and some zoned-off construction areas.
By the time they got to 38th Street, a couple of the guys were bumping shoulders playfully, then stepping on one another’s feet. One of the girls had to pee.
“We’re almost there,” Rudy said, keeping it level. This wasn’t high school, where he had to mark his territory and use “teacher voice”; those days were gone. But being out of the college classroom took away a bit of his power and mystique. It was disorienting, and he came close a couple of times to grabbing one of these asshole kids by the back of the neck, walking him away from his friends, and reading him the riot act, finger in the face.
Then he lost Wolfie.
They had just passed the parking garage connected to the Wharton Steinberg Center just north of Spruce Street when he noticed his son was missing. Rudy had been lagging in the back of the group watching Ben Alspach text and walk, absently relating it to chewing gum, and he literally felt the vacancy behind him.
He stopped, then snapped his head all around, looking at everything and nothing all at the same time: A Steak Queen Food truck across the street, a Flex Box, a rather dirty and dented POD storage unit half blocking a maintenance entrance, a Penske Rental truck parked too close to a hydrant.
No Wolfie.
Some of the kids had turned and slowed, and Rudy waved them on.
“Thirty-sixth and Walnut! Go ahead, I’ll catch up in a minute!”
He walked a few steps in reverse, turned, and started to jog back toward the walking overpass where he thought he’d last registered Wolfie there at his elbow. He got to an alley on the left and gave a glance. It was an alcove where there was an outdoor café, currently closed, its yellow table umbrellas folded in.
Wolfie was there on the brick walkway, and he was dancing.
With a bird.
Rudy stepped forward, mouth slightly ajar. Wolfie had drawn the hood of his sweatshirt tight around his head and almost looked alien-like. Above and around him, a small black bird was gliding and diving, making figure-eights while Wolfie, in perfect rhythm, waltzed along the brick cobblestone. They were beautiful moving shapes, as if held together by some invisible set of cosmic wires, and then Wolfie started doing “the Blink.” The bird followed, darting to where the image had just been erased, then anticipating and sweeping back around within centimeters of where the boy reappeared. There was something classic about it, cutting and clean, almost as if boy and bird were meant to share these lovely, erratic patterns that sketched themselves upon the February breeze.
Wolfie stopped suddenly, snapped out his hand, and grabbed the bird from mid-air. The thing screeched and one of its feathers popped loose, cutting half-moon arcs to the ground.
“Fucking tree rat,” Wolfie snarled. Then he clapped his hands together. There was a wet popping sound, and Rudy saw one black eye burst loose, caught on a dark tendril that wrapped under at the base of Wolfie’s thumb. Out of the other end a runner of shit, white with black streaks, had burst from the bird’s anus and squirted down Wolfie’s wrist.
“What—” Rudy managed. Wolfie tossed the carcass aside and went to one of the tables where some moisture had pooled in a dent. He pressed down his hands and then rubbed vigorously.
“What?” he said.
“That was disgusting.”
“Was it?” He flicked the wetness away and wiped his hands on his pants. “Are you sad for the little worm-eater? The bark-bum? The one who pollutes the sky with the exhaust of his swooping brethren? A bird’s brain is smaller than a fingertip, and the thing camouflages itself behind the fluttering leaves of the prison stalk in absolute cowardice. It feeds on the screams of the inmate of the grain and mimics the sound with its idiot chirping. How do you think the name ‘Mock-ingbird’ came about?”
“You can’t kill them all,” Rudy said evenly.
“Why not try? Will it fuck the ecosystem out of
By the time they got to 38th Street, a couple of the guys were bumping shoulders playfully, then stepping on one another’s feet. One of the girls had to pee.
“We’re almost there,” Rudy said, keeping it level. This wasn’t high school, where he had to mark his territory and use “teacher voice”; those days were gone. But being out of the college classroom took away a bit of his power and mystique. It was disorienting, and he came close a couple of times to grabbing one of these asshole kids by the back of the neck, walking him away from his friends, and reading him the riot act, finger in the face.
Then he lost Wolfie.
They had just passed the parking garage connected to the Wharton Steinberg Center just north of Spruce Street when he noticed his son was missing. Rudy had been lagging in the back of the group watching Ben Alspach text and walk, absently relating it to chewing gum, and he literally felt the vacancy behind him.
He stopped, then snapped his head all around, looking at everything and nothing all at the same time: A Steak Queen Food truck across the street, a Flex Box, a rather dirty and dented POD storage unit half blocking a maintenance entrance, a Penske Rental truck parked too close to a hydrant.
No Wolfie.
Some of the kids had turned and slowed, and Rudy waved them on.
“Thirty-sixth and Walnut! Go ahead, I’ll catch up in a minute!”
He walked a few steps in reverse, turned, and started to jog back toward the walking overpass where he thought he’d last registered Wolfie there at his elbow. He got to an alley on the left and gave a glance. It was an alcove where there was an outdoor café, currently closed, its yellow table umbrellas folded in.
Wolfie was there on the brick walkway, and he was dancing.
With a bird.
Rudy stepped forward, mouth slightly ajar. Wolfie had drawn the hood of his sweatshirt tight around his head and almost looked alien-like. Above and around him, a small black bird was gliding and diving, making figure-eights while Wolfie, in perfect rhythm, waltzed along the brick cobblestone. They were beautiful moving shapes, as if held together by some invisible set of cosmic wires, and then Wolfie started doing “the Blink.” The bird followed, darting to where the image had just been erased, then anticipating and sweeping back around within centimeters of where the boy reappeared. There was something classic about it, cutting and clean, almost as if boy and bird were meant to share these lovely, erratic patterns that sketched themselves upon the February breeze.
Wolfie stopped suddenly, snapped out his hand, and grabbed the bird from mid-air. The thing screeched and one of its feathers popped loose, cutting half-moon arcs to the ground.
“Fucking tree rat,” Wolfie snarled. Then he clapped his hands together. There was a wet popping sound, and Rudy saw one black eye burst loose, caught on a dark tendril that wrapped under at the base of Wolfie’s thumb. Out of the other end a runner of shit, white with black streaks, had burst from the bird’s anus and squirted down Wolfie’s wrist.
“What—” Rudy managed. Wolfie tossed the carcass aside and went to one of the tables where some moisture had pooled in a dent. He pressed down his hands and then rubbed vigorously.
“What?” he said.
“That was disgusting.”
“Was it?” He flicked the wetness away and wiped his hands on his pants. “Are you sad for the little worm-eater? The bark-bum? The one who pollutes the sky with the exhaust of his swooping brethren? A bird’s brain is smaller than a fingertip, and the thing camouflages itself behind the fluttering leaves of the prison stalk in absolute cowardice. It feeds on the screams of the inmate of the grain and mimics the sound with its idiot chirping. How do you think the name ‘Mock-ingbird’ came about?”
“You can’t kill them all,” Rudy said evenly.
“Why not try? Will it fuck the ecosystem out of
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