Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Marty Bulfinch

I am happy to report that Marty Bulfinch is not dead.  Marcel figured this out later Saturday night, but since I’ve gotten the cold shoulder from him I wasn’t made aware.  When I was going on shift last night he was leaving.  I told him I was sorry I didn’t take Marty with us that night, but if I had Virgil would have known something was up.  “You’re my friend,” I said.  “You come first.”  Marcel put his hand on my shoulder in a big, sexy brother kind of way.  He apologized too for not telling me Marty wasn’t dead, even though he’s known since thirty minutes after I left the apartment complex.  Turns out Marty and Virgil came home soon after I left.

As it happened, I guess Virgil telling the dream had an effect on him.  Sitting alone with Marty, both of them staring into their hands, Virgil broke down into tears.  He gushed to Marty that he’d never told anyone that dream in all the years he had it.  He said for twenty years he’s tried to make it to his wife’s grave, but each times he turns around early.  His daughter comes and asks him if he wants to come with her when she goes, but he never can.  Marty told Virgil he’d take him if he wanted, so the two left for the cemetery, which is about forty minutes away.  Once Virgil got to the cemetery he just couldn’t go any further.  He did, however, do what he does every time he fails at getting to the grave—he went to Arby’s—and bought Marty a sandwich for going with him.

I told Marcel that none of this changed the fact that Virgil Ray murdered his wife.  Marcel said I would have the chance to say that to Virgil’s face.  When Marcel apologized to him he said he didn’t know how to help, but could offer a free analysis of Virgil’s sleep just to see how much rest he was getting in a night.  Virgil agreed to come next week.

I don’t know what I’ll say to Virgil when he comes.  I’m not going to apologize since interpreting his dream was not my idea, and the interpretation I made was correct.  I was not wrong when I interpreted my mother was going to go blind three months before she saw the first signs.  Her body “knew” what was happening before the conscious brain did, so it was expressed in a dream.  I was not wrong when I interpreted that Rachel, no matter how much she denied it, wanted to see her brother again.  I was not wrong when I told Charlotte not only would she have a boy, she would name him Boyce Jr.  I was not wrong when I interpreted to my uncle that he would one day die from the substances he put into his body.  Though to be fair, his liver was pickled by the time I was out of diapers.

And I am not wrong now.  Virgil Ray, the bell tolls for thee!

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The Night with Virgil

Well, I’m pretty sure Marcel thinks it’s my fault that Marty Bulfinch is dead.  To be fair, I was acting not just out of self-preservation, but Marcel-preservation as well.  If there’s anyone who should appreciate that, you would think it’s him.  But no.  At least the ladies out there appreciate it.  Women of the world: you’re welcome!

The night began with a bus ride over to Marcel’s.  He said they decided to change the location of the poker night from his place to Marty’s.  We went over to Marty’s and helped set up before Virgil came.  I thanked Marty for writing that note and he said he thought the blog was a hilarious bit of irony.  I wasn't sure what he was getting at so I ignored the comment and asked him if he was a good gambler.  He said he wasn’t and had to borrow poker chips and some cards for the night.  But apparently, Virgil was.  When Marty invited him for Saturday night, Virgil started sucking beard hairs in his mouth and getting really excited.  Marty said I must be a good poker player too since I like to gamble so much.  I referred him to the August 4, 2009 posting of The Bird Casino where I listed my rules of gambling.  Marty didn’t say anything for a second, then smiled at me and said I was awesome. 

Virgil came over with a whole caseload of beer and offered it when Marty went to shake his hand.  Marcel was real polite with him and introduced me, but Virgil wandered over to the table and looked like he wanted to sit down.  Before Marty had shut the front door Virgil was taking money out of his pocket. 

We started playing poker right away, and Marcel and Marty both were trying to be really courteous without asking too many questions of Virgil.  Marcel spent a lot of time telling Virgil about me, though he was good enough not to mention the gambling.  Virgil seemed like he might have reached across the table to eat my hands if he thought he had a worthy opponent.

Which he did not.  The three of us were losing money pretty quick, and besides occasionally biting the poker chips like some train robber with gold coins he didn’t even really look at us.  Marcel finally brought up the fact that one of the things I was good at (oh, Marcel!) was interpreting dreams.  Virgil didn’t look up, but Marcel asked me to tell him a story.  So I told him the time in the eighth grade when I was invited, obviously out of pity, to a co-ed birthday party.  Since they were popular white kids they had to act like dancing was fun, so down in the basement everyone was working hard at pretending.  When a slow song came on, Angela Baxter asked me, obviously out of pity, if I’d like to dance.  Worried she might turn it into a production if I said no, I agreed.  I attempted to slow dance with her, though my movement was less dancing and more that of a crude robot being pushed from one side to another by miserable, spoiled rich kids taunting him about why he is unable to feel love.  Clearly sensing my discomfort, Angela nervously laughed and started talking about the dream she had the night before.  She ended with, “I wonder where my mind came up with that stuff?”  So I told her that she’s petrified her parents are getting divorced.  She started to lose her rhythm a bit, so I said, “I can tell you which one you’d rather live with if you like.”  But instead, she burst into tears and ran up the basement stairs.  Word quickly spread.  Needless to say I was not able to leave the party with all my hair.

Virgil was unimpressed with the story and it certainly didn’t lead him to confess his own night terror.  I felt like the moment was getting away from us so I just said, “Virgil, you’ve nearly taken all our money.  Let’s make this interesting.  If I win this next hand you have to tell me whatever nightmare is working you over at night.”  Marcel and Marty stared, I think expecting Virgil to either march out of the apartment or flip the table over.  Instead Virgil stared at me with that massive beard and gray hair, and said, “And what happens if I win?”  I wasn’t sure what to say.  Generally I offer people the opportunity to hurt me in some way since that’s clearly not far from what they most desire.  I was nervous with Virgil though, so I said he could sleep with my wife.  That made Virgil laugh for the first time that night.  He told Marcel to deal only two hands.

As I referenced with Marty, my rules of gambling state that I do not like to compete against another person.  This leaves me blind to strategy when it comes to poker.  The entire night Marcel was surprised at my offers to trade all five of my cards in, or ask another player if they had a card I needed.  For this hand with Virgil I would depend on pure luck, though.  I looked at my cards.  Virgil chuckled at his.  Marcel looked at my cards and advised me with a subtle hand gesture to not do anything.  At the end of the hand, when Virgil laid down his two pair, I laid down a full house. 

Virgil said he should crack my nose for cheating, and I told him I wouldn’t even know where to begin at cheating at poker.  Virgil said "He would," and pointed at Marcel.  “I ought to break both your backs.  You want to know what I’m dreaming at night?  You want to know what you’re hearing?  I’ll tell you, fly boy.”  I believe fly boy was me.  I am not positive, however, since at no time during the night did I mention my interest in pursuing a pilot’s license.  “I come home from work and standing in front of my door is my wife, and she’s been dead some twenty years, you should know.  So she’s standing there, in the clothes I buried her in, and she’s holding all these flowers.  Tons of flowers.  She asks when I’m going to let her come in, and I say that she can come in tomorrow.  It’s always tomorrow.  And then all the flowers just keep getting bigger and bigger and she starts getting buried under them.  Then I suddenly am holding flowers and throw them on top of her.  And she screams ‘I can’t see you anymore! I can’t see you anymore.’  But I just keep putting the flowers on her till she’s gone.”

Marcel, Marty and I were quiet until Virgil said, “Happy now?”  I asked Virgil if I could ask him one question.  He told me to ask it, so I asked what color his wife’s eyes were.  Brown, he said.  I thanked him for all the information, which made him scoff, and then I went to the bathroom.  From the bathroom I frantically scrambled a text message to Marcel that said, “MEET ME IN YOUR CAR!”  When I came out I announced I needed to leave, and Marcel said he’d walk me out.

Virgil said, “What, no interpretation, nancy boy?  You got something for me?  You cheat at cards with this guy and don’t have anything for me?”  I told him I was sorry his wife was dead and I had nothing else for him.  My powers of interpretation couldn't help him.  Marcel and I walked out in silence until we were both in his car.  I told Marcel I wouldn’t talk until he started the car and drove away.  I was stubborn about this, so Marcel, the most anxious and excited I’d ever seen him, drove away from the complex.  He asked me where he was supposed to go, but I just said far away from here.  After driving fifteen minutes he pulled the car into a parking lot and asked me what was happening.  So I told him: “Virgil Ray murdered his wife.”

I thought Marcel’s question was going to be, “How can you possibly know that?” So I said, “You wrote me that he shouted, 'Your eyes!  Hazel!'  But hazel doesn't mean her eye color.  It's his wife’s name!”  This was confusing to Marcel because, 1) This wasn’t proof to him that Virgil was a murderer, and 2) His actual question was, “Why did you leave Marty alone back there?”  He never asked me if I was sure, which I appreciate, though it is shocking from someone with a lot of college degrees.  He turned the car around and took us back to the apartment complex.  I tried to make him understand that I was unselfish to get Marcel himself out of the apartment.  After all, if Virgil was going to kill anyone that night, it was going to be the guy who made him lose the hand.  Generally, in any size room, I’m the one most in danger of being killed.  Then I told Marcel that it was a pretty neat trick with the cards, but he wasn’t listening.

When we got there Marty’s apartment was unlocked and empty.  Virgil’s car wasn’t in the lot.  Marcel told himself not to get excited, that there are a lot of explanations.  I said I’m sure there were, but one thing for sure is that Virgil Ray killed his wife.  Anyway, why would Virgil kill Marty?  Everyone would agree he was a very pleasant host.

It's now Tuesday and I still haven't heard from Marcel.  We haven't shared shifts, and he didn't return my texts.  I thought about calling the police, but Sammy said if my only proof was a dream Virgil had it wouldn't go very far.  I tried to explain that Hazel must be his wife's name, not her eye color, but Sammy was unimpressed.  Whatever.  The guy killed his wife.  And maybe Marty Bulfinch.  But definitely his wife.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

A Little About Virgil

Marcel emailed me about Virgil, but then called me to make sure I got it because time is tight.  He and Marty have arranged poker night with Virgil tonight.  Needless to say, I'll report later how it goes.  As for now, here is what Marcel knew about his neighbor.

1. Mid-fifties.  If he's a drinker, possibly mid-forties.  If he moisturizes, possibly mid-sixties.
2. Heavy: beard.  Heavier: eyebrows.  Heaviest: backs of the hands.
3. Very rarely has visitors.  When he does it's a young woman who is dressed very, very elegantly.  Possibly a daughter or a prostitute.
4. Seemingly unemployed based on number of blaring ads in the day for mesothelioma lawsuits.
5. Dress and size lead one to believe his parents were a log cabin and an axe handle.
6. In regards to the night terrors: has them at night but sometimes during the day.  Often times he just wails and moans, but sometimes shouts, "One day, yes!", "No flowers! No flowers!", and "God knows! God knows! God knows!"  Very often he shouts, "Hazel! Your eyes! Hazel!"  Marcel pointed out that although hazel might be the least horrifying eye color, it nevertheless sounds awful in Virgil’s nightmare.
7. Sometimes during nightmares walks about the apartment.  Occasionally goes through drawers.
8. Comes back with Arby’s 3 to 4 times a week.  I therefore asked Sammy if he might know the man.  It’s possible Sammy said, but he small talks with every regular customer.  Although most of his regulars are very hairy and open to escort services, this man doesn’t ring a bell.
9. From their apartments both Marty and Marcel can hear the sound of frying food but never smell food frying.
10. Has never gotten something from his mailbox that he didn't immediately tear into small pieces and shove into his pocket.
11. Has never smiled at Marcel.  That's just not right.  Seriously, you should see this guy.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Hollins Emus Update

Last week, amidst my outrage over Eastern Mennonite University's athletic director refusing to respond to my email, I shifted my allegiance to Hollins University.  Hollins, as Boyce pointed out, has no mascot.  This gives us the opportunity to simply create the Hollins University mascot through grassroots efforts of just pretending that reality is already what we want it to be.  In this case, the Hollins University Emus.

Yet it has recently been pointed out to me that Hollins University is an all-girls school.  With no guys at the school, you would think the ladies could really concentrate on their sport.  Yet, a check of the Old Dominion Athletic Conference standings in Women's Basketball shows that Hollins is an unacceptable 1-17, behind perennial doormat and resident jackass of the conference, Randolph College.

Has the Bird Casino hitched its wagon to the wrong star with Hollins University?  Perhaps.  Is the Bird Casino unable to figure out how to delete old posts that connect it with the school?  Certainly.  This being the case, we remain loyal to the Hollins Emus.  If our godawful attempts at basketball fail, we've always got riding.

Though to be fair, it's entirely possible we're terrible at that, too.  I'm not sure how you win at riding, but here's hoping we've killed a lot of the other teams' horses!

Is there anyone out there who could design t-shirts for the Hollins Emus?  I figure if there were enough people wearing rogue shirts of the Ragin' Emus the school would switch just for the revenue opportunities.

I currently don't have a facebook page, so I'm wondering if anyone out there could start a group called the "Up with The Hollins University Emus!  Down with Eastern Mennonite University!"  If you do, I'll join it!  Though I'd have to have a facebook account.  And if I had an account, I could just make the group myself.  You see how this could go on for some time.

Go Emus!

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Mission: Interpretation!

Last night, when the patients were sleeping and I got the Sleep Center cleaned, I went out back and made a small campfire by the dumpster.  Sammy was working that night and said he might join me.  He never did, though after a while Marcel came out.  He asked if he could join me and I told him to pull out one of the folding chairs from behind the dumpster that I keep for Sammy and Boyce.  Marcel is always friendly to me, but he had never joined me out back before, especially in winter.  He generally works during the day because the administrators who schedule him want him to be there when they come visit.  Even the heterosexual men want to be around Marcel so they can feel energized by his stories about sailing around the world.  Everyone wishes they could tell a story that included the line, “He was my friend—I couldn’t just let him drown.” 

Marcel asked me if there were birds out here during winter, and I reminded him about the nesting box I built in one of the trees to get the Great Horned Owl to come, Rachel’s favorite bird.  He said, “You know, I’ve known you for a couple years Cyrus and I’ve never met Rachel.  Are you hiding her from me?”  He figured out he said something he shouldn’t have, so he said, “Sorry, brother,” and for a moment I wished I had once fallen overboard on a boat that Marcel was on.  He asked me if the Great Horned Owl ever came, and I said no, but that there were a couple Eastern Screech Owls living in the box.  We waited for them for ten minutes.

Marcel asked me if I remembered Marty Bulfinch, his neighbor.  Of course, I did.  It was Marty Bulfinch’s note to Marcel wondering what happened to me that got me blogging again after the holidays.  Marcel said that between his apartment and Marty’s lives a man named Virgil Ray.  Marcel and Marty have discussed on several occasions that they both can hear Virgil kicking the walls and having a dream that was clearly terrifying him.  Marcel said neither he nor Marty are close to Virgil, so they haven’t told him they know he is plagued with nightmares.  Marcel asked me, if he figured out a way to bring the subject up with Virgil, if I could help out somehow.  "Even if you don't want to help him," Marcel said, "you can help me get a better night's sleep without Virgil's sobbing."

I told Marcel I wasn’t really in the business of stopping dreams so much as interpreting them.  It’s possible if I interpreted the night terrors to Virgil maybe that will get them to stop. If it’s something buried deep that becomes conscious through interpretation, there may be no more need for his mind to express it through night terror.  Marcel thanked me and put the chair back behind the dumpster, leaving me with the fire.  It wasn’t long until one of the Eastern Screech Owls came back from hunting and perched on its nesting box.  I watched him for a long time and thought about a lot of things.  Eastern Screech Owls mate for life.

This morning Marcel texted me the following:
Having Virgil over this weekend.  Come.  We’ll start talking dreams and get him to talk. 
I don’t know what’s more exciting.  That I’ve got a bona fide mission, or that I’ve got a mission in Marcel’s apartment!  I texted him and asked if it was okay if Sammy and Boyce came, but Marcel said it’s probably better with just a few people.  He said Marty Bulfinch will be there, and they’ll disguise the evening as a poker night.  I texted back and said to email me with all the details he knows about Virgil Ray.  The more I know about this unfortunate man the more I can help with his crippling nightmares.  Plus, a real email from Marcel!

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

My Hoosiers

Boyce wants me to share one of his new favorite album covers.  It’s a great cover so I was happy to oblige.  On the cover is some kind of statue surrounded by Rooks.  Rooks are a part of the Corvis family which includes Crows, but they aren’t exactly the same as the Crows we have in the United States.

The album cover reminds me of this time when I was a child taking a walk with my father.  Every once in a while he’d let me go on his “tours,” as he called them.  We walked through a path by a creek.  We came to a line of trees and dad told me to look up and see all the European Starlings sitting on the leafless branches.  He said Starlings weren’t native to our area, but in the late 19th century, “like some attacking cancer buried deep in our bones that rises like the hydra to eat our love,” they were introduced from Europe to New York.  Now there are millions here.  My father said, of the bird class, they ranked high on the list of birds he’d like to beat.

We stared at the Starlings for a while and my father asked me if I wondered why these hundreds of birds don’t just swoop down and peck us to death.  I asked him if birds would ever do that, and he said, no, but if they got poisoned they could act real crazy.  Then he pointed to a microwave that someone had heaved into the creek by the trees.

When we got home he asked me if I wanted to watch the movie The Birds.  I told him I had school tomorrow.  He said I didn’t have to go, so I stayed up with him to watch the movie.  When I told Rachel that story she asked me if I didn’t have nightmares that night since it was such a terrifying movie.  Up until then I didn’t even realize it was a horror movie because my father was clearly rooting for the birds.  I’ve always considered it a movie about overcoming obstacles, like Hoosiers.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Valentine's Karaoke and Sammy Finds a Nemesis

This past weekend was Valentine’s Day, and that meant a night out with Sammy, Boyce, and Charlotte.  Ever since the last time I saw Rachel, Sammy and Boyce have taken me out to karaoke on Valentine’s Day.  That doesn’t mean I ever spent a Valentine’s Day with Rachel.  I did once see her through a restaurant window making a toast with some of her girlfriends, but I never got to spend the evening with her.  She would, however, send me inappropriate Valentine cards.  Once she found a box of old Valentines at a garage sale that had Heckle and Jeckle on them.  She was always tickled by those magpies, and she sent me one of them that year.  She wrote in it, “How do you tell the difference between Heckle and Jeckle?”  The answer, at the bottom of the card, was “Jeckle is more chewy.”  It’s not often you find a woman willing to joke about ingesting humanoid cartoon birds, especially when those birds are holding hearts that say “Be Mine.”  Oh, Rachel.

We invited Charlotte to come with us to the sushi bar where the karaoke was going on.  Charlotte likes karaoke and besides she always gives up her Valentine’s Day with Boyce.  Charlotte never sings, though.  Instead, on her blank sheet music she quickly writes the notes of the songs people are singing.  When she goes karaoking, she brings the folder of all the previous songs she’s transcribed.  Then she gets out some new sheets and goes to work.  This weekend though Charlotte got frustrated quickly because people were singing the songs she had already done notation for.  Boyce was proud of her when she said, a little too loudly, “Oh, no one has ever sung this song before,” when a few mildly drunk, unfunny women got up to sing “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”  After a few more ordinary karaoke song choices, Charlotte gave up.  She packed up her sheet music, kissed Boyce, and took his van home.  We said we’d get a cab.

As the night went on and we sang a few songs, something odd happened.  Generally, everyone likes Sammy and Sammy likes everyone.  He generally finds something redeeming in people.  Once when we were in high school, I was watching the local news with Sammy and his family.  They put up a mug shot of a serial rapist, and Sammy said, “Piercing eyes.  Truly.”  Even when Sammy hid homemade brochures for the North American Man-Boy Love Association in Dr. Keegman’s office, he did it more out of a lovable anarchy than any dislike for the man.

During the course of karaoke, however, it became clear that Sammy despised the karaoke DJ.  I don’t think it was the man’s on-purpose-messy hair or his tiny pony tail, or even the sport coat with the ironic t-shirt underneath.  It was really the fact that Sammy kept getting his turn skipped.  Boyce and I sang two duets (“Making Love Out of Nothing at All” and “Islands in the Stream”) while Sammy sat and petulantly nursed his drink.  We figured the only way Sammy was going to get up there was a trio, so under Boyce’s name we put in a song.

There are two emotions we want to create in a karaoke crowd.  The first is joy.  We sing songs to make the people stuffing their faces with uncooked fish and barley feel happiness.  But toward the end of the evening, as the pitchers run out and the deep-seated bitterness begins to rise in my belly, I long to make the crowd feel naked alienation.  For instance, we might sing Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” at the beginning of the evening, but by the end I clamor to sing, “Silent Night.”  Nothing brings down the house like singing “Silent Night,” though songs about abortion and suicide work, too.  Rachel always thought it was poignant that “Silent Night” did the same thing to a karaoke crowd that “Hurt” did.  But once she saw me make people at the sushi bar angry and uncomfortable with “Silent Night” she just laughed hysterically and said I was brilliant. 

This weekend, once we hit the alienation stage of the night (and Sammy was definitely wanting to alienate the DJ), we went for a trio with the song “Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat” from the musical Cats.  Sammy came said he’d take lead.  He sang the entire time staring directly at the DJ.   When the song ended Sammy stayed on the stage and started singing, “Once…there was the kid who got into an accident and couldn’t go to school,” because the song he wanted to sing all night was by the Crash Test Dummies.  Then he “accidentally” dropped the mike and walked past the DJ.  When the DJ turned around and watched him, Sammy made an obscene gesture, and said, “Mmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmmm mmmmmm,” like in the song. 

I was sorry Sammy’s night was ruined, but by the time we got a cab he was smiling.  Even though he tries to like everyone, I think Sammy’s thrilled he has a nemesis.  We don’t know his name though, so Sammy calls him Kip DeJigaboo, for Karaoke Disc Jockey.  I was going to call the sushi bar to get the guy’s name, but Kip DeJigaboo is better than whatever it really is.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Hollins Hoorah!

I still have not received an email back from Dave King, Athletic Director of Eastern Mennonite University, about changing their mascot from the Royal (stupid) to the Emu (daring and original).  Sammy thinks we should boycott the entire school.  He says Mennonites are good at not doing things--the anthem, the pledge, fighting wars, being quick to respond to honest emails--so a boycott would be appropriate.  The problem is, of course, that I was not even aware of the school less than a week ago.  I have unconsciously been boycotting them my entire life.

Nevertheless, Sammy says that colleges get federal money, which means the smallest fraction of the income taxes I pay go to that university.  Therefore on my tax return I have included the following addendum:

Because of my beliefs, I refuse to support the federal funding of Eastern Mennonite University.  Because of the amount of colleges that receive money, I recognize that my contribution to the school is much less than one penny.  However, I refuse to pay even that fraction of a penny.  Therefore I have filed my taxes and demand that one less penny be taken from me (I have rounded up because if I round down the money won't exist).  You will notice, of course, that because I work part time my income tax is actually returned to me.  I don't want to accept that money as it will ruin my symbolic gesture.  Therefore, I demand that the rounded-up penny that would go to Eastern Mennonite University go instead to their hated rival Hollins University.  You will note that I did not choose my penny to go to EMU's other rival, Bridgewater College, because they are the Eagles and you don't even want to get me started about that.  
Boyce pointed out that Hollins University has no mascot.  This is just the opportunity we need!  I will write to Hollins and request they become the Hollins Emus, thus completely sticking it to Eastern Mennonite University.

Down with the Royals!  Let's go Hollins Emus!

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

#4: The One With the Stairs

Got a “three way” phone call from Sammy and Boyce last night.  They were both sheepishly laughing, so I knew what they wanted.  Which one, I asked.  “The one with the stairs!”  That would be number four: the fourth time I was punched in junior high and high school.

I was a freshman in high school.  It was only the second week or so and I still wasn’t used to the building or the crowds.  One morning I was walking with my head down and imagining my shoes slowly turning to ostrich feet.  The ostrich is the fastest bird on the ground and should have been the one in the cartoon with the coyote.  The fact that in the cartoons a coyote could not catch a roadrunner is absurd.  The Greater Roadrunner can run up to 20 miles per hour.  A coyote can more than double that speed.  Of course, the Greater Roadrunner can also fly, which makes that entire rivalry even more frustrating to endure.  Then again, that cartoon coyote does look malnourished and possibly suffering from several debilitating infections.  Either way, the ostrich can run twice as fast as the Greater Roadrunner, and could simply ram the coyote and send its anemic body twirling into a chasm. 

Anyway, I was imagining my feet turning into those of an ostrich when I ran into this very tall, very attractive senior girl.  Unfortunately, I bumped into her at the top of the staircase and sent her tumbling down the steps to the first landing, where she lay splayed out like the coyote would be if the ostrich rammed it at top speed.  Several things made this unfortunate.  I had just sent one of the most popular girls in school down the stairs in front of a lot of people who secretly resented her, and were thus laughing hysterically.  I also, out of mind-numbing fear, stared at her for a few seconds and then walked back the way I came, leaving her there unattended.  And finally, she was dating Keller Bigsby, potential menace to all shy bird-lovers.

Keller Bigsby was not a bully.  He was above such activities.  But he was like Apollo who you knew, the first time you sneezed wrong, had the ability to put antlers on your head just so he could cut them off with your own sternum.  It wasn’t long before Keller Bigsby found me.  He said, “Did you push my girlfriend down the stairs?”  I should have said no, but I started by explaining about the top speed of the ostrich and how great it would be to run with its legs though you’d probably have to hide your metamorphosis because the government would want to do tests on you.  So he punched me in the stomach real hard, and then when I bent over he swung for my face but hit me in the ear instead.

For the rest of the day I couldn’t hear out of that ear.  My dad had been dead for years so I was living with my mom.  She wasn’t blind yet.  When I asked her if I needed to go to the doctor she said, “Eh, you got your ear boxed.”  That’s how she kept saying it.  Even when I came back to her a couple hours later and said it really hurt, she just said, “Eh, you got your ear boxed.”  She wouldn’t even say, “boxed ear.”  She always said it, “you got your ear boxed." 

If you’re wondering where Sammy and Boyce were, here is your answer: except for a couple times, they don’t get involved in my beatings because they generally happen so spontaneously and quickly.  Boyce and Sammy are generally there for the recovery, though.  This time, however, they went to Keller Bigsby and explained what happened and said that I was currently deaf.  Because Keller wasn’t normally a bully that really freaked him out.  So he picked me up at my house, and I called to my mom, “The guy who beat me up is taking me to the urgent care.”  She said, “Eh, you got your ear boxed,” and went back to her stories on the tv.

Keller Bigsby and I spent three hours together at the urgent care.  He kept looking in my ear canal because he was freaked out about what he did to me.  He asked me why I didn’t just tell him what happened.  I explained that the ostrich feet thing was the prologue to the story, and he didn’t give me a chance.  He said he was sorry, and paid for the urgent care in cash so no one would know I went there.  Turns out my ear wasn’t permanently damaged.  The hearing actually started coming back on our way to the urgent care, but I liked that Keller was worried.  I know he was worried about getting in trouble rather than my ear, but close enough.

When I told all this to Sammy and Boyce—a story they already know very well—they responded by asking me if I wanted to sell my house.  Turns out Boyce was picking up Sammy from work and on their way home they saw a house with a for sale sign.  Keller Bigsby is a realtor.   I said even if Keller is my realtor I didn’t want to sell my house, though if he wanted to get rid of the Camaro in front of it that would be great.

Monday, February 8, 2010

The Emu is the Future!

As you all know, this weekend was the Super Bowl.  The Indians lose to the Saints!  I'm sure it was exciting.  Of course, my Green Bay Packers weren’t involved, but the big game has nevertheless got me thinking a lot about sports.  You may remember that on September 18 of last year I wrote the following scathing commentary about Eastern Michigan University:
Excited about the fact that Eastern Michigan forms the acronym EMU, I rushed to their web site to see what their mascot was.  It is an eagle.  This is aggravating for several reasons.  First, eagles are endlessly subjected to unoriginal mascotry which turns them from unique animals into pedestrian cartoons.  Inexcusable.  Second, there are over 60 species of eagle.  Exactly which one are you, Eastern Michigan?  Or are you claiming that you're all of them?  Stupid.  And third, Eastern has the opportunity to be the EMU Emus, a wonderfully unique creature (pictured right).  Instead, they continued to carve eagles into tiny bits with their rusty Knife of Conformity.  Until the change is made, DOWN WITH EASTERN MICHIGAN, AND UP WITH THE EMUS!
Since sports is in the air this weekend, I thought I would write a letter to Eastern Michigan’s athletic director to suggest the mascot change.  To find his email address, I went to the web site www.emu.edu only to find out that this is not Eastern Michigan’s web site, but Eastern Mennonite University’s site.  Alas, neither do they take advantage of being the EMU Emus, but instead are the Emu Royals, which is totally unrelated to birds.  Not wanting to bother finding Eastern Michigan’s web site, I instead emailed the following on Saturday, February 6, 2010 to Dave King, Athletic Director of Eastern Mennonite University.
Dear Mr. King,

My name is Cyrus Wetherbee.  I am a big fan of Eastern Mennonite University athletics, and an even bigger fan for the potential of Eastern Mennonite University athletics.  As you obviously know, the mascot to the university is “The Royals,” depicted as a lion.  May I suggest, however, a change of mascot to the Emus?

The Emu, although flightless like the Ostrich or Southern Cassoway, is nevertheless a noble, beautiful creature.  Originally from Australia, it is now commonly farmed in the United States for eggs and meat.

I believe you depict the “Royal” as a lion due to vague religious connotations to Jesus.  To be fair though, Jesus probably saw as many lions as he did emus.  Also, the emu has more religious connotations than a lion since it is instrumental to the Australian Aboriginal creation myth.

The advantages to the mascot change are multiple.  First, you (dare I say we?) would be the EMU Emus.  People would just love to say that.  To my knowledge, no other organization uses the Emu as a mascot.  Currently Eastern Mennonite University is the Royals, associating this great school with a perennially-failed professional baseball team.  George Brett is the past—the Emu is the future!  Second, because it’s so original a mascot you would have people unassociated with the school wanting to wear our apparel.  This could be a major revenue source for the school.

While I am not personally Mennonite, my friend Sammy Clifton has family that is, and he tells me that you’re pretty much morally obliged to at least hear me out and give my offer some thought.  This is an opportunity we can’t let pass.  If we don’t act now, Eastern Michigan may beat us to the change.  Let me know what you think.  I could get you some sketches of lovable emus or more fierce-looking emus (“Ladies and gentlemen, here are your Fightin’ Emus!”).  I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Cyrus Wetherbee

I’ll let you know what I hear!

Friday, February 5, 2010

Return of the Cyrus

Well, I’m back.  It’s been a few months and I’ve done some things I’m happy about as well as things I’m not very proud of.  But to be fair, that’s true of just about any 3 month period of my life.

As you may remember I left the Bird Casino with a request to interpret my dream (previous post).  Recognizing that only a few people read this blog, I was aghast when I got several interpretations of my dream in my email inbox.  I didn’t know what was more baffling: why strangers would take the time to interpret my dream, or why strangers would take the time to interpret my dream in such hurtful ways?  A small sampling:
-Here’s a better question than what’s your dream mean: why are you still alive?

-I’ve read your dream several times.  The aliens coming from space are a symbol of you having no friends.  Burn in hell.

-Hi Cyrus.  My name is Cyrus, too.  And I’m so ugly people know it from the way I type.  Oh wait, never mind, we’ve  already met because I AM YOU.

-DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

-Nice homo dream, homo.
Part of me was excited that so many people wrote.  A larger part of me was depressed.  So I decided to give up The Bird Casino and took to my bathtub and pretty much did nothing but look through ornithology books and listen to New Order albums.  At the holidays I got out of the funk a bit by having Christmas with Boyce and his family.  On Christmas night Sammy came over too, and he and Boyce told me the present they got me.  For the last year I have wanted to go to Central America to see in person the mysterious Resplendent Quetzal bird, and they’d saved up to pay for half of the trip.  After Christmas I told Rex that I needed a few weeks off to get to Central America and go look for the Quetzal bird.  He thought I said, “I need a few weeks off to get to Central America to get hooked on heroin,” so he just laughed and said sure.  I figured that out because when he said sure, he then said, “Can’t wait to see you strung out, Typhus.”  I owe him some shifts, but that’s no big deal.  I like working at the Sleep Center.

So I spent January in Guatemala looking for the Quetzal bird.  It’s a really, really rare bird that used to be a holy bird revered by the Mayans.  I went to look for it in Guatemala but there’s only around 25 still alive there.  So I took a bus to Costa Rica and in San Gerardo de Dota I finally saw the Resplendent Quetzal.  That’s it’s English name.  Resplendent Quetzal.  I was so excited that I got dizzy.  Someone on the tour said if I thought that was great, he knew a guy who sold Quetzales.  I was still feeling down about The Bird Casino, so I told him I’d love to buy a Quetzal.  That night his friend came to the lodge where we all stayed and I had to go down the drive and look in the back of this black van where there were two Quetzal birds in cages.  I said I’d buy them both.  They cost over 4,000 dollars!  I told the guy I only had 300 dollars, but in the morning I could provide the rest of the money.  He made me give him my driver’s license (I refused to give him my passport) so he’d know where to go to break my “spindly woman legs” if I never paid him. 



He gave me both birds and I immediately named them Rachel and Hank.  Then I told the bird seller, “Keeping birds in cages is dumb.  You’re dumb, too.”  Then I released both birds.  I thought the guy was going to have a fit!  He screamed at me, “You think I care what you do with the birds?  You’re paying that money.”  I told him I know that, but it's still a real jerk thing to do to keep birds in cages.  I mean, the word RESPLENDENT is part of the bird's name!  Even the scientist who named it in English said, "This is no ordinary bird.  It's resplendent!"  The bird seller said he didn't care, and that he'd be back in the morning to either have my money or my liver.  So I went back to the lodge, packed my stuff, and got the hell out of there.  I was on a bus back to Guatemala the next morning.  The id I gave him was one of my fake ones with Boyce’s name and a bogus address.  When I got home and told Boyce, he was really excited that somewhere an illegal bird trader is telling someone how much he hates Boyce Lancaster.

So now I’m back home and I’ve visited Hank’s gravestone a few times, and thought about Rachel a lot, and told Boyce and Sammy the story about letting the Quetzal birds go a hundred times.  I still didn’t think I was going to go back to The Bird Casino, but then at work Marcel LeFarge gave me a note he got from Marty Bulfinch, Marcel’s neighbor.  The note said:
“sitting in bed doing a crossword puzzle and i get the clue "barn bird", 3 letters.  hmm... owl?  owls don't live in barns do they?  hmph, if they did surely cyrus wetherbee would've made mention of that fact.  so where is old cyrus anyway?  if my vote counts for anything, i cast it for the return of the wetherbee bird casino.”
Marty Bulfinch, the answer you’re looking for is Owl!  I’m back, baby.