I'll always go on the roof for you
Bump.
“Waaahh!”
Aw FUCK.
Little Billy’s crying again. Shit. So much for naptime, and baby’s naptime is also daddy’s alone time. OK. Daddy and Billy-time now. Male bonding. Let’s go—we don’t need Mommy. Let her enjoy lunch with friends. Daddy’s got this. No mayhem.
I run upstairs to the baby room. Dang, he climbed out of the crib again. We’ll need to switch him out to the toddler bed soon.
“Hey buddy, what’s wrong? Why are you looking out the window?”
“Ba, ba, ba…” in between sobs, face glued to the window like he’s still nursing and Mom’s outside.
“Ba ba ba? It’s DA…ddy. Daddy. What’s out there?”
I peek out past the blackout curtain.
Shit.
A bird on the roof.
But not just any bird.
A really fucked-up bird.
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“Birrrrrrd,” Billy wails. He ain’t kidding.
This bird looks like he took a long landing on a short runway. He looks like the Lord took a nap today. He looks like Billy tried to DRAW him blindfolded.
This guy hit the window hard, looks like. His long neck is bent completely around, neck broken. His SPINE is sticking out of his neck, and he’s just shivering like a lone penguin in the Arctic. Antarctic? Patagonia? Wherever those fat losers chill. He ain’t long for this world, point being.
I grimace like I just saw a fat man fall down the stairs. Wouldn’t want to be that bird FOR SURE. I pick up Billy.
“Hey buddy, let’s… get… away from here…” but something nags at me.
That nasty-ass dying bird ain’t going anywhere. I’ve seen this before. The roof can be a pristine environment in this weather. Slow. Dry. He’ll mummify. He won’t leave. And poor Billy is going to have this messed-up sight outside his window for months. That could fuck a kid up.
What if he grows up obsessed with death and writing bad poetry? What if he grows up with a choking fetish or something?
I pause. Am I going to do this?
Yes.
Bird gotta GO.
I peek out the curtain again, other hand on the shaking and wet tiny person attached to my shin. I flinch at the horror movie creature. Ugh, it’s staring at me.
Yeah, you gotta go.
The playpen is packed up, and I can’t leave Billy running around in the room. Don’t think I’m allowed to lock him in the closet.
“Billy, wait here one second.” I stick him back in his crib. “Wait!”
A moment later, I’m back and armed for the job, like a shitty Ghostbuster or something. Got my grilling apron on, tongs, spatula, trash bag. Baseball cap for the sun, but the only one I could find was the dusty ‘Federal Booby Inspector’ hat under the couch.
I wink at Billy. He’s slowed down, sniffling and rubbing his eyes, but not crying. He’s watching me. This is my moment to be a hero.
Plus by the time I tell Momma, it’ll be completely resolved and proof of my manliness.
I unlock the window, and lift. Stuck.
I think of Momma and how impressed she’s gonna be with me. Could be a good night if you know what I mean.
What would a manly guy do here?
I yank on the window harder. Oh, I left the child-safety latches on.
Deep breath.
I step out, and the sun’s drilling me like that cliche ‘interrogation light’ in a spy movie. I’m definitely not a spy.
Jesus Christ.
All the effort to grab the grilling stuff and I forgot shoes. I look at my ratty Yoda socks. Look back at the sun.
The roof is starting to cook, not unlike a grill. Socks stay on. Maybe the 50% cotton / 50% polyester blend will grip the texture of the roof tiles. Spiderman. I’m already sacrificing grill equipment for this clean-up, what’s a pair of green space-elf socks?
Wow—this bird looks like he went through a jet turbine. How did a window get BOTH its wings? Where are the legs? He’s a mess of crumpled bird bits, ketchup blood, matchstick bones. Ugh, why the head gotta be in good shape though? It blinks at me, waiting for the scoop or the pinch.
Billy screams. “Where daddy where daddy?”
I pull and tuck back part of the curtain so I’m visible. I flex a bicep at him. “No worries, Billy boy. Let’s scoop up Mr. Krueger here and then maybe Blippi time? Got some animal crackers with your name on them, ah, but no birds there.”
I’ll try tongs first. I bend down, and—you know those death twitches sometimes animals get? Or I guess a person too but we’ve all seen a bug or fish or something twitching as it meets its Maker. Anyways, this guy twitched super HARD and flopped a foot away. With a filleted neck!
I sigh.
I step one foot closer and get half the bird. Yes, only half. The roof is hotter than I thought maybe. My feet are starting to burn, but worse, part of the bird is cooked stuck to the roof. Goddamnit it the head is STILL here.
I drop half the rotisserie chicken into the bag then chuck the tongs off the roof into the yard. Destined for the trash anyways. Spatula.
It was like I’d dropped a chicken breast in a hot pan and forgot to add oil. I chip off the bottom of the bird—and trip as my back-foot sock rips open on the rough tile.
I trip. I slip. Gravity takes over.
My back eats every tile on the way down. Br-rr-rr-rr-rr-rr-rr-RRAP like when rappers pretend they’re firing their gat. I turn as the world blurs hard up at me; the open window speeds away.
I’m airborne and wonder if I’ll die.
I land sideways into a bush and roll on the ground on my back, looking at the bare sky and lip of the roof. Holy shit.
Maybe I’m stunned for a second. When I can think again, I wiggle my toes. Thank fucking God.
My eyes focus closer. A quarter of the bird—I guess its shoulderish region, shit, and the HEAD—is on my chest. Eyes looking into mine, as if saying You fucking fool. He’s finally passed to the Great Beyond. I slap him off. I think my arm is OK?
Billy is screeching inside.
“Behleh.” Still recovering from the wind knocked outta me. I definitely can’t get up yet.
Wait.
Oh god no. He’s louder. Closer?
He’s outside, caterwauling. Trying to find Daddy. At least his onesie has feeties on them. Oh, I’m such a fucking idiot.
A second later, his head pops up over the roof.
“DADDY.”
He jumps, or falls, and his head blocks the sun above him, and suddenly he has a halo. Time stops as I look up.
His head is so absurdly large for his body. I love the way his hair sticks up in the back, how his snaggly teeth filled in like a big boy’s. Hard to believe this is only a snapshot and not forever. He’s so soft now. He hasn’t seen how awful the world can be yet. He’s just a tiny person. I saw him born, held him, fed him, watched him these last two years. How I love the little guy. That’s why I protected him. Maybe I can hold back the awful things a few more years for you.
He gets bigger, fast.
Thud.
A cannonball hits my stomach—maybe I yelp. I pitch forward then flop back down, Billy clinging tight. We’re both still a second, then he crawls up my chest like a mini-mountaineer, saying “daddy” over and over again like it was the only word he knew. I put my arms around him.
Funny how a window took out a bird but the roof couldn’t stop me. Sometimes little things kill and big things don’t. I pat the feathery-fine hair on the back of Billy’s head as he nuzzles me. Anything can be the end of us, but I’ll always go back out on the roof for you.
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