Birdie and Me

by J. M. M. Nuanez

  Uncle Carl answers the door after one knock, which totally surprises me.

  “I’m not doing so hot,” he says. “Have a giant headache. Things aren’t going well. I’ve been hoodwinked!” He puts out his cigarette and pours himself some coffee.

  “Maybe you should drink water,” I say. As we walk in, I immediately see what’s wrong. Marlboro is gone.

  He sees me looking at the empty spot on his coffee table.

  “Yeah,” he says. “It’s almost too horrible to even talk about. I don’t know what to do.” He’s pacing around and picks up his pack of cigarettes. “I go to sell Marlboro to this dude, this animal collector. I met up with him yesterday to show some pictures of her. The guy says my Marlboro has some kind of rare print on her back. Says she’s practically a celebrity dragon and that he’ll pay top dollar for her. And I must be dang crazy because I think this is a great idea! Great plan! He gets Marlboro, I get cash, and Rosie gets the ring of her dreams! It should have been that easy.” He sits down, lights another cigarette, and puts his head in his hands.

  He doesn’t usually smoke when we are here.

  “What happened, Uncle Carl?”

  “This morning I go to meet him, right? A ways out of town . . .” He continues pacing and puffing away. “And that guy took my Marlboro and the money. Marlboro is gone!”

  “Call the police!” I say.

  “I did! That’s what I was doing right before you guys got here.”

  “They’ll get her back,” says Birdie. “That’s what the police is for.”

  “They didn’t even know what a bearded dragon was! And I talked to my buddy Rhett at the sheriff station and he just said that they’ll take the report but finding something like a stolen taxidermied lizard is going to be difficult.” He fans himself with a magazine. “And I’m proposing in less than a week! Isn’t stress the number one killer in America? Or number two? Right behind Big Macs or something?” He looks at his cigarette and then is like, “Oh jeez, sorry, guys!” He smashes it on his ashtray and then gets up and starts pacing again.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “You’ve still got the balloon tickets. If you want, I’ll make a strawberry cake for when you land. It will still knock her socks off and maybe she doesn’t even want a ring in the first place.”

  He picks up his cigarettes again and hits the pack in his hand. “I’m going down to the Stop-and-Go real quick,” he says. “Maybe Juan knows something.” And then he’s gone and we’re left standing in his apartment, not any closer to a finished proposal plan.

  “I’m gonna go change,” says Birdie, taking off the black jacket and heading into the bathroom with his backpack.

  I say, “What do you mean?” but the door closes and when he comes back out he’s got his old clothes on—his leggings with the rainbow knees, a thin leopard-print skirt, and his purple jacket. And the purple eye shadow.

  “Uncle Carl still not back?” he asks, getting out his bow tie supplies and his Alexander McQueen book, which we secretly dried out Friday night with the bathroom space heater. Already Birdie’s eyes are bright and his shoulders relaxed.

  “He’ll be back soon,” I say. “We’ll figure this out.”

  Birdie looks perfect in his clothes.

  Ten minutes later, Uncle Carl is back. And he doesn’t look any better despite having a free cup of coffee in his hand. “Juan reminded me that we only lose what we cling to,” he says, sitting on the couch. He puts his head in his hands and mumbles, “I cling, I lose.”

  Birdie nods and pats him on the back.

  I think this is the first time Juan hasn’t been able to calm Uncle Carl down. And he can’t go to Rosie, so I’m not sure what will help. Birdie says, “Don’t worry, Uncle Carl. You also have a bow tie. Let’s try it on, maybe?” Uncle Carl sits there, slowly sipping his coffee.

  I go to the bathroom to splash water on my face.

  When I come back out, Birdie’s like, “So, it turns out that Duke’s neck is a lot wider than Uncle Carl’s.”

  “This kid!” says Uncle Carl. “He thinks I have the neck of a basset hound!”

  Birdie puts his hair up into a bun. “I can fix it. Patrick wouldn’t let us come over here, so I had to use someone as a model.”

  Uncle Carl lies back on the couch with his arms stretched out and his eyes closed. “So you pick a dog!”

  I have to steer him back to normal. “Uncle Carl, what can we do for the landing party besides a cake? Maybe party balloons? Ones with hearts or something?”

  He doesn’t move. “Glow sticks. In the brown bag. My buddy who works at the Shasta Dam gave them to me.”

  “Glow sticks?” Birdie says.

  “I don’t know,” groans Uncle Carl. “I saw this thing on the TV where someone spelled out ‘I LOVE YOU’ on the beach with them. But I don’t even know how many we have. Maybe there’s not enough to do that.” He flaps his arms around. “Don’t ask me. I obviously don’t know what a good idea is!”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s a great idea. It’s a sunset balloon ride, right? Don’t worry. I’ll count them.”

  I dump the glow sticks onto the floor. There are two different kinds and most of them are individually wrapped.

  “And mark my words, Mr. Bird,” says Uncle Carl, sitting up. “I’m going to talk to that goat about your new clothes. It’s ridiculous. Shows you what a clam knows about style!”

  I say, “And you have to change out of those before Patrick comes back, okay, Birdie?”

  “I will.” He rolls his eyes.

  “Don’t worry about the kid,” Uncle Carl says, lying back down. “He’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. And he can do that here.”

  Birdie smiles as he leans over his sewing. It almost feels like we are back here for good.

  No amount of pizza or homemade bread and cheese can replace Birdie being able to be himself. It just can’t.

  The phone goes off and I jump. Uncle Carl lets it go to voicemail, but no one leaves a message.

  I inspect the two different kinds of glow sticks. One package says SAFETY LIGHT STICK 12 HOUR ORANGE GLOW and the other says 6" GREEN LIGHT STICK.

  Uncle Carl gets up and paces around again. He’s decided he’s going to report the animal collector/thief to the police in San Francisco and Sacramento because surely the thief would have to go to a big city to sell her.

  But then he lies back down and says he can’t face making another phone call today. He closes his eyes and tells Birdie to wake him up when he needs a human neck.

  I was going to finish counting the rest of the glow stick packages, but instead shove the two in my hand into my pocket and say, “I’m going to go get some quesadillas for us to eat. That will pep us up.” Plus I need some air to clear my head because my mind is starting to ask the question I don’t want it to ask: What happens if Rosie says no?

  When I get down to the Quesadilla Ship, there’s a long line of people, including a group of seven who are all dressed with green hats that say Lisa & Fargo Get Hitched.

  “Can you lend me a hand, love?” Rosie asks. “There’s this whole Lisa and Fargo group going to the balloons, and I need that block of cheese grated.”

  I feel this surge of hope because hot-air balloons and getting hitched! It’s something that people do! Hot-air balloons are romantic!

  Rosie’s phone rings and she sighs and picks up, the whole time flinging cheese and onion and tortillas around. “Okay, okay, but where is Linda, Mum? The nurse. Linda. Where is she?” She sighs again. “Right now? Okay.”

  She hangs up. “I need to go. My mum needs me. But look at this queue.” She looks over at the line. There are probably almost twenty people out there. “I can’t afford to lose these customers,” she says. “Especially with me having to close up while I’m in England. How did I become a one-woman show?”

  That’s when I see it
: the answer.

  This will be the thing that makes her realize Uncle Carl is the one. Maybe he won’t need a ring at all.

  “What about Uncle Carl?” I say. “I bet me and Uncle Carl could do these orders. We’ve both helped you before.”

  “I don’t know, love.” She plates three more quesadillas and adds sour cream and salsa. “It’s a lot, running this joint. Even for a short while.”

  “But you have all the recipes posted up and I’ve made a ton of quesadillas and also Uncle Carl has helped you before. I even remember how to do the money.”

  Her cell phone starts to ring again. She looks at it and then puts it back in her pocket. “Okay,” she says. “But only if he’s okay with it.”

  There’s a quesadilla almost burning.

  She nods up toward Uncle Carl’s apartment. “Go on, then. Go get him.”

  I smile, hop out of the Quesadilla Ship, and run upstairs.

  “Rosie needs help,” I say as soon as I go through the door.

  Uncle Carl jumps up before I can even explain. Birdie shrieks about messing up the bow tie, which is back around Uncle Carl’s neck. I tell them about the long line of people and Rosie needing to go to her mom.

  Uncle Carl doesn’t hesitate. “Sorry, Mr. Bird. But my Rosie needs me.”

  “That’s okay. I want to brainstorm anyway. It’s time for my muse to visit.” He closes his eyes and holds his hands to his temples. I give him a look because where does he come up with these things? But Uncle Carl is calling to me from the doorway.

  We run down to the truck and see Rosie frantically flipping quesadillas. “You sure you can do this? I won’t be long,” she says.

  “We can do it, Rosie!” I say, stepping inside the truck.

  Uncle Carl glances anxiously at the people in line and starts looking unsure. But again I get a burst of confidence when I see those green Lisa & Fargo Get Hitched hats. I don’t even know who Lisa and Fargo are, but I’m so happy for them.

  “We can do it,” I say again. “Go help your mom. We are the Unstoppable Spatula Crew!”

  She laughs nervously and Uncle Carl begins to sweat, but I just smile and kind of puff out my chest, hoping to look older and taller. I think she’s about to change her mind, but then her phone rings again and she steps out of the truck. “Okay. I’m on my way, Mum. Just stay right there. No, don’t go anywhere.” She glances back at me and I give her a thumbs-up. She nods and hops in her car and drives away.

  I pick up an apron and hand it to Uncle Carl. “Let’s make some quesadillas!”

  * * *

  • • •

  Uncle Carl and I work perfectly, side by side in the Quesadilla Ship. I chant, “We are the Unstoppable Spatula Crew, making cheesy treats for you! We’ll get you through the queue!”

  Uncle Carl laughs.

  I’ve plated sixteen specialty quesadillas when I start to think I might have the hang of this.

  Only two orders are left when I hear Uncle Carl yelp.

  I turn around and he shouts, “Get back!” just as he throws a giant cup of water on the burning skillet.

  You know when time seems to slow down to nothing, when everything is happening around you and you’re caught in a bubble? Your brain is working like mad, but the rest of your body won’t respond fast enough, like trying to swim in a pool of honey? I see the fire rising up from the pan and I know one thing immediately: This is a grease fire.

  When I was seven, there was a fireman who visited our classroom. I remember he looked really impressed when I asked him how to safely put out a small fire. Well, that’s when I first learned about grease fires.

  If you don’t know anything about grease fires, you should. Because everyone thinks, Oh, you need water to put out fires. But that isn’t always true, no matter what the cartoons say.

  And when I see Uncle Carl pouring that big cup of water, my brain lights up with facts about grease coming from cheese, and water repelling grease, and grease spreading like an explosion, and that’s exactly what happens. What was one small fire is now six, lighting up the stove and surrounding countertop. Uncle Carl pushes me away, but I lean toward the stove to try to turn off the burners. Uncle Carl keeps shouting to get out! get out! and then he waves a towel around and brings it down on the burning stove and counter. But I know if the stove isn’t turned off, the truck will be lost.

  So I press forward and that’s when the fire finds the small bowl of sesame oil and it leaps up to the ceiling, doubling the amount of heat. Smoke pours out of the window and I can see that it’s reached the point that the fireman had called “the point of no return.”

  Everything is happening so fast and so slow at the same time. I can hear shouts and maybe the distant siren of a fire truck. Uncle Carl is frantic, his face all twisted up, curse words like I’ve never heard before coming out of his mouth. “I’ve got to stop this!” he yells, and I’m trying to get him out and suddenly Birdie is there stepping through the door, yanking on my arm and now there is a stranger pulling my arm too, and Birdie is shouting my name.

  It’s only when the fire makes a leap from the wall to Uncle Carl’s shirt that he bounces back toward the door. We tumble out, Uncle Carl rolls on the grass, and I land on top of Birdie and the Stop-and-Go employee who’d been trying to pull me out.

  Someone shouts, “Is there a fire extinguisher?” and then someone else yells, “The fire truck is on the way!” and then there’s a small pow! as something else in the grease-laden kitchen explodes. I cover my eyes and cough as more and more smoke pours out of the ordering window.

  We get up and move away from the truck. I look over at Uncle Carl and he’s covered in black sweat, his eyes open and chest heaving up and down.

  At some point my brain registers the amount of heat coming off burning metal.

  Suddenly, Uncle Carl is running back toward the truck. He’s too far away for me to do anything. I think I’m yelling, but the fire and the crackling and popping is all so loud I can’t hear myself.

  Then out of nowhere, Patrick is there, wrestling his brother back.

  They almost look like they’re dancing as Patrick pulls Uncle Carl farther from the blaze.

  “Let me go!” shouts Uncle Carl. “I can save the truck. I can fix this!”

  Patrick holds on.

  “Let. Me. Go!” yells Uncle Carl.

  There’s another pop just as the fire truck appears and the firefighters jump into action.

  The tree above the truck is on fire.

  Water streams out of a fire hose.

  “I could have saved it,” says Uncle Carl.

  “You would have been killed,” says Patrick.

  “Yeah? What’s it to you, huh?”

  Uncle Carl twists out of Patrick’s grip and stares at him, breathing hard. He curses, tugging on the twisted Quesadilla Ship apron.

  Right when I start to feel light-headed, I hear Rosie’s voice. It sounds really far off, like she’s running down the street. Then she’s there, next to a fireman who’s trying to calm her down.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” she says. “What happened? Oh my God!”

  She looks over and sees Uncle Carl and runs up to him and kind of grabs his shirt and is asking him what happened. At first she’s just kind of confused and stunned, but then she gets madder and madder when Uncle Carl doesn’t say anything other than I’m sorry. At one point, he starts to say that it was an accident, but she yells and tugs on his shirt and I’ve never seen her face look so mad and sad and lost.

  Patrick steps in between them and Rosie backs away, shaking her head like she can’t believe what’s happening.

  “You really don’t understand why I always say no? You look at that truck and tell me why I always say no!” She puts her hand to her head and stares at her poor burning truck.

  All I want to say is I’m sorry. I’
m sorry. I’m sorry. But nothing comes out no matter how hard I try to speak. Rosie looks at me a second and just shakes her head and walks away.

  Uncle Carl stumbles back toward his apartment, the Quesadilla Ship apron hanging loose around his neck. Patrick goes to follow him, but then stops when Birdie lets out a cry of pain from a paramedic cleaning a giant scratch he has along his arm. “Birdie—?”

  “My arm’s fine!” Birdie jumps to his feet.

  “I really should finish wrapping that,” says the paramedic, but Patrick waves him off.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Patrick says, looking over at me. “Let’s go. Now.”

  Birdie’s purple eye shadow is smudged. His skirt has a grass stain, I guess from when we fell out of the truck. Patrick looks around at groups of people who have gathered.

  “Can I at least get my things from Uncle Carl’s?” says Birdie as Patrick leads him away.

  “Don’t worry about that,” says Patrick. “Get in the truck.”

  “But Uncle Carl’s apartment is right here.” Patrick’s truck is parked haphazardly along the wrong side of the street.

  “Get in. Now.” Patrick’s voice is low and serious.

  Birdie jerks the door open and sits down with crossed arms and no seat belt.

  I look back at the Quesadilla Ship. The fire’s out, but smoke rises from the black hole that had been the middle of the roof. I get in and buckle up Birdie and me.

  As we drive away, I see Ms. Perkins standing on the sidewalk with a bunch of others. She raises her hand in a melancholy wave and I remember saying goodbye to Mrs. Spater all over again.

  **Observation #785: The Quesadilla Ship

  The Quesadilla Ship was a lime-green food truck decorated with planets, stars & asteroids & nebulas, all painted by some student from the community college over the hill. It had a short nose & a tall door, which was black with white splatter paint to look like the Milky Way Galaxy. I guess quesadillas remind Rosie of UFOs.

  There was some rust, but Rosie always said it just added to the space effect.

  Inside there was a huge griddle & a big rack of spices & a spot next to that where Rosie kept specialty oils like sesame for the Asian fusion quesadillas & her homemade jalapeño oil for her Some Like It Hot quesadillas.