Sammie & Budgie

by Scott Semegran

  As I closed the door, Sharice leaned over to me and whispered, "You're a nice daddy. If it was me, I wouldn't let my kid take home no parakeet. Birds are a disgusting mess. Yes, they are!" Then she leaned in even closer. "But you're a better parent than I would ever be. That's for sure. Let's get you home."

  The rest of the ride back home to Austin, Texas was pretty quiet. Nat and Jessie fell asleep in the way back while Sammie lovingly looked at his new pet. That bird didn't make a peep the entire way home. It just gazed at Sammie with one eye like a pirate, the way birds do since their eyes are on either side of their heads. Sharice didn't say much else either while she drove. It seemed she preferred listening to 1980s rhythm and blues than chit-chatting with a honky like myself, who really didn't know her very well, and any signs of being an adrenaline junkie like earlier were squashed and never appeared again. She drove as if she was on her way to church: calm, serene, and ready for atonement. While the songs of Peaches and Herb, Earth, Wind, and Fire, and Diana Ross played softly--Sharice singing along like people in church do, not knowing all the words but knowing all the melody--I was lulled into a daydream while watching the suburban sprawl of the different towns between San Antonio and Austin, towns like New Braunfels, San Marcos, Kyle, and Buda. As I watched the same stores and businesses whiz by in each city--McDonald's and Home Depot and Target and Starbucks and Burger King and Wal-Mart--time seemed to stand still and I thought about moments in my life where things didn't seem so stressful, like when I was at the pond with the kids or something like that, watching them run around the shore, skipping stones on the water, chasing ducks, and laughing and playing. That's all I thought about the rest of the way back home.

  ***

  ***

  When we pulled up to our apartment building, it seemed like we had been away from home forever. Sharice parked in the driveway in front of my garage then turned off the Caddy Tank, its engine dying quickly and without hesitation. Nat and Jessie were still asleep in the back, snoring quietly--Jessie's head in Nat's lap, Nat's head lying gently on Jessie's back. Sammie was ready to take his parakeet up to his room. The bird's cage, without my knowledge, had unbuckled itself from the seat and floated over to Sammie's lap. How Sammie had done this, I didn't know but it was a marvelous trick--a marvelous sleight of hand--something out of the playbook of Dr. Strange for sure. Or maybe I was just daydreaming, too intoxicated with my own thoughts to notice. Either way, Sharice was ready to help us out. Her door was open the moment the Caddy Tank fell asleep.

  "Is this the right place?" she said.

  "Yes, home sweet home," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. Sammie had opened his door, too, and the commotion woke the two girls up, their arms intertwined and wrapped around each other. Little Jessie stretched her little arms above her head and rubbed her eyes with her little fists then said, "Are we home?"

  "Yes," I said, getting out of the Escalade along with Sharice and Sammie. The parakeet flapped in the cage as Sammie stepped onto the ground. I walked over to the garage door and opened the cover to a keypad on the wall which would unlock and open it, if I entered the secret code properly. I punched the number combination of 3-2-7-8 which, if you could correspond those numbers with letters on a phone keypad, spelled the word F-A-R-T. That's pretty much the code to all my devices and accounts and things that require a 4-digit code: F-A-R-T. That was the best way for me to remember the code. Childish? Of course. The garage door opened slowly and clumsily, clunking up the metal rails.

  "Want me to help you with your things?" Sharice said, smiling.

  "What things?" I said.

  "Right, right. You don't have much with you."

  "I appreciate the offer, though," I said, handing good ol' Sammie Boy the keys to our apartment. He took the keys and placed them in his mouth since his arms were full (sketch book under one arm, sack of his precious trinkets under his other arm, Budgie's bird cage in his hands). He ran through the empty garage and began the ascent up the stairs to the entrance, his feet stomping the entire way up.

  Nat and Jessie soon followed him, both groggy. Nat said, "I feel like I've been asleep for days. Let's go upstairs, girl. I have to, like, pee really bad." Nat and Jessie entered the garage then stomped up the stairs, too.

  I turned to Sharice, who then outstretched her arms like a long, lost aunt begging for a hug from a reluctant and suspicious nephew.

  "Come and give your Aunt Sharice a hug, sugar!"

  "OK," I said, reluctantly. I leaned in with one shoulder, attempting to give a quick 'good game' hug, but Sharice wrapped her arms around me and squeezed the shit out of me--a crushing bear hug--lifting my feet off the ground.

  She pulled back, smiling as if to say 'Wasn't that amazing?' then said, "Hold on! I have something for you. Yes, I do!" She ran over to the Caddy Tank and opened the driver door. She leaned inside and rummaged in the middle console for something then returned to me with a pad of paper and a pen in her hand. She quickly scribbled something on the pad then ripped the top page off, handing it to me. On it, there was a phone number, hers I assumed.

  "Thanks," I said.

  "You never know. You may need to call me. And, once I'm done settling the estate, I may be calling you. Here!" she said, handing me the pad of paper. "Write down your address and phone for me."

  I scribbled my pertinent info on the pad and returned it to her, the ball point pen under my thumb.

  "Take care of yourself. And for what it's worth, thanks for taking care of my dad."

  "Your father!" she said, a look of genuine shock on her face, both of her hands cradling the sides of her face. "I almost forgot about your father!" She ran back to the side of the Caddy Tank, this time opening the door behind the driver door, rummaged back there, then returned to me with a shiny object in her hands: the urn. She handed the cold, ceramic death jar to me. It was heavier than it appeared, a little heft from the fact that it was filled with my dead dad's ashes. "Your father wanted you to have this. He definitely wanted you to have it. Yes, he did!"

  "Thanks," I said. I was trying not to be sarcastic but I was having a hard time with that--a really hard time. "I know exactly where I'll put it."

  "OK. Bye now! I gotta get back to S.A. I got shit to do!"

  "Goodbye."

  After giving me one more quick hug, Sharice climbed into her massive Escalade--awaking the sleeping beast that my father gave to her because she was willing to listen to his bullshit--and drove away, the bass from the stereo system wafting in the air as she disappeared from the apartment complex parking lot. I watched until the Caddy Tank vanished beyond my sight, behind the buildings of a neighboring apartment complex.

  I looked at the dragon-adorned urn, it's glossy surface reflecting the afternoon sunlight, a menacing scowl on the magical lizard's face, a look not unfamiliar from the disapproving look my late father gave me when I was a disappointing child. I decided right then and there to name this dragon Marv, after my father: that asshole.

  "Come on, Marv," I said, walking through the empty garage, closing the garage door, then ascending the stairs to my apartment. "I have the perfect place for you."

  Inside, I set the urn on my coffee table and checked the answering machine. Its little green light flashed urgently; its LED displayed the number 7, for the number of messages. I played the series of worthless phone messages from IRS scam artists to non-profiteers to salespeople to prank callers until I reached the last message, one from our renown psychotherapist, Dr. Dena Davis, good ol' Sammie Boy's therapist.

  She said, "Good day, Mr. Burchwood. Dr. Davis here. I'm calling to see when we can meet and discuss your son, Sammie, and the spectrum of the various conditions I believe he suffers from. But rather than get into too much detail about it over the telephone, because privacy concerns keep me from divulging more, please return my call so we can setup an appointment to discuss it further." The tone of her voice was swathed in the grave concern of a real professional. Obviously, she took my son's condition seriously as well as the
privacy of a third grader. How interesting. Do third graders care about their privacy? I don't think so. But I appreciated her professional temperament and demeanor. "You have my number. I look forward to hearing from you. Good day. Take care."

  When her message was done, the answering machine clicked and whirred, the LED number reset to zero, the green flashing light disappeared, and a robotic voice said, "End of messages." I could hear Nat and the kids from the bedroom, talking and moving and hopping on beds. I imagined the meeting with Dr. Davis, her arms gesticulating as she described the spectrum in layman's terms, her eyes rolling in the back of her head searching for simple explanations for a caring father like me to understand, and forcing a smile to soothe my worries and concerns. And as I stood there daydreaming, Nat emerged from the kids' room, ready to leave.

  "I need to, like, get going. I know we didn't plan on what was going to happen but--"

  "Nat," I said, very apologetic. "I'm sorry. You know, if I could have controlled what happened on this trip so you wouldn't have gotten hurt, I would have."

  "I know," she said, placing her hand on my shoulder. "It wasn't your fault."

  "Who can predict something like that happening?"

  "Like, nobody," she said, rolling her eyes.

  "Exactly. But I appreciate all the help you've given me. My kids love you. I love you. Well..." I said, a little embarrassed with the word choice. I mean, I love Nat like she's my kid but I don't love, LOVE her. Let me just make that clear because that would be kind of pervy and all. It's true. "You know what I mean. Right?"

  "I know what you mean," she said, smiling. "Let me know when you would like for me to help with the kids again."

  "Oh! How about Tuesday, late afternoon? Jessie has taekwondo practice and I have something I'd like to do with Sammie. Can you take her to taekwondo practice on Tuesday?"

  "Sure. I can do that."

  "Great! See you then."

  "See you then," she said, pulling the strap of her bag to the top of her shoulder while going for the front door. "Goodbye." Then she left, closing the door behind her, like a ghost slipping away.

  I could hear the kids in their bedroom so I decided to check out what they were up to, probably no good, like most kids are when their parents aren't around. My kids were no different. I mean, they were sweet on the outside but downright mischievous on the inside. Leave them alone for more than 10 minutes and the apartment building would certainly be burnt to the ground. I walked through the living room and past the urn on the coffee table--Marv the Dragon's red eyes glaring at me--to the kids' bedroom. I slowly poked my head in to see what they were doing. Little Jessie was quietly playing her portable Nintendo on her bed, her pink, over-the-ear headphones blocking any noise from the outside world. She looked content to be home.

  Good ol' Sammie Boy, on the other hand, sat slumped over on his bed, staring down at the bird cage on the floor. The poor parakeet looked mortified--hopping around in that cage as if escaping his prison was not an option--as it stared back up at my son for a little compassion or some bird seed, at least. I thought after the tearful goodbye at the pet store then the cheerful reconciliation on the way back to Austin from one of the worst trips in our entire lives that my son would be absolutely in love with this... this budgerigar, as he liked to call this type of bird. I mean, he had been begging me for a budgerigar for as long as I can remember. You remember, right? I know you do. He had been begging me for a bird forever. Now, he looked like he wanted to give up his dream of being a budgerigar owner. It looked like he didn't want to be a bird owner at all, not even with a prized budgie. It was almost too much for me to take. I had to sit down and figure this out. So, I sat on the bed next to my boy and put my arm around him.

  "What's the matter, son?" I said, pulling him close to me. "Are you upset about something?"

  "I don't know," he said. "I guess it's nothing."

  "Seems like something is bothering you. You look down in the dumps."

  "Dumps shmumps," he said, kicking his feet to and fro as they dangled off the bed, one on each side of the cage. I think that little bird didn't know what the hell was going on. It hopped back and forth as each leg swung by the cage, as if trying to dodge from being kicked or crushed or punted across the room. I knew for sure that Sammie wouldn't kick the bird's cage but it almost seemed like he didn't care if he kicked the cage or not. He was definitely in a weird mood. I could tell. Parents can tell these things about their children. It's true.

  "So," I said, fishing for a question to ask. "Did you name your new bird Budgie like you said you would?" Sammie didn't answer but continued to kick his legs. His little hands laid on his lap with interlaced fingers. "Well, did you?"

  "No," he said, quietly. "That's not Budgie."

  "What do you mean, it's not Budgie? Sure, it's Budgie. You said so yourself."

  "No, Daddy, it's not Budgie. The Budgie. That's just a parakeet. It's not my friend."

  "What do you mean?" I said, confused.

  "It's just a dumb ol' parakeet. It doesn't do anything. It just hops around in its cage. It probably would rather be somewhere else than in my room with me. It doesn't act like Budgie at all. It's just dumb."

  "I see," I said, looking at the dumb ol' parakeet, Sammie's reluctant new pet. It sure looked dumb all right, hopping around in the cage like it was insane, slamming against the sides of the cage then falling to the bottom, seeds and feathers launching from the cage and sprinkling the carpet, then flying back up to its perch and starting the insane routine over again. I never was a fan of birds as pets. They're filthy and smelly and weird with the way they stare at you with one eyeball, peering into your soul with that unblinking, black eye. Birds are pretty creepy, I tell you, and usually not very friendly. But Sammie had been pretty persistent about getting a budgerigar. When the opportunity presented itself for me to buy him the one he wanted, I never imagined his hopes and dreams would curdled so quickly like this. Go figure. "Well, how is Budgie supposed to act?"

  Sammie stopped kicking his legs back and forth and sat straight up, a serious and attentive look appearing on his face. The dumb parakeet even stopped flapping around its cage and looked at us with its dumb, black eye, cooing and panting while it sat on its perch, happy with its reprieve from the dangerous, kicking legs.

  "Well," he said, his face lighting up. "Budgie is heroic and brave and strong. He goes with me on adventures and protects me from danger. He's a real friend, not a dumb ol' bird."

  "I see."

  "So, I can't name this bird Budgie 'cause he's not the real Budgie."

  "I guess you're right. Maybe we should think of a different name for this parakeet. One that suits him better."

  "Yeah," he said, sulking again.

  "So, the real Budgie goes on adventures with you and protects you, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  "In your dreams?"

  "Yeah."

  "But you want a real Budgie in real life, too?"

  "Not really," he said, his still-legs reverting to jimmy-legs, the kicking motion reinitialized. "I don't need a real Budgie in real life."

  "And why is that?"

  "Because I have you," he said, looking up at me, a sweet little smile on his sweet little face. "Because you protect me and you go on adventures with me."

  "I do?"

  That's when my boy put his arms around me and hugged me. Then Jessie noticed the hugging and jumped off her bed--tossing her portable Nintendo on the way--so she could get in on the hug action. The three of us embraced each other: a father and his two, lovely children. It was a very, very sweet moment and I'm not going to screw it up by giving you additional commentary about it so... let's move on.

  After we hugged for a few minutes, I instructed Sammie to find a place for the bird cage in their room and to think of a name for the bird--any name but Budgie--since it now was a part of our family, whether it wanted to be or not. And I told both of them to relax and chill out in their room since we had such an eventful trip to S
an Antonio. They seemed more than pleased to appease me and did what kids love to do--play in their room. I closed the door to their bedroom behind me as I left.

  I decided right then and there that I deserved a cigarette so I found my hidden pack of smokes, grabbed my trusty lighter, picked up my dad's urn from the coffee table, and made my way to the balcony. Outside, the charred remains of my wooden bench and the burnt Café Bustelo coffee can awaited me. The black spot on the cement where the can burned fanned out from under the bench like a cheap rug. I sat on the bench and set the urn on the cement floor next to the coffee can. What a pair! I had a realization as I lit my cigarette that both the coffee can and the urn had the same purpose: to hold ashes. Both held ashes of things that held some consequences to my life.

  As I smoked the cigarette, I thought of my father. He used to love saying these things to me, these whacky things that had some significance to him at whatever random moment it was he decided to tell me, things like, "You need to be useful, son!" or "You need to have a purpose, boy!" He would always pontificate while he forced me to do chores around the house, like I was his slave, while he sat on his ass, sipping beer or drinking coffee, barking these slogans while I raked leaves or cut the grass or swept the garage or took out the garbage. He was a real bastard that way because he didn't help me with these chores. He just wanted me to do them by myself, to teach me a lesson. I don't know what his lesson was, really. It just always seemed to me that he wanted me to do all the work so he could sit on his ass. I think he just wanted to be in control. It's really easy to be in control of a kid when you're the parent; just bark orders at them and threaten punishment if they don't comply. It's much harder to gain their respect by setting a good example. When I became a parent, I decided that I was going to set the good example and not bully my kids. That was my hope, anyway.

  So, as I smoked my cigarette and reminisced about my father, I decided it was time for Marv to make himself useful. I pushed the burnt coffee can away then took the lid off the urn. After setting the lid on the bench, I ashed my cigarette into the urn, the cigarette ash resting on top of my father's ashes, their color slightly different. As I stared at my new cigarette ash receptacle, an immense feeling of pleasure rushed through my veins along with the nicotine. I had not felt as happy as I did that day in a very, very long time.