others were around awaiting their chance to play with the bird, even though the parrot boy reeked from the freshness of last Thursday’s bath.
Nigel ignored her and spoke to the parrot boy, “Your name is Jessie, right?”
“Yeah. Who wants to know?
“The guy who can no longer hear the song he requested because your bird won’t shut up.”
The parrot boy said nothing and shrugged his shoulders.
“Both your nasty asses, you and the bird, need to leave now.”
The lady finished her selfie with the parrot and brought the bird back, slipping the guy a five-dollar bill.
Above the bird’s whistling and laughter, again Nigel said, “Leave. Now ... before I lose my patience. Get out of here.”
In her I’m-not-from-around-here accent the lady looked at Nigel and said, “Maybe you need to leave. This bird is sweet and gorgeous.”
“Lady,” Nigel said. “To start with, I’m not talking to you. And no, they are not sweet. He hasn’t showered in days, and, if you had been paying any attention at all, you would have noticed that sweet and gorgeous bird shit all down the back of your blouse.”
Her tone seemed to change when another woman confirmed the fecal splattering with a thin-lipped smile and a nod of the head.
The lady took off, yelling, “Harold! Oh my God! Harold! Back to the house.”
Nigel turned his attention back to the parrot boy. “I’m not going to say it again. Leave!”
“No.”
Nigel said, “Wrong answer.” He grabbed a handful of dirty dreadlocks, clenched down tight, gave them a half-twist and headed for the deck steps.
The parrot hung on but was flapping its wings and screaming in protest. The parrot boy was screaming and yelling as loud as the bird. They were almost to the steps when this fella intervened, “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Knock it off before I call the sheriff.”
Nigel slung the parrot boy around and released him.
The fella said, “I’m the manager here, pal.” Looking at the parrot boy, he asked “Now what’s going on, Jess?”
The parrot boy shrugged his shoulders, so Nigel explained, “I tipped your guitar player and requested a song. I was listening to it just fine until shithead here and his bird showed up.”
Parrot Boy started to smile big when the manager said, “Listen, pal. You’re going to have to leave. The customers love Jess and the bird. They get to stay. I can’t have any trouble here, so, unless you want me to call the sheriff, you got to leave.”
Nigel looked at the manager, then to the parrot boy who was now wearing a smartass grin. He looked back at the manager who said, “Now. You have to leave, now.”
The parrot boy said, “Listen, fella. I’m sorry about your song.” He reached into his pocket and continued, “Here. No hard feelings. Go to Bowery Station. These are worth a few free beers at the bar.”
The parrot boy held out and opened his hand. It was full of B.S. tokens. Nigel studied them, said nothing, and turned to walk away. A handful of folks applauded as he walked down the steps. The manager followed him and stopped at the edge of the parking lot.
From the microphone, Nigel heard Brian say, “Nice try, fella. See ya another time.”
Nigel didn’t leave.
When he got to his truck, he never looked back but figured the manager was watching. He jumped in, started it up, and pulled out of the parking lot nice and slow, no sign of anger or emotion.
Before pulling back into the parking lot, he made an easy-going drive around the block, stopping at a convenience store to pick up a six pack of beer, a bag of ice, and a can of Copenhagen pouches. He found a great place to park in the shadows that provided a good view of the parking lot and bar.
The old Ford F-150 isn’t as comfortable as it used to be, but Nigel didn’t mind. A new truck payment is far more painful, and he has sat and waited in far less comfortable conditions. It was hot and muggy, but he had beer, a little dip, and the radio. He settled in for the wait.
After about an hour and a few beers, Nigel observed several folks come and go from the bar, but no sign of Parrot Boy. The one thing he could see was the need to empty his bladder, so he got out and stepped around the back of the truck. He was finishing his business when he saw the red parrot bouncing along between cars. Nigel ducked down to watch as he zipped up his pants. When he was sure he hadn’t been seen, he crouched down and began to follow, keeping a couple rows of cars between.
The bird stopped moving next to an old Ford Taurus station wagon. Nigel crept closer and watched as Parrot Boy put the bird into a cage in the back seat. Nigel was only a row and a few cars away. When Nigel saw his target open the door and jump behind the wheel, he took off in a sprint. He gave a quick glance around to see if anyone could see him. There were a few people in the lot, but he was confident he wasn’t drawing their attention.
As he got closer, he could hear the engine begin to turn over. As the tired engine fired off, Nigel opened the passenger side door and jumped in, knocking a collection of empty fast food bags and a box into the floorboard. Parrot Boy jumped back startled, saying, “What the...” Nigel reached for the ignition, took the keys, and said, “Shut up and don’t move. We’re going to have a little talk.”
Nigel hoped he could do this without drawing much attention, but the parrot was excited by the commotion and began squawking and flapping its wings. Parrot Boy made a quick move for the door handle, but Nigel grabbed his wrist, twisted it back on itself and said, “Not so fast, Jess.”
Jessie shifted in his seat. He was much smaller than the six foot three inch, 230 pound Logan. He contorted his body as Nigel twisted. “Okay! Okay! Dammit ... just let go.”
Nigel did.
Jessie shook his wrist in the air and with fear in his voice said, “What do you want?”
“Tell the bird to shut the fuck up.”
He did, but it didn’t.
Nigel took the keys and started the car. As he did, he noticed the contents of the box that were now scattered about the car. He reached down and picked one of them up.
Jessie said, “What’s going on? What do you want with me?”
“Buckle up. You’re driving. Let’s go.”
“Where to?”
Nigel held up the bootleg B.S. token and said, “Bowery Station, bitch. You have some explaining to do.”
Parrot Boy hesitated. Nigel reached for his cell phone and said, “Or … I can call the Franklin County Sheriff.”
He put the car in drive and made for the street. Above the chatter of the bird, Nigel said, “You’re doing good. Keep it nice and easy, no funny business.”
They were halfway across the St. George Bridge when Nigel asked, “How many more boxes of these fake tokens do you have?”
The parrot boy said nothing.
Logan looked around at the surrounding traffic. There weren’t any cars around, so Nigel reached over and grabbed his driver by the throat and clenched his fingers and thumb around his windpipe. “Jessie. I asked you a question, goddammit.”
Parrot Boy let go of the wheel and tried to pull Logan’s hand away but couldn’t. The car started to roam over into oncoming traffic, so he let go of Logan’s hand and swerved back into his own lane. Logan released him and said, “Don’t piss me off. Keeping me happy is in your best interest.”
With one free hand, Parrot Boy rubbed his throat and, with a strained voice box, coughed the words, “You’re crazy.”
“No,” Logan said, “I’m just crazy enough. Now answer the question.”
The answer didn’t come quick enough, so Logan began to reach for his throat again.
“Two!” he screamed. “There are two more full boxes in the back.”
“Are there more anywhere else?”
“No. That’s all I have left.”
“Good.”
They were quiet, but it was awkward. Nigel’s quiet was cool, calm, and collected, offering an occasional smile
to his driver. Parrot Boy’s quiet smelled of nerves and fear. He wasn’t smiling.
They were now crossing the bay bridge toward Apalach. Nigel broke the silence, “So how much were you selling them for?”
Jessie said, “Does it matter?”
“Guess not.”
As they were closing in on town, Nigel said, “Okay. This is how this is going to work. You are going to find a parking space outside Bowery Station and we are going to serve you up a heaping helping of humble pie.”
“How do you mean?”
“You are going to tell Matt everything. Confess and apologize.”
“But what if he wants to call the cops and have me arrested?”
“He probably will, but that won’t happen. I am going to advise against it.”
The parrot boy looked at Logan with jittery eyes and asked, “Why would you do that?”
“For two reasons. First, you are not worth the county tax dollars it would take to prosecute your worthless ass.”
Parrot Boy tried to park across the street, but Nigel saw an open spot in front of the bar. “No. No. No, asshole. Park over there, in front.”
He did. After he put the wagon into park, Parrot Boy asked, “What’s the other reason?”
Logan looked at him with cold eyes and said, “Because, if Matt and Lisa ever even suspect you’re up to your old tricks, I promise, I will find you. And when I’m done, you will have wished you were locked up in jail, safe in the loving arms of some fat, burly inmate. Are we clear on that point, Wilma?”
Parrot Boy said nothing, but he offered a nod.
“Now pick up all those tokens and put them back in the box.”
He did as he was told and Nigel looked around. It was already shaping up to be a busy afternoon at the Bowery and the music hadn’t even started. A lot of folks were socializing outside on the bench and picnic table, which meant the seating was limited inside. The parrot mumbled and chattered to itself. Nigel turned toward the cage and said, “Shut up back there. I need to make a call.” Nigel pulled out his cell phone and dialed Matt’s number. Just before it went to voicemail, he answered.
“I’m a little busy, Nigel. What’s up?”