Parakeets Don't Talk, by Cheryl Townsend
A Riot, by M.E. Purfield
Lucky, by M.E. Purfield
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Parakeets Don't Talk
Cheryl Townsend
K.D. was a hobbit that I rented an upstairs bedroom from, above his apartment, which was above a glass repair shop on Rte 59 in Kent.
K.D. had a parakeet he called TweetyBird and a cat named Mineau’ that I heard mewing one night when a guy I was dating and I stopped for a quickie at a rest stop and I left him to find her and wound up bringing her home. Mineau’ was not allowed to come downstairs because of the parakeet K.D. called TweetyBird. My bedroom upstairs had a bathroom that didn’t work between where I slept and another room where I did nothing because all I had was a bed and dresser left by the last person who rented the upstairs bedroom from K.D. Her name was Pam. I had to use the toilet and shower downstairs in K.D.’s part which also had a shared kitchen.
K.D. was pretty much a slob. I was (and still am) the opposite. I had to chisel off the 8 years of "no one else doing it" soap scum residue before I could take a shower. I bought a new shower curtain, too.
I never baked anything in our shared kitchen because the oven looked like charcoal, but I did manage to scrap off enough food from the stove to keep the pots and pans from wobbling off the burners when I cooked anything. K.D. promised me a dishwasher if I would marry him. I told him how about just some dish soap and I don’t?
I scrubbed floors and walls and windows and doors – but he told me to leave the ceiling. He wanted to see how much longer the ½ stick of butter would stay there from the 1st margarine war he had with drunken buddies in the kitchen 3 years ago. It was holding pretty good so far.
K.D. and I would drink a lot together. We’d get quite tanked and sing Mac The Knife with the jukebox at the Loft bar in Kent. K.D. would always buy. I would always let him. We had an understanding that way.
People would come over and gather in his living room to drink and smoke and K.D. would try to get the parakeet he called TweetyBird high and then talk. I kept telling him parakeets don’t do that, but he never listened and everyone else just went along because K.D. always bought and they always let him. They all had an understanding that way.
I would often tape record the parties and play them back in the morning while we all drank coffee and laughed over everyone trying to get the parakeet K.D. called TweetyBird high and to talk.
K.D. liked to suck toes. If you drank in his home and were female, you had to let K.D. suck your toes. We never saw K.D.’s toes. I think maybe the hobbit hair embarrassed him or he had corns. But everyone else – the female everyone else – had to let K.D. suck their toes. He was actually quite good at it.
I moved out from K.D.’s upstairs bedroom when I got married and K.D. was alone again. Alone- except for the parakeet he called TweetyBird. I had heard that he fell asleep smoking, which he had done several times before, but this time that he fell asleep smoking, he actually burnt more than just his bed and a patch of the wall. He burned half of the apartment. He was even too drunk to realize his apartment was burning down until the fire department broke in the door to get him. He was pretty much OK, but the parakeet he called TweetyBird didn’t survive the smoke inhalation. I heard he took that pretty hard.
Last week I saw people from the drinking gang that used to sit in K.D.’s living room drinking and smoking and getting their toes sucked (if they were female) and I asked him how K.D. was doing. He said he was surprised I didn’t know. I asked him what didn’t I know that surprised him. He said that they found K.D. in his car, it was still running, at the Main Street railroad crossing, dead of a massive heart attack. And I thought NO!, hobbits live longer than that. I thought NO!, I wanted to buy him a drink. I thought NO!, he was my friend and I deserted him for my marriage. I thought NO!, NO! NO! But it was yes. K.D. was dead. He was gone. He was my friend. He once sucked my toes.
A Riot
M.E. Purfield
A riot broke out at the diaper convention. Fathers beat salesmen. Babies beat mothers. Mothers beat fathers with babies.
The police arrived. The police beat the fathers. They beat the mothers. They beat the salesmen. They beat the babies. They beat each other. They even beat their own heads.
No one knows how it started.
But it ended.
They all went home with a lot of free samples.
Lucky (wish I was)
M.E. Purfield
I left the apartment. I left alone. I walked down the street. I passed the parking lot. A man was stabbed. The attacker looked at me and winked. He crossed the street. He was gone.
I left the apartment. I left it alone. I walked down the street. A woman moved past a car. The driver shot her in the head. The car drove off.
I left the apartment. I left alone. I walked down the street. A boy crossed the street. A truck ignored the stop sign and ran the boy over.
I left the apartment. I left alone. I walked down the street. A man on a ladder worked on the wires hanging out of the house. The man grabbed the wrong wire. He electrocuted himself.
I stayed in the apartment. I was alone. I had the worse luck. Why bother?
