Mike The Parrot
A bird with a thousand words is worth a Million Dollars.
Mrs. Gertrude Nelson of Park Slope Brooklyn looked into the cage at the nearly two
foot tall scarlet parrot with the yellow and white flurry of feathers on its head and
shook her head while scrunching up her entire face.
“Where did you get this bird Mario?” she asked, her consternation visible in every
wrinkle of her face.
“Found it.” He spoke in a strong Spanish accent with a weak voice.
“Well, yes, you said that, but where did you find it?”
“On the street.”
“On the street? What -- just sitting there calmly?”
“Oh yes, senora -- just sitting there -- all alone.”
She looked at him through the crusty eyes earned from 30 years as a bar owner in Red
Hook. A bar that was frequented by sailors and seamen and longshoremen who were
not above weaving tall tales to make their lives more interesting. Stories added to lure
the young ladies who were drawn already by the brawn which slunk beneath tight t-
shirts and tighter jeans.
Even a few gay guys had found the bar to have ripe pickings of prime beef of
manhood who were only too willing to take advantage of their services. But that was
none of Mrs. Nelson’s business. As long as everyone paid for their drinks and caused no
trouble she had no problem with them.
When a few customers complained about the gay guys, most of whom were the really
faggy type, she asked them “you paying me for the drinks they buy?”
They wouldn’t do that so she told them to shut up.
“It’s a free country last time I looked.”
She didn’t understand gay people -- “but they have cash -- and that’s the whole point
of the bar.” She would wobble away shaking her head.
“Mario -- no one just leaves a bird like this out in the street.”
“Well, yes, senora -- someone did -- I know not who.” He had picked up the weirdest
way of using the English language. He didn’t tell her that he watched the guy he
guessed was the owner being hustled into a car and driven away. “Why bother with
little details,” he said to himself as he eyed the money he could get from her for the
bird.
She asked him about his English again. “I learned it from the TV, yes I did.”
“Well, I don’t know from what TV show you learned it.” Saying this with a sigh was
her standard reply.
“What street Mario?”
“Ave L -- in Bensonhurst.”
The bird looked at Mrs. Nelson and said “Hello babe.”
Mrs. Nelson jumped back a bit. As much as a 60 year old matron could jump. Mario was
shocked at the sexual tone of voice. Even she noticed the sexual tone to the comment.
“I didn’t know it could talk.”
“No me too ma’am.”
The bird whistled what any girl walking past a construction site would instantly
recognized. Mrs. Nelson hadn’t heard that in years and she took just the slightest bit of
pride in being the subject of it. “So what if it’s only a parrot,” was a thought that
raced through her mind.
“When did you find it?”
“Yesterday.”
The bird all of a sudden blurted out “1,2,4, 1,5,6 -- break a bone, break a bone.
1,2,4,1,5,6 Manny Hanny Manny Hanny.” They knocked into each other as they jumbled
backwards. Small gasps emanated from both of them.
foot tall scarlet parrot with the yellow and white flurry of feathers on its head and
shook her head while scrunching up her entire face.
“Where did you get this bird Mario?” she asked, her consternation visible in every
wrinkle of her face.
“Found it.” He spoke in a strong Spanish accent with a weak voice.
“Well, yes, you said that, but where did you find it?”
“On the street.”
“On the street? What -- just sitting there calmly?”
“Oh yes, senora -- just sitting there -- all alone.”
She looked at him through the crusty eyes earned from 30 years as a bar owner in Red
Hook. A bar that was frequented by sailors and seamen and longshoremen who were
not above weaving tall tales to make their lives more interesting. Stories added to lure
the young ladies who were drawn already by the brawn which slunk beneath tight t-
shirts and tighter jeans.
Even a few gay guys had found the bar to have ripe pickings of prime beef of
manhood who were only too willing to take advantage of their services. But that was
none of Mrs. Nelson’s business. As long as everyone paid for their drinks and caused no
trouble she had no problem with them.
When a few customers complained about the gay guys, most of whom were the really
faggy type, she asked them “you paying me for the drinks they buy?”
They wouldn’t do that so she told them to shut up.
“It’s a free country last time I looked.”
She didn’t understand gay people -- “but they have cash -- and that’s the whole point
of the bar.” She would wobble away shaking her head.
“Mario -- no one just leaves a bird like this out in the street.”
“Well, yes, senora -- someone did -- I know not who.” He had picked up the weirdest
way of using the English language. He didn’t tell her that he watched the guy he
guessed was the owner being hustled into a car and driven away. “Why bother with
little details,” he said to himself as he eyed the money he could get from her for the
bird.
She asked him about his English again. “I learned it from the TV, yes I did.”
“Well, I don’t know from what TV show you learned it.” Saying this with a sigh was
her standard reply.
“What street Mario?”
“Ave L -- in Bensonhurst.”
The bird looked at Mrs. Nelson and said “Hello babe.”
Mrs. Nelson jumped back a bit. As much as a 60 year old matron could jump. Mario was
shocked at the sexual tone of voice. Even she noticed the sexual tone to the comment.
“I didn’t know it could talk.”
“No me too ma’am.”
The bird whistled what any girl walking past a construction site would instantly
recognized. Mrs. Nelson hadn’t heard that in years and she took just the slightest bit of
pride in being the subject of it. “So what if it’s only a parrot,” was a thought that
raced through her mind.
“When did you find it?”
“Yesterday.”
The bird all of a sudden blurted out “1,2,4, 1,5,6 -- break a bone, break a bone.
1,2,4,1,5,6 Manny Hanny Manny Hanny.” They knocked into each other as they jumbled
backwards. Small gasps emanated from both of them.
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Jim
Hlavac
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