Joyce found a job with the county, the county Police Department, of all things. I was living with a cop! But at least it was during the day, which gave me a little rest from those fondling hands except—Joyce bought two parakeets, and the damn things didn’t talk, they just made these sounds all day.

Joyce and I met over breakfast and dinner—it was all very brisk—nice that way. Though she still managed to rape me now and then, it beat the other, except—the parakeets.

“Look, baby . . .”

“Now what is it?”

“All right, I’ve gotten used to the geraniums and the flies and Picasso, but you’ve got to realize that I am working 12 hours a night and studying a scheme on the side, and you molest my remaining energy . . .”

“Molest?”

“All right. I’m not saying it right. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean, 'molest’?”

“I said, forget it! Now look, it’s the parakeets.”

“So now it’s the parakeets! Are they molesting you too?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Who’s on top?”

“Look, don’t get funny. Don’t get dirty. I’m trying to tell you something.”

“Now you’re trying to tell me how to get!”

“All right! Shit! You’re the one with the money! Are you
going to let me talk or not? Answer me, yes or no?”

“All right, little baby: yes.”

“All right. Little baby says this: ‘Mama! Mama! Those fucking parakeets are driving me nuts!’ ”

“All right, tell mama how the parakeets are driving you nuts.”

“Well, it’s like this, mama, the things chatter all day, they never stop, and I keep waiting for them to say something but they never say anything and I can’t sleep all day from listening to the idiots!”

“All right, little baby. If they keep you awake, put them out.”

“Put them out, mama?”

“Yes, put them out.” “All right, mama.”

She gave me a kiss and then wiggled down the stairway on her
way to her cop job.

I got into bed and tried to sleep. How they chattered! Every muscle in my body ached. If I lay on this side, if I lay on that side, if I lay on my back, I ached. I found the easiest way was on my stomach, but that grew tiresome. It took a good two or three minutes to get from one position to another.

I tossed and turned, cursing, screaming a little, and laughing a little too, at the ridiculousness of it. On they chattered. They got to me. What did they know of pain in their little cage? Egg– heads yakking! Just feathers; brains the size of a pinhead.
I managed to get out of bed, go into the kitchen, fill a cup with water and then I walked up to the cage and threw the water all over them.

“Motherfuckers!” I cursed them.

They looked out at me balefully from under their wet feathers. They were silent! Nothing like the old water treatment. I had borrowed a page from the headshrinkers.
Then the green one with the yellow breast reached down and bit himself on the chest. Then he looked up and started chattering to the red one with the green breast, and then they were going again.

I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to them. Picasso walked up and bit me on the ankle.

That did it. I took the cage outside. Picasso followed me.
10,000 flies rose straight up into the air. I put the cage on the ground, opened the cage door and sat on the steps.

Both birds looked at that cage door. They couldn’t understand it and they could. I could feel their tiny minds trying to function. They had their food and water right there, but what was that open space?

The green one with the yellow breast went first. He leaped down to the opening from his rung. He sat gripping the wire. He looked around at the flies. He stood there 15 seconds, trying to decide. Then something clicked in his little head. Or her little head. He didn’t fly. He shot straight up into the sky. Up, up, up, up. Straight up! Straight as an arrow! Picasso and I sat there and watched. The damn thing was gone.

Then it was the red one with the green breast’s turn.

The red one was much more hesitant. He walked around in the bottom of the cage, nervously. It was a hell of a decision. Humans, birds, everything has to make these decisions. It was a hard game.

So old red walked around thinking it over. Yellow sunlight. Buzzing flies. Man and dog looking on. All that sky, all that sky.

It was too much. Old red leaped to the wire. 3 seconds.

ZOOP!

The bird was gone.

Picasso and I picked up the empty cage and walked back into the house.

I had a good sleep for the first time in weeks. I even forgot to set the alarm. I was riding a white horse down Broadway, New York City. I had just been elected mayor. I had this big hard-on, and then somebody threw a hunk of mud at me . . . and Joyce shook me.

“What happened to the birds?”

“Damn the birds! I am the mayor of New York I”

“I asked you about the birds! All I see is an empty cage!”

“Birds? Birds? What birds?”

“Wake up, damn you!”

“Hard day at the office dear? You seem snappish.”

“Where ARE the BIRDS?”

“You said to put them out if they kept me awake.”

“I meant to put them in the back porch or outside, you fool!”

“Fool?”

“Yes, you fool! Do you mean to say you let those birds out of the cage? Do you mean to say you really let them out of the cage?”

“Well, all I can say is, they are not locked in the bathroom, they are not in the cupboard.”

“They’ll starve out there!”

“They can catch worms, eat berries, all that stuff.”

“They can’t, they can’t. They don’t know how! They’ll die!”

“Let ‘em learn or let ’em die,” I said, and then I turned slowly over and went back to sleep. Vaguely, I could hear her cooking her dinner, dropping lids and spoons on the floor, cursing. But Picasso was on the bed with me, Picasso was safe from her
sharp shoes. I put my hand out and he licked it and then I slept.

That is, I did for a while. Next thing I knew I was being fondled. I looked up and she was staring into my eyes like a madwoman. She was naked, her breasts dangling in my eyes. Her hair tickling my nostrils. I thought of her millions, picked
her up, flipped her on her back and stuck it in.