by Weston Ochse
But he had to admit, the term Dirty Birds did seem appropriate. Gangly and malnourished, the homeless lurched from free coffee at the fast food restaurants to dumpsters and back for more free coffee, soaking in air conditioning and surviving on permanent caffeine highs.
Barely.
Simon spotted Billy Bones being escorted from the grocery store by an acne-faced bagger who held the Dirty Bird firmly by an elbow. Billy Bones shook his fist at the kid, then stumbled into the long racks of carts by the door. He spun, ready to defend himself against the metal monsters, but lowered his fists and grabbed the plastic handle of the cart nearest him instead. To the surprise of a nearby elderly woman, Billy gallantly proffered it. She accepted with wide terrified eyes. As she hustled through the sliding doors of the store, she missed Billy’s dramatic courtly bow.
Billy pulled his lanky brown hair from his eyes and plodded over to a bench, where he plopped down and inspected the dirt-filled creases of his hands. He wore faded blue pants, red flip-flops, and a brilliant tie-died t-shirt aswirl with golds, oranges and purples.
If pressed, Simon would call Billy Bones his favorite of the forty-seven lost souls he’d catalogued so far for The Retreat House. With most of the other homeless, it was prudent to be careful. Most times, they were as docile and slow moving as an iguana heating itself on the side of the road. Like that same iguana, however, the Dirty Birds could snap in the blink of an eye.
Simon had seen a Dirty Bird snap once. He remembered it well, and was happy that he’d merely been an observer. Her name was Railroad Annie, a young woman who wore her thirty years like a sixty-year-old. Her weathered face wrinkled around a mouth empty of teeth. Simon had watched as she stood in front of a Circle K convenience store exchanging pleasantries and probable innuendoes with a tipsy young GI. Like a coquettish lizard, she lowered her head and batted her eyes, a hand repeatedly patting her lank and matted strands of hair. The soldier was brown-bagging a forty-ounce and between deep droughts, Simon believed he could imagine the promises that left the young man’s sneer.
Then, in the midst of the young man’s improbable seduction, he must have said something to upset her. To the surprise of both Simon and the GI, Railroad Annie had exploded into action, beating the poor boy with the removable plastic top of a trashcan. It’d happened so fast that Railroad Annie had left the young man unconscious, jumped on her bicycle, and pedaled away, the set of her back evidence that she was once again in control.
Yeah, one needed to be careful when dealing with the Dirty Birds.
Simon pressed the button on the armrest and the window lowered. “Hey, Billy Bones. You want some lunch?”
Billy jerked, his head twisting as he searched around for the owner of the voice.
“Over here,” said Simon.
The Dirty Bird pulled his lips into a passable grin, displaying several broken teeth and unmistakable good humor. He stood and ambled herky-jerky to the car.
“Hey Billy. How’s the world been treating you?
“Goodexcellentfantastic,” he said as one word. Then his eyes clouded as he leaned into the window. His stench filled the car. “Simon?”
“Yes, Billy. It’s Simon.”
“Simon. Yes, Simon. Simple Simon, my favorite pieman. Does Simon have pies for Billy?” he asked, rubbing his stomach and searching the back seat. He spied the many boxes that were neatly stacked. “Simple Simon, man the pieman, let me taste your wares.”
Simon chuckled. Conversing with Billy was always an adventure. The Dirty Bird had elevated the art of conversation into a complex meter of rhymes, palindromes and anagrams. The man’s mind seemed to work on an entirely different level. Simon half-turned, reached into the backseat and handed a box to Billy. Inside, prepared by the Brothers every morning was a plastic wrapped ham and cheese sandwich, an apple, a packet of cheese crackers, and a soft drink.
Billy snatched the box out of Simon’s hands, clutching it to his chest. His eyes moved from the lunch to the inside of the car to the bench and back. Simon glanced at the clock. He noted that it would be another two hours before Billy’s bus arrived.
“Need a ride?”
“Too hot to hoot. Too hot to hoot,” mumbled Billy, his face brightening. He shuffled around the front of the car and waited for Simon to toggle the lock. As he slid inside, he held his hands up to the vents and grimaced. He stared sternly at Simon. “Too hot to hoot.”
Simon raised his window and nodded solemnly at the palindrome. “Too hot to hoot, indeed.”
He switched the air conditioner to max. Other than the Dirty Bird’s particular dumpster dive smell, the car was once again comfortable. Billy Bones attacked the meal as Simon maneuvered the car through the parking lot and onto Fry Boulevard. He headed east until he came to highway 92 then turned right settling into the twenty minute drive to the canyon Billy called home.
The man’s unique language was what set Billy apart from the others. When he’d first met Billy, Simon had been certain that the man was insane. All attempts at conversation had resulted in peculiarly cryptic answers. Yet, as the days ticked past, Simon found himself able to decipher them. He became increasingly impressed with the logic and meaning wrapped within the complex wordplay.
Still, if he were to bet, Billy could use a few months of mental health care. And maybe some prescription meds.
Father Scott at the Salus Place had counseled Simon long ago about America’s homeless, decrying the state of mental health and the custom of releasing still troubled people into the greater populace. Simon had seen it for himself at the clinic. Too many of the homeless were ‘a few beers short of a six-pack’ as his old First Sergeant used to say. What they really needed was someone to care for them, a little free medication and some very personalized counseling. Simon had heard statistics that said the percentage of homeless in desperate need of mental health care ranged from thirty percent to eighty percent. He doubted that eighty percent was accurate. The number was just too high. Yet people like Railroad Annie, Billy Bones, and Pineapple Bob seemed to be more representative of the group as a whole.
Simon glanced at Billy, who’d already finished his sandwich and was eating the crackers and the apple, trading bites. It was said that all geniuses are insane. Simon could believe it and sensed a certain genius within the Dirty Bird. Sometimes, when speaking to Billy, Simon knew what it must have been like speaking with the ancient Oracle at Delphi. Every answer was a problem to be solved, a solution to be mastered. Truly stimulating, but not something he’d like to spend his entire life doing. Too much of Billy would send even the most caring psychiatrist into his own padded cell.
The rhymes weren’t too difficult.
The palindromes likewise, although it took some figuring if it was indeed a palindrome or an anagram. A palindrome was merely a word that said the same thing forward and backwards. Simon’s personal favorite was Dogma: I am God, taught to him by a Brother in St. Louis, the palindrome held a much deeper meaning than most. A more personal meaning.
Anagrams, on the other hand, could be infuriating. Deciphering the letters felt more like stumbling through an algebraic equation than conversing. There were times that Billy left Simon with a blank.
Like the time when Billy had thrown a fit out in front of the Bella Vista Motel. Simon had been driving by when he’d spied Billy sitting against the pole that supported the stop light, his head between his hands. Simon’s immediate concern had been that the man had been hit by a car. He’d swerved into the parking lot, barely avoiding a collision. He’d run to Billy, Simon’s modicum of medical training taking over.
No evidence of any lacerations. No broken bones. Other than the man’s incredible coating of filth, everything seemed all right.
“What’s wrong, Billy?”
The man continued rocking, a thin pining wail his only answer.
Simon placed a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Billy. Speak to me. It’s Simon. Simple Simon the Pieman. Tell Simon what’s wrong.”
Billy B
ones face wrinkled in anguish. Tracks of dried tears scored his cheeks like brown tribal tattoos. “Evil’s Agent. Evil’s Agent,” he screamed.
Simon lurched back, remembrance of Railroad Annie and the possibilities of violence foremost in his thoughts. “What about evil’s agent, Billy? I don’t understand. Talk to Simple Simon and tell me what’s wrong.”
“Evil’s Agent,” said Billy, his voice dropping to a whine. “He’s in my head. He wants me to do things. Nasty things. Bad things. Very very bad.” Billy looked imploringly into Simon’s eyes. “I don’t want to do them. Means movies.” His voice became tortured. “Means movies.”
Simon sat with him, wanting to help but lacking the capacity to understand. He gave thought to possession. Could it be another? Was he destined to be an Exorcist? Was that what he’d been searching for? Was Billy Bones possessed?
Not only were the odds against it, but Billy had control over himself and was nothing like the two he’d encountered in Nuevo Laredo. Maybe some type of personality disorder, a diagnosis that fell in line with Father Scott’s teachings? Except, of course, for the wordplay—it was as if Billy Bones was attempting to confuse himself and the world.
Simon had never found out what the problem had been, but he’d comforted Billy Bones until the Dirty Bird had been ready to move on. Whatever it had been, had passed as quickly as it had come.
Simon swung into Carr Canyon about the time Billy had finished eating. The result of using the wet-wipe brought a chuckle from Simon. Billy had cleaned an almost perfect oval of space from around his lips, revealing clean skin, stark against the backdrop of grime.
Simon pulled the station wagon to a road side turn-off where he could just see the tips of the great saguaro that Billy called home. Without even a thank you or a by-your-leave, Billy jerked open the door and bolted through the waist-high ocotillo and mesquite shrub. The door rebounded, slamming shut about the same time the man disappeared into the desert.
Simon remained in place. He felt as if he should have said or done something more to help the man. Simon was a Brother after all, at least for a little while longer, and he’d dedicated his life to helping others. He stared in the rearview mirror at the six boxes still stacked on the back seat. He’d delivered lunch to all he could find which meant the rest of the meals would be thrown away. He certainly couldn’t let them go to waste. Plus, it would give Simon the opportunity to finally see where Billy lived. With a nod to himself, Simon turned off the car, grabbed the boxes and entered the desert.
Carr Canyon was part of the anachronism of the Huachuca Mountain range, with its traditional Sonoran Desert cacti interspersed with the trees and vegetation from a far northerly climate. The deeper into the canyon, the higher up the mountain one went. This combination of shade and altitude made the desert almost livable.
Simon’s short-sleeved black shirt and black pants, traditional wear for an Alexian Brother, was far from the perfect attire for the desert and soaked up the heat. He concentrated on picking his way towards the saguaros, wary of scorpions, rattlesnakes, tarantulas and the thorny bite of the mesquite.
“Billy?”
The silence of the canyon was more than a little eerie. Simon wondered if it was what Brother Dominic had felt. A little fear, a little worry, but not bad enough to send one running home to Father Roy.
Simon kept his ears open for the tell tale rattle of one of the many species of rattlesnakes. He scanned the ground as he stepped around smaller cacti, knowing from dreadful experience that even a nudge could send the insectile and reptilian occupants scurrying out to attack. Too often, they were tarantulas.
Soon, he found himself in a cleared area, the center dominated by a bubble-shaped structure made of white garbage bags like a plastic desert igloo. Smart, thought Simon. The light color deflected the heat. The ground had been dug away, as well. He got close enough to peer in and judged it to be about five feet deep, the subterranean effect adding to the coolness.
Suddenly a dog shot out of the shadowy interior, barking and snapping. Simon backpedaled so fast he tripped and landed on a mesquite tree, the thorns piercing him in half a dozen places. He screamed. The dog was brought up short several feet from him, the rope leash tight and quivering. The animal had great patches of diseased skin surrounded by lank and dirty white hair.
Simon peeled himself from the bush, the process slow, each movement sending pain ripping through his body. By the time he’d pried himself free, the dog had stopped barking and was wolfing down a sandwich from one of the lunch boxes Simon had dropped in his rush to get away. Only the occasional growl and wag of its tail indicated the animal was still paying attention to him.
Simon looked around, but saw no sign of Billy.
Simon called out again, but there was no answer.
Screw it, thought Simon. Not only was it hotter than hell, but he’d been hurt and needed medical attention. He turned to leave.
Then, from a little farther into the desert, Simon heard the sounds of arguing from two distinct voices—Billy and a woman. Curious, Simon limped in the direction of the sound. Turning sideways, he stepped through a ten-foot high stand of creosote, and there, amidst a circle of colorful saguaros, stood Billy, alone and gesticulating wildly. He was speaking, two voices from one mouth, interfacing with the cacti whose natural green-brown had been replaced by a fascinating montage of color rarely found in nature—polka dots and stripes and paisley. Simon realized that each cacti, usually multi-armed like tall alien creatures, had been amputated until they were human-like, each a body with two arms raised to the sky. And the colors weren’t painted on. The cacti were clothed. Somehow Billy, during his dumpster dives and street treks, had collected dozens of pieces of clothing and sewn them onto the saguaros.
Simon squinted. They looked nearly human, like crazy desert scarecrows. But what were they protecting? What were they keeping away?
Simon limped into the circle. He counted thirteen of the clothed cacti. Three wore dresses—a paisley, a light blue knit with a white belt and a yellow and black polka dotted number. Four others wore different versions of cut-off shorts and tank tops. The rest wore pants—legs split, the bottoms fluttering gently in the breeze. Corduroy, polyester, denim, linen. Their shirts ranged from pinstriped button-downs to ragged t-shirts.
The more Simon stared the more they seemed to come alive. He could imagine the pilot of a low-flying aircraft passing over and wondering at the gathering of people. He squinted into the wide expanse of sky and spotted the aerostat—the huge tethered blimp that watched the Mexican border. No. They were too close for aircraft to be allowed to fly.
Simon shook his head at the craziness of it all. Billy walked around, adjusting clothes and mumbling to the scarecrows as if they were real people. Closer now, Simon noticed details he’d missed. Faces. He rubbed his eyes. The heat, even with the mountain breeze, was almost overwhelming. The eyes were made from mica rocks and glittered in the daylight. The mouths were made from bottles, the bottoms forced into the cactus so that only a few inches of the neck remained visible, giving the desert scarecrow a surprised, puckered look.
Stepping closer, still wary of the desert minions, he could hear the sound of the wind passing across the lips of the bottles creating a continual soft moan. The saguaro spoke. Simon spun and gaped at the others. They all spoke. As Billy spoke to them, they spoke back, answering him, allowing conversation. The scene was no longer crazy. It was eerie, fast on the way to becoming scary. Simon cocked his head and concentrated on the sound. He heard it beneath the steady stream of Billy’s babble, a chorus of moans from the mouths of the thirteen cacti. They all stared back at Simon, their eyes alive in the sun.
Suddenly, they were more than scarecrows. They were more like idols, or strange Native American gods. The Apache had been here. This was the place of Geronimo and Cochise. And before them? Simon tried hard to remember his history. Anasazi? Whichever tribes had been here had probably worshiped the great saguaro as Gods. Scarecrow Gods. Th
at was it. The name seemed perfect. Majestic in their stoic massiveness, these Scarecrow Gods appeared to be Billy’s protectors.
So why were they in a circle? It wasn’t as if old Billy Bones, all one-hundred and forty pounds of him, had uprooted and transplanted thirteen multi-ton cacti. Simon tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.
“God or fiends?” asked Billy.
Simon stumbled back, almost falling. Billy had sidled up next to him. God or fiends? Had the Dirty Bird read his mind?
“God or fiends. Mine all mine. They’re here for me. God or Fiends. I love them and they love me,” said Billy, his arms taking in the circle of saguaro. “They keep me safe.”
“Which?” asked Simon. God? Like in Scarecrow Gods? Fiends, as in Djinn or something worse? He remembered the evil that had permeated the air between him and the possessed boy, that palpable, greasiness of the soul. Something one could never miss. No. Not fiends. There was no evil here. But God? Or Gods?
Billy spoke for him. “Like Simple Simon. Simple Simon and them are God or fiends.” Billy smiled crookedly, his eyes embracing.
God or fiends? God or fiends? And then the letters snapped into place.
“Good friends. Is that what you’re saying, Billy?”
Billy Bones crossed his arms across his sallow chest and grinned wickedly, his head bobbing up and down.
Simon chuckled. He’d momentarily forgotten Billy’s penchant for wordplay. God or fiends. HA!
“Do they have names? Who are they? How did they get here, Billy?”
Billy thumped his chest hard. “I am, they are, both are we. Billy Bones and God or fiends.” He nodded severely. “Voices rant on.”
Voices rant on. Conversation. Billy’s complex language was becoming easier. Like algebra, you had to attune your mind to it.
“You talk to them? They talk to you?”