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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.
