Chapter Two.

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Chapter 2

I placed the phone back on the table and sank into the couch. Feathers, some too small to see, drifted around the room. A pigeon, that I can only describe as mangled, swooped down from the window air conditioning unit. Reality. I didn't want for any of it to be. The drywall, Quinn – dead or otherwise – continuing to make strange noises in my hermetically sealed D-Day bathroom, Carlton pecking my rotting brother's sneakers, the bread, and broken glass, and more noises, and knocking at the door, and the mold under the window unit, and more records playing backwards amidst more knocking, and then silence, and knocking again.

“Maintenance. Entering the apartment.” Jingling keys entered a cold brass handle,

“Walking in,” after that latch turned, the door cricked outward, boots stepped onto an empty tiled kitchen floor littered with bread and a broken shot glass, “What the hell,” and the sound of pigeons fleeing the coop brought my mind back.

“Oh, hey. Wesley. I'm sorry. I didn't hear you knocking.”

His name was Mack Webb. The entire complex called him Wesley. He was a grey haired black man whose face appeared as though it were made out of melted wax and seven years of fighting type two diabetes, crunched his way past the scurrying sky-rats into the living room.

“Stuart? What happened here? Why are there birds in the house? Brenda called me. Said I needed to look at your bathroom window.” He eyed the drywall suspiciously. “Stew. Everything okay in here?”

No, Mr. Wesley. According to my voicemail, I now have to drive to the city medical examiner. But, that can't possibly be the case. You see, my dead brother just happens to be in the bathroom attempting to set an all time record for the longest wrestling match with a roll of tissue paper. There has been a sudden boom in the population of indoor pigeons. Calling pest control was part of my list of things to accomplish today, however, my phone became completely useless as anything other than a five hundred dollar paperweight because its battery power drains faster than a plastic cup filled with molten lead. I will have to fill you in on the very interesting backstory of Carlton, of whom I've grown quite fond, another time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I have either a suicide to attempt or an exorcism. I don't own a bible so this should be an easy decision to make, unless the bird is Catholic...

“Yes, Mr. Wesley. I'm fine. I just recently found out that my brother was in a car accident. I guess. I guess, I'm just a little shocked. Tell Brenda I'll pay for the window please. Also, please don't mention the birds.”

Wesley frowned. “I'm sorry to hear that Stuart. When did it happen?”

I told him everything that I knew about the accident from the messages left for me by the Memphis city coroner's office. I felt it wise to leave out the part about a shredded Quinn surprising me yesterday afternoon into a near coma. I explained away my cut cheek and the lapse in time since the accident on falling while taking a shower.

“You've had a rough time of it the past 24 hours, Stew. Sorry, for barging in. I'm going to head downstairs so I can grab my tool bag and some plywood. I'll cover that hole up so you ain't gotta worry 'bout these filthy birds anymore.”

I stood up from the couch. He turned and walked towards the door and was gone.

“He really needs to cut back on the barbecue these days. I always told him it'd be the death of him.”

I glanced at Quinn. His mouth wasn't missing teeth. He was glaring at Carlton. The bird shifted a single eye toward his direction.

Quinn spoke with a snide tone. “I believe we had a deal, Feathers. You owe me an egg.”

Nonchalant Carlton pecked at the crack in the floor, circa 1970, a very good year for dust and termite damage. I grabbed my keys, phone, and wallet.

“Where are you going Stew? Don't leave. I was just about to tell you somet-”

I brushed past Wesley on the way down the stairs. The screen door slammed shut behind me. I spun around looking up at my missing window. If he's really there, I thought, that black man will be out of the apartment in less than thirty seconds. I counted under my breath. 1... 2... 16... 24... 32... 40... 64...

“He's not real.” I walked to the truck, got in, started the engine, and drove to Poplar Avenue.

Driving in Memphis, like participating in a roller derby, can be an unforgiving experience. I decided to turn left on Central, then right crossing the bridge and Union while on Southern, and made another left onto Poplar. I was at the office within ten minutes time. It was four P.M.. With very little traffic to dodge along the way. The city's regional forensic center sits across the road from a house with a strange wrought iron fence that was set into brown brickwork. To the west, behind me, were collection of taller buildings. The city sprawls out for a fairly larger distance than others in Tennessee. Tall buildings seem to need space from each other here. Almost as if they're claiming a specific portion of the city as their own territory.

I parked the truck at a feasible spot which looked like visitor's parking and limped to the door. A man with a business suit held the door open for me and I proceeded into the air conditioned lobby. It had the government building smell sprayed in every nook of the facility. The smell is approximately two parts federal/state funding, one part antibacterial hand lotion, and eight parts filing cabinets from the 80's. I used to think they smelled like rock salt and pineapples but then I realized that this was just a special case in which the lady working the front desk at the DMV decided to risk wearing perfume that her husband had purchased for her online.