Mrs. Allibaster’s parakeet, Sampson (named such because she was a devout Southern Baptist, but a terrible speller), wasn’t any different from any other person in the nursing home. He was boring. He was in a cage. He dreamed of Hollywood.
In the morning, he at oatmeal, dry and out of Mrs. Allibaster’s hands.
“You better get some now if you want any,” she said.
“I will murder you with my bare hands,” he said back.
“Aww, you’re sweet.”
“Bitch, I’m serious.”
Mrs. Allibaster didn’t have any grandchildren. When other people’s grandchildren would visit, they loved to come see Sampson. He was the talk of the hall.
“Hey, Mr. Sampson,” Julie said.
“Please, eat shit and die.”
“Hehehehe. You’re silly.”
“Remember this, Julie. Remember this well: No one, and I mean no one, marries a fat chick, unless they have to.”
“What’d you say? You want some more oatmeal?”
“No, I said.”
Sampson’s mouth was stuffed with Quaker Oats faster than he could say, “you will hate high school.”
—
It happened on a Thursday. Mrs. Allibaster had had her hair ‘did’ and had come back with a lot of shopping bags.
“Taint-braider,” Sampson said as she walked in with all of the goods.
She proceed to do her usual grocery unload. She placed the black beans in their spot. She put the bags of popcorn next to the microwave. She placed the stick of rarely purchased deodorant next to the vanity. This was a special day. Then, she looked at Sampson.
“I got something very special for you, Mr. Sampy.”
“Amphetamines?”
“No, it’s not a toy, you silly goose.”
Mrs. Allibaster walked over to the cage and slowly pulled out the mirror. She pulled off the adhesive and placed it on the thin wire of the cage.
“What the fuck is this?” Sampson said waddling over to stand in front of it.
“You like you’re mirror, don’t you Sampy?”
“What the fuck is a mirror?” he said arriving in front of his reflection.
At first, he moved his head back and forth, in and out of the mirror frame, just to make sure it was moving at the same time. When he was sure he staring at himself, he stood as still as possible.
“What’s wrong Sampy?”
“Umm, yes, a snack, that’d be nice,” Sampson said without breaking his glance, his eyes dead on his own, in the mirror.
Sampson stared for hours. Mrs. Allibaster watched Jeopardy and Wheel and finally turned in for the night. She wished Sampson goodnight. He still hadn’t moved from his position.
It was four in the morning when Mrs. Allibaster awoke to a light tapping. “Must be someone’s breathing machine having a problem,” she thought. She went back to bed.
An hour later, she awoke again to the same tapping, only now it was faster, more ravenous. She got out of bed and followed the sound. She flipped on the light by the vanity, looked over to Sampson’s cage and saw him standing in front of the mirror, his beak completely broken, tapping the last bits of his face into the mirror, guiding his way by the glimmers of moonlight that fell in through the cracks in the Venetian blinds.
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