- - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - cccccc, ccccc, cccccccccccc, ?$$$$$$$$$$, ,ccc, ,cc :`$$$$$$bc :`$$$$c ::`$$$$$$$$$$$$c`:"$$$$????$$b "$$$$c, `$$h `:`$$$$$$$$c,:`$$$$h `:: ?$$$b :::;$$h`:`?$$$,::`$$b `$$$$$$c, ?$$$c ``:`$$$$$$$$$$,`$$$$c ..,,,:"$$$b `:::` `:"$$$b :`?$B,:"$$$$$$$$$$?$b `::`$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$h:"$$$$c:`$$$b `:`?$$$c`:`$$b:`?$$b."?$$:`?$. `::`$$$$$$P?$$$$$$$$c:`????":`?$$b. ,?$$.`:?$$$h.;,?$$;:"$$$,`:"`:`$$ `::`$$$$$$.`"$$$$$$$h::`` :::"$$$, .,:d$$b`:`?$$$$$$$$$;``?$Fb `:` `::`$$$$$$.` "?$$$$$c, `:::"$$$$$$$$$$$$$.:.?????""";` `:::` `::`$$$$$$ `::"?$$$h. `:::`?@$$$000P?"' : :::::''` `::`$$$$$b `::`?$$c, ::: ""'''';,,:` `::`$$$$$b `::`;" ` ;;;:''' t h e `::,????), `::' n e o - c o m i n t e r n `::::::` e l e c t r o n i c m a g a z i n e n e o - c o m i n t e r n . c o m - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - s u b v e r s i v e l i t e r a t u r e f o r s u b v e r t e d p e o p l e f e b r u a r y 1 7 t h , 2 0 0 2 e d i t o r - b m c - - - - ----==={ I N S T A L L M E N T 1 9 0 }===---- - - - - w r i t e r s : m e l a t o n i n - - - - ----==={ F E A T U R E S }===---- - - - - A Life in Birds by Melatonin - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - e d i t o r ' s n o t e - - - - ---==={PLEASE DO NOT READ THE FOLLOWING!}===--- - - - - This week... - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - A LIFE IN BIRDS - - - - -- -------======{by Melatonin}=======------- -- - - - - It was lying under Landover bridge, wet and laughing, body streaming with pain, eyelids closed against the fine Monday sun, that Ira Nash finally realized the one inherent truth of his life: that his soul had been colored by birds, and that this most blessed of fates had all begun, as far as he could tell or remember, with a Christmas tree dragged in from the cold and a crystal pickle jar, stolen one evening from his mother's kitchen cabinet. He couldn't have been more than five or six years old at the time, he thought, seeing it all so clearly in his mind's eye. Him, lying on the floor of their bungalow one cold December night, coloring and listening to the TV when the front door blew open with an icy whoosh and his father came thundering into the living room, cursing the snow from his boots, his body bent with the weight of the tied fir on his shoulder. The tree was set up within the hour. Ira and his older brother, Jeremy, watched from the couch, tense with their parent's frustration but still happy, still smiling. The next day a bluebird emerged from its branches, wet, terrified, twitching like an epileptic as it flew wildly about the house. Their mother, aproned and covered in flour, chased after it, shrieking and swatting the air with a broom, yelling a frenzy of directions over her shoulder as her two sons followed close behind, their little arms dancing, their little voices cheering the tiny intruder on. Eventually the bird was captured in a garbage bag and their mother, all sweaty and flustered from the chase, went to squash the hopping, squawking bulge with the heel of one of her pumps. At the thought of such a horrid fate both children began to weep and scream in protest. She then tried to suggest that they release the bird outside, where it could fly "back to its family," but one look at the layer of wintry frost covering the land and the children again began to weep, this time even louder than before. And so a makeshift cage was fashioned from an old pillowcase and a cardboard box, and the bluebird -- caught off-guard by the year's early snowfall -- became 'Navy Jones', early Christmas present and reluctant pet of the Nash family household. A week later it was dead. At the time, Ira, still in the curious, hoarding stage of his life, decided that the bird must be horribly lonely and scared, sleeping in the kitchen at night, all by itself and -- in his mind -- defenseless against whatever wicked monsters lurked in the shadows. So, sneaking out of bed late one Friday night, Ira braved death by bogeyman and went tiptoeing down to the kitchen, where he removed the pillowcase from the cage and, taking the bird into his hands, placed it in a large pickle jar -- procured, as mentioned, from his mother's stash of homemade jams. Then he climbed back into bed and fell quickly asleep, the hard lump of glass stuffed under his pillow, the bird's muted coos a soft music to his ears. Jeremy woke him up for cartoons early the next morning and quickly raced downstairs. Ira, before doing anything else, made sure to see how Navy -- his buddy, his pal, his lifelong confidant -- had enjoyed the night's slumber. But upon lifting his pillow and picking up the jar, he saw not the chirping, cheery-faced friend he'd put to bed, but rather a limp, boneless shell of a bird, drained of color and slumping against the glass. Confused and horrified, Ira hid the jar from his brother and, sneaking out of the house before his parents had risen, buried the evidence (jar and all) in the corner of his mother's garden, beneath the raspberry bushes, a cramped and thorny space where no adult dared venture. * When he was ten, Ira's mother was stricken with leukemia and the entire family was forced to watch as, day in and day out, she slowly wasted away on the living room couch, her body seeming to crumple inward, her bones shrinking to sticks. After three months of deterioration she passed away, and Ira -- his child's body already taking on the thin, awkward shape of his adult self -- was stuffed into an uncomfortable black suit and dragged, pouting and weepy, to her funeral. A half hour into the procession he managed to escape his father's hand, and, under the pretext of overwhelming grief -- though in fact, he was not yet processing grief -- work his way to the back of the graveyard, where he watched the crowd of aunts and uncles, friends and acquaintances from the shadow of an old, gnarled oak tree. Within seconds Ira spotted the first eye, blinking in the back of his grandfather's jacket. Straining his eyes, he leaned forward; both the coat and the eye were as black as night, making it difficult to distinguish between the two, but yes, yes, there was definitely something there. He quickly began to scan the crowd -- anxious, frightened, on the verge of screaming yet without voice -- and there saw another eye, this time staring at him from the back of Mrs. Henrietta's handbag. And there -- there was another, in the seam of his father's pant leg, and another, flittering against his aunt's pillbox hat! And another and another, all black on black, all blinking and shining in the sunlight. Ira quickly stood up and opened his mouth to scream, and with that there was a sudden dull explosion of feather and a hundred ravens took shape, bursting from the crowd in a fluttery storm of wing and beak. And no one -- not a single, living soul -- noticed a thing. Eyes wide and mouth agape, Ira watched as the ravens scattered in air, leaving nothing in their wake but blue sky and stray feathers, floating slowly to the ground. Reaching out, he caught one of them between his trembling fingers and quickly slid it into his coat pocket without further examination. And not once, throughout that entire horrible weekend, did he ever check to see if the feather was really there. He did not know and, more importantly, did not want to know. * And so the birds were with Ira when, later that year, his father quit his job at the local bottling plant and moved the family south, to Minnesota, where an executive managerial position at a staples and paper clip firm was waiting for him. The drive down was silent and uneventful, with Jeremy reading comics in the passenger seat and Ira stretched flat in the back, watching the clouds drift over the sunroof and wondering, idly, why the flock of geese honking overhead had yet to change its flight pattern since before they'd left their driveway. * Upon his high school graduation, Ira received two gifts: the first, from his father, was an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, used and in a state of semi-disrepair, but which he loved all the same, and the second, from his grandmother, was a small Kodak camera, which he politely thanked her for and promptly tossed aside. And there it sat, a useless, unused square of black plastic, growing dust in the corner of his bedroom until finally, on a fateful, foggy day in October, a crane came down from the sky and gave Ira's life a sense of direction. It was three in the afternoon and Ira, returning from another boring day at Minnesota State, came home to find the front door locked and his house keys waiting for him inside, on the foyer table. Cursing under his breath, he dropped his backpack on the porch and quickly cut around the house. And it was there, upon opening the backyard gate, that he first saw the crane. It was perched on the stony edge of his father's pond, plucking fish from the water and quietly chewing them in its beak. Ira, struck by the enormity of its size and the blinding whiteness of its feathers, silently edged his way to the patio door. Inside the house, he watched the crane for another minute, awestruck and wishing he had some sort of device with which to capture such a rare and amazing sight. Then he remembered his grandmother's gift. Outside again, Ira crouched down and, holding his breath, lined the crane up in his sights. He snapped the picture. The flash went off like a lighting bolt, cutting through the fog. Ira recoiled, slightly dazed. He lowered the camera and watched in disbelief as the bird casually turned to him, its beak still grinding away on the fish, its eyes calm and unblinking. Had the flash really not frightened it away? Ira raised the camera and snapped another picture, this time lower to the ground, with the wet grass serving as an unfocused foreground. Again the flash went off and again the crane remained unruffled. Ira stood up and looked at the bird. "Hey," he whispered, his voice weak. Disinterested, the crane turned away and dunked its head in the pond, its beak searching for another fish. Ira took a step forward and raised his voice: "Hey, crane. Look at me." Hearing him, the crane slowly removed its head from the water and turned to Ira, its face showing no sense of danger, no shade of fear. Ira suddenly became infuriated. He rushed at the bird, screaming and waving his arms in the air like a madman. His words were slurred and incomprehensible in their speed, but they sounded something like: "HeybirdlookatmeI'mgonnakillyouwahwahwah!" And with that the crane took to the air. Its wingspan was enormous and brilliantly white, but its flight was an awkward jumping action, first from the pond to the fence, then from the fence to the roof of his house, and finally from there into the air, where it soared away in silence and disappeared into the fog, the dull flap of its wings the only trace of its existence. The photos -- submitted, out of shame, under his brother's name -- took second place in a local amateur photography contest, netting Jeremy an unexpected check for $250 and setting Ira on a brand new career path. He purchased his very own Fuji SC300 35mm camera, transferred from the college of engineering to the college of journalism, and sent out subscriptions to all of the major photography publications -- and all within the first two months of his victory, such was the degree of his passion. And though the subject matter of his work was quite varied -- he shot everything from portraits to landscapes to expressionistic abstractions -- he had an uncanny knack for bird shots, and it was for this that he achieved his modest amount of fame. Whereas most bird-watchers are forced to cower in bushes and trees, timid and silent, Ira was able to move freely through the bird kingdom, at one with their world. In fact, the birds were as likely to come to him as he to they. Exploring the city for his next shot, birds would appear to Ira at all times of day, and in the most unexpected of places: a canary, asleep in the back of a bus; an eagle, perched on a statue of Theodore Roosevelt, its head bowed humbly, majestically; a nest of baby cardinals, resting atop a traffic light, cars whizzing beneath them. The photos Ira took were so out of the ordinary, so perfectly surreal, that he was often accused of staging his depictions for the camera -- as though any human could somehow "order" a bird to pose for a photo shoot, as Ira had often had to argue. It was then put forth, in a desperate attempt to explain these images, that the birds were either not real or stuffed, and that Ira was less an artist and more a fiendishly clever taxidermist. But of course these charges were dismissed as well, once Ira produced his large collection of unused shots: the canary on the bus, waking up; the eagle on the statue, flying away; and so on and so forth. Eventually the bird snaps became so simple for Ira to capture that he started throwing challenges at himself; for an entire year, for example, he shot only with a rusty old Polaroid camera that would create shaky, halo effects around any moving object, but here too the photos produced were better than expected: the faded, overexposed images of birds in flight had the look of little ghosts in a little ghost world, and the pictures were ultimately published as a five-page spread in American Photo. And so Ira's career continued -- eventful, pleasant, satisfying -- until finally, in the spring of his thirtieth year, the birds leapt from his work and again took a more active role in the shape of his life. * It was a late Friday afternoon and Melody Starks was curled on her living room couch, plucking her eyebrows in a compact mirror and listening to the TV murmur in the background, when a little chimney swift fluttered through her apartment window and landed, quite nonchalantly, on the carpet floor, a pair of keys dangling from the corner of its beak. She threw the tweezers aside and quickly rose to her feet, her hands clutching her sweat pants in nervous anxiety. "Um, um... shoo," she spit out, her voice barely raising to a whisper. The bird ignored her, its eyes staring blankly forward, its body unmoving, the keys jingling slightly in its jaw. It had the appearance of a dead thing -- a fake, toy-like creature, lost in its own world, its dark feathers staining her carpet with soot. "Hey! Hello up there!" a voice hollered from outside. Melody quickly scurried over to her window and checked the street below. It was Ira. He was standing next to his parked car, gazing up at Melody's third-story balcony, a camera hanging from his neck. "You haven't happened to see my keys, by any chance?" he asked her, a forced smile coming to his lips. "Why, were they stolen by a bird?" "Yeah, unfortunately," Ira admitted, dropping his shoulders in defeat. Melody suddenly grinned. "And can you describe the bird for me, sir? I mean, how do I know these are really your keys, and not somebody else's? What with so many birds turning to a life of crime these days, you have to be completely sure." Not just bright-eyed and brown-haired, Ira thought, but charming to boot. A quick pang of attraction made his stomach dip and he suddenly became aware of his long nose, his wire spectacles, the hole in the elbow of his sweater. "The bird I'm looking for is dark and dirty, with a beady-eyed malevolence," he answered, playing along. She let out a light, airy laugh and Ira felt his heart leap, his stomach dance. "Okay," she offered, "they're up here. Apartment 3C, Melody Stark. You'll have to get them yourself." "No problem. I'll be right up." By the time he reached her door, Ira -- sweaty, nervous, and talking much too fast -- had already overwhelmed himself with the awkward, self-conscious thoughts of a first date. But Melody, finding his nervousness and lack of confidence oddly endearing, stuck with him through the lulls in conversation, the confused gestures, and even brushed his arm once or twice when Ira, having retrieved his keys, took the chimney swift softly in hand and politely made his exit from her apartment. "Well, I guess I'll be going then," he began, opening her door. "Okay, sure." "Get rid of this pesky little guy for you," he said, chuckling as he raised the bird slightly. "Okay." "Sorry he messed up your carpet like that." "It's okay. I'm sure it'll come out." "Yeah, right, I guess nowadays with all the soaps and shampoos they have and whatnot, a little bit of soot from a bird wouldn't, uh, well... you know, with the soap and all... you can always just... uh..." Melody smiled, her eyes sparkling. "Well, okay then," Ira finally concluded, avoiding eye contact. "Bye." "Okay, bye." And with that her door was closed and Ira was left alone in the hall. He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, his eyes staring blankly at the wall before him, as if waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he turned and began to make his way down the hall, his mind already buzzing with a flurry of what-ifs and if-onlys. But as he neared the stairwell the chimney swift began to squeak and strain against his palm, suddenly desperate to escape his grasp. Ira tried clutching it in both hands and it let out a last, angry squeal and bit his thumb, drawing blood. Ira dropped the bird and, grumbling quietly, watched as it made its way back down the hall in a series of short, stuttered hops. Finally it stopped at Melody's door. Ira watched the little swift, amazed. It gave him a brief, over-the-shoulder glance, then turned back to the door and began to scrape against its base with the point of its tiny beak. "Come on, stop it," Ira whispered, approaching the bird. "You're going to make her mad. You've already done enough damage. Didn't you see her carpet?" He reached Melody's door and, kneeling down, took the swift in both hands, its head locked tightly between his thumbs. Then he stood up and, standing face to face with Melody's door, suddenly found himself overcome with the urge to give it a knock and, uncharacteristic though it may be, casually ask her out for spaghetti and wine at Luschino's, his favorite Italian restaurant. And so he did, and that, as they say, was that. * After a one-year courtship and a two-year engagement, Ira and Melody were married -- him at 33, her at 29. The wedding was a small, simple affair, allowing them to spend more money on the honeymoon, which lasted four weeks and took them from the white beaches of Maui to the cobbled streets of Paris to the throbbing, over-lit night world of south Brazil. And it was there, amongst the dirt roads and fast-talking street merchants, that Ira happened upon Speakeasy, the parrot that would eventually throw his life into a state of disrepair. Of course, the whole thing was almost entirely Melody's idea: to buy the parrot, to take it home with them, to name it 'Speakeasy', to set its cage in the dining room corner, where it could overhear and regurgitate back whatever it pleased, to whomever it pleased, whenever it pleased. All of this was her own doing, and all of it would come back to haunt her a decade later. It was a Monday afternoon and -- as these sort of things often begin -- Ira, feeling a little bit queasy and having not a lot to do that day, decided to come home early from his job at the local paper, The Star Tribune. But when he went to unlock his front door he found it not only unlocked, but slightly ajar as well. Had Melody ducked out of work early herself? Ira stepped inside the house and called her name, once, twice, three times. There was no response. He stepped inside the kitchen and there, on the counter, lying beside the phone, he saw her purse, flipped open and waiting for its owner to return. Where could she have gone without this stupid thing? Ira thought, picking up the purse and looking it over. He turned to the phone and checked to see who'd called. There was no one; the list was empty. He furrowed his brow, confused and slightly worried, then gave a shrug and turned to the refrigerator, his thoughts already on the cold beer awaiting him inside. "Squawk! Squawwwk! Ted, Ted, squawk!" It was Speakeasy, her raspy, chattering voice slightly muffled by the blanket slung over her cage. "Shouldn't call here, Ted. Ted, Ted, shouldn't call here. Squawwwk!" Ira turned around, listening. Ted? Did he know anyone named Ted? He approached the cage and threw the blanket aside. Speakeasy turned to him, her translucent markings shining crisp and bright in the sunlight. "Ted who? Who called here? Is it something about the baby?" Ira quickly asked, feeling not the least bit ridiculous. "Ted, Ted, Ted, squawk!" "Ted, Ted, Ted who? What's his last name?" Ira continued, agitated. "Squawk, Speaky want a cracker! Cracker! Squawwwk!" "I don't have any crackers, just tell me who called." "Cracker. Cracker. Cracker." "Jesus," Ira cussed, heading for the kitchen cabinet. He grabbed the miniature crackers Melody kept on the shelf above the stove, but only crumbs and a thin, powdery mist came out when he turned the box upside down. Desperate, he began to rifle through the rest of their snacks and, finding nothing suitable, finally settled on a bag of rice cakes, sitting at the back of the cabinet, untouched and most likely expired. He returned to the parrot. "Come on, Speakeasy," Ira offered. "Eat some of this." He broke off a hard piece of cake and slid it through the cage bars. The parrot nudged it with her beak a few times, then slowly took it from his fingers and began to quietly work it in her mouth. "There ya go," he consoled. "That's good, huh? Now, tell me, who's this T--" The parrot let the chunk of cake fall from her mouth like a lump of wet Styrofoam, shook her head out it in disgust, then looked back up at Ira. "Squawwwk! Cracker! Speaky want a cracker!" "THERE'S NO GODDAMNED CRACKERS NOW QUIT ASKING FOR THEM FOR CHRIST'S SAKES!" Ira suddenly bellowed, clutching the cage in both hands and rattling it back and forth. "Paradise Motel, two o'clock, two o'clock, squawk, squawk, squawwwk!" the parrot blurted out all at once, its beak suddenly exploded with fear. "Paradise Motel?" Ira repeated, his face draining of color, his mouth going limp. "What? I don't... I--" he stammered, slowly letting go of the cage and straightening up, his hands falling loose at his sides. He stood there for a long time, staring at the wall, feeling the inevitable cogs of thought churn inside his skull. Eventually he pulled himself together and looked down at the parrot, its feathers trembling slightly at his gaze. "I'm sorry, little guy," Ira began, not knowing what to say. "Here, have some more of this." And with that he slid the rest of the rice cake through the bars and rushed from the house, pausing only to swipe the telephone book from the foyer desk. When Ira arrived at the Paradise Motel -- a scuzzy, peeling little place with faded pink walls and a smoggy highway view -- he found a quiet spot to park and, cutting the engine to his car, leaned back in his seat and waited, his eyes locked on the inner ring of motel doors. He studied each one, wondering which of them contained his wife and what this Ted might be doing to her on the inside. His mind buzzed, a flurry of half-formed scenes and sweaty accusations. He thought of his wife, five months with child and taking another man inside her. He thought of her moans, of her body, of a stranger's fingerprints stamped up and down her back. And the unidentified, vague figure of her lover -- this Ted character -- also began to take shape in the dark corners of his imagination; Ira envisioned him with a giant, sloped forehead and receding hairline, his tiny pastel golf shirts pulled taut around his enormous belly, beaded with the sweat of his grunting, grinding, pelvic convulsions. Ted, the used car salesman in the ramshackle old sports car. Ted, the hunchback janitor scraping orange peels from the floor. Ted, the fast food manager licking grease off his fingers. Ted, Mr. 2 O'Clock. Mr. Paradise Motel. Mr. Homewrecker Extraordinaire. And so it continued for another twenty minutes until, finally, a door at the base of the second-floor stairwell opened up and Melody stepped outside, adjusting a bra strap under her blouse and laughing. Ira leaned forward in his seat, anxious. He grabbed the old Polaroid camera from the passenger seat and, raising the viewfinder to his eyes, lined up the action and began taking snapshots of his wife's cheating smile, his forearm wrapped around the flash. A few seconds later the shadowy figure of Ted emerged from the room behind her and, taking her waist in his thick fingers, turned her around and began kissing her in the open air, his palms cupping her hardened little belly, his perfect tanned skin and golden hair gleaming like a slap in the face. Looks like a tennis instructor, Ira thought, clicking away. Melody, easing the hands off her stomach, broke the embrace and gave a worried look around. Turning back, she quickly said her good-byes and scampered off to the front desk, presumably to return the key and square the bill. Tennis Instructor Ted wasted no time -- he quickly hopped into his shiny convertible and sped off, disappearing around the corner like a criminal from the scene of a crime. Disgusted, Ira threw the camera aside and quickly gathered up the pile of Polaroids from his lap. Outside, he scurried over to Melody's car -- parked just a few feet from the motel room -- and hurriedly spread the photos out across her windshield. When he finished, he took a step back and looked at the montage of infidelity with silent fury. Then, deciding it somehow wasn't accusation enough, he took his keys from his pocket and crudely scraped the words 'Ted Fucks Melody' across the side of the vehicle. Finally content with this, he ran back to his car and spun the engine to a start. Ira didn't wait around to see his wife's reaction, but when Melody returned to her vehicle and saw the crude act of vandalism and, especially, the collection of shaky, broken photographs, she realized she'd been caught red-handed. And, hearing a pair of tires squeal wildly around a corner and a horn burst sharply in the distance, she knew, too, that such angry sounds could only belong to her husband. A wave of panic washed over her and her head grew dizzy, her sides cramping up. Then, feeling a sort of dull implosion below her belly, she looked down, frantic, and watched the crotch of her slacks quietly grow dark. It's my water, she thought, terrified. But how can this be? I'm only five months pregnant. It's not even-- But before she could finish her thought her head was overcome with a pounding blackness and her body, pale and sweaty, slumped to the pavement in a dead faint. Weaving in and out of traffic, cars whizzing past him, Ira sped through the city streets, his white knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel, his teeth chewing curse words like candy. He paid no attention to the shouting pedestrians, the endless honking of horns, which together formed a sort of bleating musical score all around him. And whenever he neared a red light he would either run it at the last second or avoid it altogether through an adjacent parking lot or sudden right-hand turn. As he barreled down the road, face twisted in a scowl, sweat pouring off his forehead, he began to pick up on a burnt, smoky smell. He looked around the car, saw nothing, and assumed it must be the engine, overheating with his rage. This angered him even more and he punched the gas harder, pushing the speedometer past 60. Then the smoke took on a stronger presence, filling the car with its odor and even clouding Ira's view of the road. He gave another look around and this time saw that something was indeed on fire, and that this something was him. It was his right forearm -- thin wisps of smoke were wafting up from the pores of his combusting skin. Grunting, Ira let go of the wheel with his left hand and hurriedly patted his arm down, desperate to damp out the fumes. It was no good; the smoke was growing thicker, hotter, and with it, a horrible sense of terror began to overwhelm his entire body. Outside, Ira's car continued to hurtle forward, tires zigzagging inside the lane, eyes barely on the road. Behind him, a horn let out a long, violent shriek and when he looked up he saw a minivan parked in front of him, idling quietly at a stoplight. Ira swerved into the open lane and, eyes closed, felt his heart stop as he flew speeding through the crossing traffic pattern. "Jesus Christ!" he yelled, and his arm burst into flames. "OH JESUS CHRIST! OH MY FUCK! GOD!" Ira bellowed, flapping his right arm in the air, the flames licking at his face. There was no pain, there was no anger; there was only fear and confusion. Aiming for the brake, he accidently hit the gas pedal and the car shot up to 70, careening wildly down the open road like a bullet fired from a broken gun. Within seconds he was on Landover bridge, pushing eighty and speeding down the wrong lane. Ira looked up at the last second and saw a green Honda coming at him, its tires skidding against the asphalt. He pulled the steering wheel left as hard as he could, aiming for the guard rail, but it was no use; the car hit him anyway, smashing through his back end and spinning him around like a toy top. Eyes blinded by smoke and body lodged in place by the spent airbag, Ira felt nothing but a sudden dip in his stomach and a confused loss of equilibrium when his car went toppling over the edge of the bridge, driver's side first. He hit the water with a deafening splash and the window next to him shattered, rupturing his left ear drum. Water rushed in -- icy, cold, it extinguished his arm with a hiss and left a throbbing, charred thing in its place. As he struggled to unlock his seat belt, Ira felt the entire car roll over with the weight of the water and he suddenly found himself sinking into the East Minnesota river upside down, his face completely submerged. With his left arm still free and in the open air, he managed to push the airbag out of the way and unhinge his seat belt lock. It snapped loose with the release of pressure and, falling into the car roof, Ira was able to roll over and take in one last gasp of air before the cabin was completely swallowed. Then he crawled out of the broken window and began to paddle his way to the surface, his eyes intent on the ripple of sunlight overhead. Except when he tried to swim he suddenly found that he had nothing to swim with. Both his kneecaps had been dislocated in the accident and his right arm was an utterly useless piece of limp flesh, floating at his side. Desperate, Ira slashed and clawed at the water with his left arm, trying with all his might to fight the slow, natural sinking of his body. But it was no use; he just kept drifting further and further down, the sun's hazy circle growing smaller and smaller before him. Eventually his left arm became numb with exhaustion and he was forced to give up and watch in defeat as his world grew dark. Strangely calm, Ira wondered if it was his depth or his lack of oxygen that was turning everything so unutterably black. Probably a bit of both, he decided, and closed his eyes against the cold, his body weak, aching, and oh so terribly tired. Then he heard a tiny splash, distant and small inside his right ear. Ira opened his eyes and listened. Within seconds there was another tiny splash, and then another and another. And then, all at once, there came hundreds of splashes, like a giant bucket of stones being tossed into a lake. Ira squinted and leaned forward, straining his eyes against the darkness (he had lost his glasses in the fall), but there was nothing to be seen. Then the splashes stopped and there was only a dull, rhythmic sloshing sound, slowly working its way toward him. Ira listened intently, his body fighting the desire to pass out, to let go. He shook his head back and forth in a frenzy of bubbles and tightened his hand into a fist. Then he saw it: a beak, pushing through the darkness. He opened his eyes wide and within seconds a flurry of robins and sparrows, shaded red and brown, began to form around him, their little wings slicing water, their cheery, high-pitched chirps echoing in his ear. Defenseless, immobile, he watched as the birds surrounded him and, in a net of claw and feather, took him in their beaks and against their bodies and began to carry him back to safety. With his mind on the verge of unconsciousness, Ira watched in disbelief as, rising through the dark and the cold, the sun finally broke against the surface of the water and enveloped him like a warm, white song. And Ira -- humbled, humiliated -- closed his eyes and began to weep. When he awoke he was lying face down on an embankment of sand under Landover bridge. He raised his head and, clutching at a skull that felt two sizes too small, gave a long, slow look around. The birds were gone, but all around him their footprints remained: little three- and four-line slashes pressed in the sand, marking out a flurry of scurried movement and jerky flight. Ira rolled onto his back and stared up at the white sky. Alive, insignificant, he felt he knew all there was to know, yet delighted in the fact that he knew nothing at all. He was in enormous pain, yes -- his arm was burnt, his legs were broken, his face and body were littered with the tiny, bleeding cuts of beak and claw -- but much more than that he was happy: happy to know life, happy to feel the sun's heat on his wet skin, happy for birds and love and second chances and yes, he was even happy to have his Melody. And with that everything was forgiven, and the laughter began to well in his throat. * Three miles away and a few minutes later, in the maternity ward of Saint Mary's Hospital, Melody Nash awoke to a nurse's encouraging face smiling down at her, a frenzy of beeps and shouts she couldn't understand, and her own body in the process of giving birth, with or without its owner. "She's up!" the nurse yelled, turning to the doctor. "Tell her to push. I can see it coming!" he yelled back, his eyes bursting with excitement. "April, cancel the C!" "But it's, it's not the time. I'm not--" Melody stammered, struggling for words and trying to rise. "Five months. It's only been five months." "We know. It's okay. Just push." "But I--" A sudden spasm shot through Melody's back and, grunting, she clenched her teeth and began to push, reluctant but without choice. The baby was on its way; there was no turning back. "Push push push!" the doctor shouted. "I think I see a head!" Pushing with all her might, Melody let out one final groan and released the child from her womb. However, it was not a baby that slid into the doctor's waiting palms, but rather a smooth, perfectly formed bird's egg -- larger than most but still smaller than any child. Wiping the purple fluids of the womb off its shell, the doctor exposed its freckled, light green surface. He studied the egg for a moment, lost in thought as the staff of nurses and assistants slowly gathered round him. Together, they all looked up at Melody, their faces a sea of mass confusion. "What is it?" she asked, staring back at them, her eyes as lost as theirs. A long, uncomfortable silence passed. Finally the doctor opened his mouth to speak and everyone in the room leaned forward to listen, the combined rustling of their clothes drowning out the sudden, fluttery sound of a flock of pigeons, joyously taking to flight from the window sill outside. 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