Feed the birds?

I've been on a short story-writing kick. The one that I'm posting today is for my buddy, Nicoleo, who met me in the parking lot the other day and started the conversation by saying, "Buddy, a strange thing happened to me this morning. Let me tell you about it."

As it turns out, Nicoleo was walking down the street, thinking of food (she is often thinking of food; she is hungry much of the time), when something landed on her shoulder. What was it, you ask? The answer is bread. Yep, that's right: Bread. "What if the birds knew I was hungry?" she asked me. "Like how we feed the birds, you know? What if that bird was feeding me?! So, anyway, you should write a story about it."

So I did.

One mile more.

Down this hill, around the bend, and through the tunnel of trees that line Ridley Lane, their leaf-fingers interlocking overhead to cast shadows of lace on the pavement below. If I quicken my pace just a smidgeon, I will reach the invisible finish line—my driveway—before the sun completely vanishes for the evening.

Inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth… Inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth… I think about breathing and the thwap of my sneakers against the macadam. My left foot slaps the ground with more force than my right: Thwap-THWAP! Thwap-THWAP! There’s a bite in the air and it’s making my nose run. I sniff hard, wishing that I’d thought to shove a tissue or two into a vest pocket.

My stomach, hollow after a long day at the office, is caving in on itself because a late-morning meeting ended up running straight through lunch. To create a list of today’s nourishment would take no time at all: one sixteen-ounce cappuccino, a handful of almonds, and a solitary piece of buttered toast. The crust, I fed to the yellow-flecked birds that nest in the magnolia tree outside my house. Whether they appreciated the gesture or not, I’ve no idea, but I like to think that the kindness didn’t go unnoticed.

All this thought of food causes a disgruntled grumble to sound from my midriff. “Half a mile to go,” I tell myself. “You can do it.”

Inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth.

Thwap-THWAP! Thwap-THWAP!

Something hits my left shoulder and bounces off. I initially think nothing of it, figuring it to be an acorn released by one of the tree branches overhead, but then it occurs to me that this particular stretch of road is devoid of the towering oaks that line Ridley… I slow my pace and spin around, suddenly curious. The air is full of shadows and semi-darkness; a solid squint is needed in order to properly examine that spot on the ground where a large chunk of something has apparently fallen. “Is it bread?” I whisper, so softly that the question is barely audible. Carefully, I retrace my footsteps, stand over the offering, and slowly reach down, gently nudging the object with my finger. It is bread, yes. Bread that appears to have been embellished with plenty of butter, garlic salt, and parmesan cheese. Tentatively, I pick it up. Still warm. “But where…?”

Above me, a dark bird speckled with gold cackles and soars, dipping close to the ground. His beak is open a bit, as if to issue a smile. Have I seen him before? There’s something about him that seems familiar… but can a bird appear familiar? I narrow my gaze and give him a hard look.

He cackles again before flapping his wings and gliding away.

From a distance, I spy a trio of additional yellow-flecked birds powering toward me. One clutches a dangling clump of something in his beak; the others carry tiny, round objects with their feet. I maintain my position, the garlic bread in my hand no longer warm, and watch hesitantly as the flying creatures continue to approach.

It is with a joyous twitter that they release their holds on the food being transported. The morsels tumble from beak and claw, plummeting to the earth below. I step back as two meatballs land at my feet and roll promptly away. A wad of spaghetti becomes tangled in my hair, damp noodles falling across my face, sticky and cold, to cling to my skin. “For you!” the birds seem to chatter and chirp. “This time, the food is for you!”

An abundance of noise suddenly erupts, painting the quiet night with caws and manic laughter. I yank the clump of damp noodles from my head and turn my eyes to the sky. There, a flock of black birds, wings sporting shimmers of gold that glint in the last rays of dying light, cackles as it inches closer and closer. A dark, noisy cloud, dense and impenetrable. “What do they…?”

And now, as they grow even more near, I can see what the congregation of feathered creatures is struggling to transport. It is a large cauldron, red sauce sloshing over the sides as great puffs of steam billow up and away. A straggler flies along behind the group, barely managing to keep his grip on the ladle that he clutches with both feet. “The food is for you!” I imagine them laughing, chanting, calling. “This time, the food is for you!”

I allow not even one second for thought. Instinct is what causes me to turn on my heel and bolt away from the impending, squawking shadow that looms overhead. Behind me, bubbling marinara splashes over the rim of the pot and splatters against the pavement. Thwap-THWAP go my feet, echoing around the bend. The sound that they make ricochets off the wide trunks of the oaks that line Ridley Lane. Thwap-THWAP!

I suck in great gulps of frozen air, not caring if the oxygen enters through my nose or my mouth. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. “The food is for you!” the foolish fowl tweet again and again, over and over, like a record that doesn’t want to stop. “The food is for you!”

Twenty steps more, maybe twenty-five. I see my house, its lit porch light a beacon in the starless night. In my wake, the birds continue to cackle; now and again, a meatball whizzes past my ear or bounces off the back of my calf.

With ten steps to go, I fumble in my vest pocket for the key. My fingers make contact with cool metal. I pull out the key, clumsily shoving it into the lock and leaning hard against the door. My hand, slick with sweat, slips on the cold knob.

“The food is for you!” the birds scream.

Panicked, the rumble in my stomach is the last thing on my mind. I rush inside, slamming the door shut behind me. Without thinking of my actions, I turn the lock, slide the deadbolt into place, and collapse heavily against the solid metal fixture. On the other side of the door, I am able to hear the flapping of wings, the chattering of over-friendly birds, and the sound of marinara sauce being puddled on my doormat. “The food is for you!” I imagine them urging. “This time, the food is for you!”

But at this point in time, the only sustenance that I really care about is a very strong cocktail.