He found the tiny bowler hat abandoned on the bench beneath his favorite tree. It amused him so much that he took the thing in his beak and flipped it over on to his head. It was a perfect fit. The black felt was a good contrast against his blue-grey plumage; it brought out the black bands across his tail and wing tips. He decided to keep it on.
He flew back to his nest and strutted in front of his wife.
“Harold, what is that on your head?” she squeaked.
“It’s that thing the humans wear on their tops. A hat, I think it’s called,” Harold replied.
“Well, whatever it is, it makes you look ridiculous. You know I’m right.”
“I think it makes me look taller,” He asserted.
“Ridiculous.”
Harold flew off before his wife could say another word. He went to the bistro near the park where he lived. On the patio lined with ivied trellises, a crowd of tables, upon which pretty red baskets rested invitingly, awaited customers. The baskets, their bellies heavy with aromatic golden-baked delights, wooed him to distraction.
Pepe’s Bistro was Harold’s most beloved haunt. Not only would he tempt the wrath of his wife to go there (for he could linger at the bistro for hours on end), he would even risk getting nipped by Pepito, the owner’s tom cat, in order to fill his bird belly with the blissful morsels from Pepe’s carb baskets.
But the lure of food was only part of it.
Harold was deeply interested in the people that frequented Pepe’s. Often he would perch nearby and watch them laugh, cry, tease, seduce, and snarl at each other. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t understand what they were saying. Humans fascinated him. He would even dare hover near just to hear their whispers or gaze, spellbound, into their eyes.
Humans, however, did not reciprocate Harold’s fascination. Because of the bird flu scare a few years before, many regarded him as a pest; a dirty city rat with wings. Some regarded his cooing a distraction; others were creeped out by his orange eyes. The humans would often shoo him away or throw scraps to a distance to entice him away from their table.
And then there was Pepito, forever lurking; perpetually waiting. The orange and white tom was Harold’s arch enemy, always trying to catch him. Whenever he’s feeling invulnerable in the featherless world, Pepito was there to rattle his confidence with pounces and claws.
So, though it may seem like the beaked and feathered have the most carefree of lives, hanging about casually without worry or heed, fluffing their plumage, and pecking about endlessly, it really wasn’t easy being a city bird. The winged ones who loved to frequent Pepe’s were often not loved back by its regulars. They had an even harder time because of Pepito’s hunting prowess. Every day, premature molting, and even death, awaited the careless and unsuspecting bird.
Except, it seems, for today.
Harold noticed the difference as soon as he landed on one of the empty tables: the humans suspended consumption and conversation to stare at the bird in the bowler hat. One by one they pointed at him. Some giggled. Many guffawed. One thing they didn’t do was shoo him away like they used to. Harold stretched out his wings, discreetly checking beneath his iridescent scapular that it was him they were eyeing. When one of the humans smilingly offered him a bit of bread, he was sure of it. Flabbergasted but pleased at the turn of events, Harold decided to strut about from table to table to the featherless’ delight. Like a swaggering pansy was he, haughty in his tiny bowler hat that made him appear taller. And when Pepito lunged at him as usual, the ferocious feline was swatted away by Pepe himself. (“Get away, you silly cat! Let the bird alone!”)
“Where could he have gotten that hat?” One diner giggled.
“It looks like a doll’s hat,” another mused.
As if a bird wearing a bowler hat was not strange enough, stranger things began to unfold the day after Harold was seen wearing it. It all started when one of Pepe’s customers, looking pitiful as he dined alone, began a conversation with Harold.
“Well, hello there,” he said solemnly as the dapper bird hopped on his table.
Curious of the glum-faced man cradling his glass of wine, Harold treaded nearer and gazed at his sad eyes intently. He’s had too much to drink; Harold could smell it from his breath. But if he wasn’t drunk yet, he seemed to be trying to be.
Initially, in stunted sentences, the man told the bird about his wife who he lost a month ago in a car accident.
“It was just so sudden, you know. One minute you think it’s just another day. You peck her on the cheek and think nothing of it; think you’ll see her again by the time you get home, but you don’t.”
He would stop from time to time to take a drink and to look at Harold, as if waiting for a response; and the bird seemingly obliged as he cooed and shifted his wings. Encouraged, the man’s words poured out and flowed as surrogate tears. He recounted how he and his wife had met in college and married immediately after graduating. They had been happy but have recently become so busy doing their own thing that there no longer was time for togetherness.
“I wish I said I loved her, you know, because I did. Why couldn’t I just have said it?”
Harold didn’t understand a word the man said, but he appeared sympathetic simply because he stayed and listened. The man left half an hour later, lighter and more content; leaving a huge tip and a heartfelt compliment, “Obliging bird you have there, Pepe.”
That very same day and time, a young man, who’s spelling skills left a lot to be desired, was passing by the bistro’s patio when he witnessed a miserable looking fellow talking to, of all things, a bird in a hat. He couldn’t believe his good fortune and decided to video record the one-sided conversation on his phone.
Later, the young man would go home and upload the video of the odd couple on his blog: “Wierd Shite and Stuffs!”. One may find it difficult to believe, but “Wierd Shite and Stuffs!”, or WSaS!, was quite the popular blog, pulling in at least a million hits a day; proving that proficiency in spelling is not a must to gain fans. The million that subscribed to WSaS! logged on the next day to see the heartfelt yet quirky video of the bird in the bowler hat listening to the grieving man speak about love for his wife. Moved, thousands shared the post to thousands more that shared it to thousands more. Facebook, Twitter, and other social media were inundated with gifs and memes based on stills from the video. They either tickled (“Will listen for birdseed”) or tugged (“Man’s new best friend wears a hat”) or poked (“Are we so detached from one another that we need a bird as a confidant?”).
Inspired, a young artist painted a version of Surrealist Rene Magritte’s “Son of Man”, and entitled his painting “Bird of Man”. It featured Harold, in profile, wearing his bowler hat; a green apple covering most of his face. Says the painter: “We know he’s a bird even though the apple hides his face. The bird stepped onto the human realm as soon as it put on the hat, and that fellow, in his grief, became willing to accept it as an equal. He confided in it even though it was visibly still a bird. The hat made this acceptance possible. I channeled Magritte because of the ubiquitous bowler hat in his paintings.” While the painting was reviled by artists and long hairs as being too pedestrian, it was celebrated by a Buzzfeed staffer who, in his article’s thumbnail, teased readers by showing only the hat. The title of his article: “I Thought This Painting Was Just a Replica of the Original, But What the Artist Did BLEW MY MIND!” It received a lot of ♥s, LOLs, and WINs in their reaction bar graph and trended at #1 for almost 36 hours.
Footage of the most poignant moment in the video, the grieving widow lamenting over the final time he said goodbye to his wife (“I wish I said I loved her, you know, because I did. Why couldn’t I just have said it?”) followed by Harold’s cooing and flapping wings, was edited into amateurish- to professional-looking music videos accompanied by the saddest free music YouTubers could use under Creative Commons.
Pouncing on the trend, the audio of that footage was extracted and sampled by semi-famous accountant-turned-rapper, P.D. Stills. The sample became the foundation for his rap song, “Bowler Bird”, a retelling of Harold’s and the grieving widow’s encounter. The song garnered millions of hits on audio and video platforms. Because of his instant fame, P.D. got invited to perform the song on Conan and the Jimmy Kimmel Show in the same week. The songwriter chose to be literal and wore a bowler hat with angel wings stuck to his back. Before the week was done, his appearance on both talk shows caused two new ripples: his song debuted at #5 on Billboard’s Top 40, and bowler hats flooded the accessories section in stores and sold as soon as sales ladies hung them on the racks. Hacks for avian hats poured into DIY and bird lovers’ websites. However, these hacks turned into fails as none of the bird owners were successful in keeping the hats on their pets’ heads. Humorous videos showed birds shaking the hats off; some even attacking their humans after being forced to keep them on.
Wierd Shite, indeed. And more Stuffs! was about to happen as well.
Having heard of the famous feathered therapist who comforted the grieving widow, people flooded to Pepe’s Bistro to witness, document, or spill all their woes onto Harold. The place got so packed that Pepe had to resort to bookings (no walk-ins) in order to keep the tables full but not overflowing. Pepe was a good businessman; he recognized his good fortune as soon as he saw the bird wearing the bowler hat. He knew that, as long as the bird keeps coming by daily, he had an adorable low-cost mascot. So, since he observed that part of the bird’s charm was how it was free and could perch wherever it chooses, Pepe didn’t even try catching it. But he made certain that it will keep returning by making the place conducive to its visits. This meant a few bits of bread and a regulated crowd. Pepito, who used to be Pepe’s favorite, had to suffer a demotion in his owner’s affections, and was kept away from Harold with sharp swats and spanks.
The Pepe’s Bistro diners were made up of ordinary people with feelings to unburden and curiosity to satisfy. Some celebrities and politicos came by for publicity, trying to get in on what fans and potential voters found hip. But Pepe had a big sign installed: all were warned not to harm or exploit Harold. Nobody – powerful, power-hungry, empowered, and powerless alike – may influence the bird to choose their table. It said: “If our bird in the hat chooses you, consider it a blessing. Remember: blessings are bestowed upon us. It cannot be forced.”
Most of the diners followed Pepe’s rules. They would wait for the bird to fly in from the wooded area of the park, and, with bated breath, guess to which table he would give his attention. People were amazed at how Harold always seemed to know which table of diners needed tending the most. They always turn out to be the ones with the deepest of heartbreaks and problems so grim. To them, his uncanny knack was both mystery and magic. What the diners didn’t know was Harold’s fascination with eyes: he simply chose the ones most wet with tears.
The people who disregarded Pepe’s rules were escorted off the premises by the newly-hired Brusco, a 7-foot gargantuan Latino, whose job was to be both bouncer for the misbehaving and bodyguard for the bird. He was a fearsome sight: eyebrows so bushy they cast a dark shadow over his deep-set eyes; hands so large with fingers long and sausage-like that they, when put together, can hide an entire beer can inside with room to spare. Brusco spoke in a deep yet gentlest of voices, but because of his formidable and frightening figure, all he needed to do was say, “Les go” and the offenders followed him like meek minions.
Harold was wary of Brusco. The giant was a towering and solid living thing that rarely moved, much like a tree he would have found himself resting upon. But his eyes were a mystery to Harold. Unlike the other diners with their emotion-filled orbs, Brusco’s seemed to hold no expression. Plus he had the largest hands the bird has ever seen on a human. Harold imagined those appendages could swat a bird and propel it towards the ozone layer. The thought of it made Harold avoid Brusco, not a difficult task since the giant hardly budged from his bouncer’s post.
Pepito, the cat, on the other hand, took to Brusco immediately. After lately receiving no love from his owner, the cat resorted to pouring all of his affections onto Brusco’s legs, rubbing his body against the giant trunks; so much so that bouncer’s pants were always a little furry from Pepito’s loving. Brusco didn’t seem to mind the cat. In fact, he would pet it from time to time, to the animal’s pleasure and gratitude.
Because of all of the advantageous changes at Pepe’s, Harold would leave earlier to go there. Always, his wife would be up, grumbling, and jabbing at him with heated words.
“You look like an idiot! Take that thing off your head,” she would plead. “The neighbors talk about you. They say you’re crazy.”
“I don’t care,” Harold would say. “Let them say what they want.”
“You are making things bad for us in this neighborhood! You know I’m right!”
His neighbors’ comments were not the only ones Harold needed to ignore. The other birds that frequented Pepe’s have doubled in number ever since Pepito’s demotion. Not only was it now safer to hang out, there was more food to be had because of the increase in customers. Despite the fact that all these improvements came about because of Harold and his bowler hat, the other birds despised him. Some were jealous; some thought he’s become too haughty, wearing a hat as if he was human. They called him “Mr. Fancy”.
“Who do you think you are?” they twittered.
“Oooh, it’s Mr. Fancy! Let’s all curtsy,” they tweeted.
So despite his newfound fame and beloved status in the human world, Harold wasn’t very happy: his wife didn’t understand him; his neighbors and the feathered regulars at Pepe’s have ostracized him. Now, his only joy was free bread and listening to diners unburden themselves on him. Lost, fascinated, in their eyes, he would forget his own troubles and be content, at least until his confessors have done emptying themselves of their own woes.
One day, the young man who ran WSaS! bumped into a High School pal. Over coffee and donuts, they caught up and his friend realized his good fortune in their accidental meeting for he is now an attorney practicing business law; the website founder was a potential client for his firm.
“There’s so much more money to be made, man,” he said. “There’s the licensing of the footage you took and anything extracted from it: video clips, sound clips, images…”
WSaS! founder nodded but his attention was on his second donut.
“You could even sue P.D. Stills,” the young attorney continued. He was on fire, excited to prove his worth to the partners in his firm. “He’s earned big bucks from his song – something he couldn’t have done without your video of that bird.”
Nod. Donut.
His friend leaned across the table and gestured for him to do the same; he whispered, “There’s some talk about him getting nominated for the Billboard Music Awards.” The attorney leaned back and slapped the table, “Imagine that! He sampled all those sounds from your video – without your permission, mind you, and is now reaping all the benefits!”
“I’m earning pretty good money from the site,” the donut lover said. “I don’t think I need more.”
The attorney stared at his friend incredulously; then stated, slowly and pointedly, more reasons why he should reconsider, as if pleading a case. Drained, he left his card with his unmoved friend.
“Call me if you change your mind.”
The WSaS! founder was delighted to have seen his old pal but easily dropped most of their conversation from his brain as soon as he got home. It was only when he casually mentioned the meeting to his mother that the memory of it was dragged up from the well of his mind, mostly because of his mother’s persistent questioning.
She was a careful and domineering woman, his mother. She couldn’t quite grasp how her son earned his money and this made her uneasy. All she could see was this: every day he would sleep all morning then stay up all night on the computer; every quarter, checks with figures larger than hers and her husband’s combined yearly income would come in. Because of her inability to understand it, she mistrusted the whole thing; and, though her son shared his money generously with them, she and her husband kept their jobs just in case this internet thing didn’t last. She was a good worker, but she was bone-tired and this made her snap at her son each time she came home to see him lounging in the basement. He may earn 6 figures a year, she thought, but he was lazy and imprudent.
Today, after he told her what he could remember from the conversation he had at the donut shop, she was sure that he was the most foolish man ever been born. How could this opportunity just fly past his head? She proceeded to lecture him on the benefits that he, his parents, other siblings, and his future wife and children could receive if he were to follow his attorney friend’s advice. It could mean comfort for all of them for their entire lives.
Afraid of his mother, the young man changed his mind and used a portion of his 6-figure earnings, all gained from posting about weird shite and stuff, to retain the services of, not his friend’s firm, but one of the best entertainment law firms in the state: Greaves, Jensen & Sinclair, known for causing a film production company to file bankruptcy after paying millions to their client, an A-lister actress who got fired to be replaced by a much younger starlet.
At the advice of his team of attorneys at Greaves, Jensen & Sinclair, and with the approval of the authoritarian matriarch, the first order was to turn the young man’s website into a proper business, changing it into a Limited Liability Company with his mother and two elder brothers as members. WSaS! was now to be formally called “WSaS, LLC”.
Then a lawsuit was filed against accountant-turned-rapper, P.D. Stills; this caused ripples of unrest in the music biz. Articles and commentaries on intellectual property rights soon flooded the internet; loud expert guests on news programs debated heatedly on the matter. Ultimately, the majority of the public disapproved of the rapper for failing to ask WSaS! founder’s permission to use the audio clip; his Billboard Music Award nomination faded like an echo in a cave. P.D. Stills settled out of court; surrendering half of his earnings from his song, “Bowler Bird”, to WSaS, LLC.
About the same time, Greaves, Jensen & Sinclair served Cease and Desist letters to all designers, vendors, cartoonists, artists, and any user of Harold’s image and sound clips. They also reported all music video based on the footage to YouTube to have their posts taken down.
And for thoroughness’ sake, they contacted the grieving widow in the video to get him to sign either of two waivers: the first nullifies any claim or future claim on the earnings made from the video taken by WSaS, LLC; the second nullifies any claim or future claims on the earnings made from the video taken by WSaS, LLC after a payment of $________ has been made to the party. Drawn up for emergency purposes only, the second waiver will be brought up on the chance that the widow will demand or have to be bribed with money; the figure was left blank to possibly accommodate whatever amount was necessary to appease him.
When they couldn’t find him at his address and usual haunts, Greaves, Jensen & Sinclair hired a private investigator. In a week, the P.I. followed clues that pointed to The Casa Soler Retreat Facility, a haven for the mentally worn, a lone structure much like an oasis, in the middle of arid Arizona. The grieving widow checked himself into the secluded sanctuary after suffering a nervous breakdown brought about by the spate of public attention and brutal scrutiny he’s received so soon after the loss of his wife. The Casa Soler’s service was topnotch and, therefore, expensive. So the widow chose to sign the second waiver and, for the figure on the blank, asked for a huge sum to cover his treatment expenses and soothe the emotional distress the video has caused.
Then Jensen of Greaves, Jensen & Sinclair had an idea: why not ensure that no other parties can use the bird’s image or sound by making it the property of WSaS, LLC? Pepe’s Bistro didn’t own the bird; it merely frequented its premises. Nobody has claimed it, but WSaS, LLC could.
Pepe was all aghast after receiving his Cease and Desist letter. He was being asked to facilitate and not interfere with the capture of the bird in the bowler hat. It was not his; on the other hand, the law firm’s well-oiled machine quickly enabled WSaS, LLC to own the trademark of its image and the copyright of its sounds, making the bird somewhat theirs. Pepe was a good businessman and had a natural talent for profiting from the law of supply and demand, but he has always shied away from legal documents with their highfalutin terms and tortuous paragraphs; so he ceased and desisted, albeit reluctantly.
The day came for Harold’s capture, and Critter Catchers was to do the deed. The animal trapping company was started by a burly Southern fellow who had a knack for catching pests of all sizes and he did this for 20 years. Now retired and relaxing in Georgia, he left his business with his male kin; all three were not very smart businessmen but were enthusiastic pest trappers and killers.
Afraid of what his regular clients would feel watching their favorite bird getting trapped by the Critter Catchers, Pepe decided to close the bistro. The bird never missed a day coming to his place, so Pepe prayed fervently that it would, just once, miss this one. But, almost as if on cue, the bird flew in and landed on one of the tables. Pepe looked at it with pity and a sinking heart.
“Poor bird,” he said to no one in particular.
Brusco heard the words. “What’s up, boss?”
“Poor bird doesn’t know this will be his last day of freedom,” he shook his head sadly. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“Yeah, boss,” Brusco commiserated and stared at the dapper bird, unaware of the extent of its miserable fate.
Harold, too, was unaware of what Greaves, Jensen & Sinclair had planned for him. He started out the day with the usual jabs from his wife. Although this morning, suddenly remembering the grieving widow’s story, he gave her a peck on the cheek and said, “I love you”. She chirped in surprise and he made his escape as she stared at him, dumbfounded.
He passed his neighbors with a happy wave; they waved back limply with confused expressions on their faces.
And, as he flew into Pepe’s, he smiled at the feathered hangers-on who have been jealous and treated him unkindly.
“Ooh, here comes Mr. Fancy!” They twittered
“Hello, everyone,” he said cheerfully.
“Huh? What are you so cheerful about?” They tweeted, confused.
“I don’t know,” Harold replied. “I don’t know why but I feel quite happy today.”
Just then the Critter Catcher team stepped onto the patio. They were in white overalls with the company logo patched at the center. They each had visors covering their eyes and were carrying equipment of their trade: two had bird catchers, long poles with roomy nets at the end; the third held a long handled case. The netted poles were, clearly, for catching the bird in the bowler hat. If caught, it will be turned over to their clients, Greaves, Jensen & Sinclair. But if they failed at catching it, they have been asked to terminate the bird by any means. The team chose the BB gun, a shot of a pellet into its body would surely do the job.
Harold stared at the Critter Catchers, oblivious to the danger. Pepe was talking to the two with the nets, his body hindering them from moving further, while the third placed the long case on one of the tables, took out, and filled the BB gun with pellets. Harold watched and wondered why Pepe had no other customers except these three. He thought the trio’s white overalls were nice and he was most curious about the eyes underneath their visors. Even with the clear plastic covering them, he could see that one of the men had the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. Intrigued, to Pepe’s dismay, Harold flew towards the men in white.
“Dumb bird,” Pepe muttered under his breath. “Dumb, dumb bird.
Harold flew and kept his gaze on the blue eyes. They got even bluer as he drew nearer. Unexpectedly and quite suddenly, he remembered why human eyes fascinated him. In a flash, the image of blue eyes peeking into his parents’ nest came to mind. Harold was inside his egg on the verge of breaking out of his shell. A little boy had climbed the tree and had watched him hatch. He had his face near the nest; peering into the wonder inside, his blue eyes stared steadily at Harold as he opened his own. Those blues orbs were the first thing Harold set his eyes upon. He thought they were his mother’s until she flew down and scared the boy away. He had forgotten all about it, but now Harold reveled at the memory and looped into the air happily.
Then, at the sound of a mighty clap, darkness enveloped him.
“We’re asking you again, mister. Where is the bird with the hat?” Critter Catcher #1 asked, his gaze sharp, the bird catcher at the ready in his hand.
“You can’t hide him, you know,” said #2. “We’ve got lawyers papers saying you can’t. No obster … obsterruction and all that.”
Critter Catcher #3 just stood silently in a shady corner, BB gun in hand.
“We can’t stand here all day,” #1 said. “What time is he coming by?”
Pepe bristled. “How should I know? He doesn’t work here like one of my waiters. I don’t have his schedule. He’s a bird, for chrissakes.”
“Hey, don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, mister.”
“You wouldn’t be hiding him from us now would you?”
Then from the silent corner, the quiet one with the gun spoke: “Who’s he?”
Critter Catchers #s 1 and 2 stared at the huge Latino who stood at his post like a tree, unnoticed until now.
“That is Brusco, my bouncer,” Pepe said.
“Jeesus, that’s a big son of a bitch,” whispered #1 then said loudly, “Does he always stand there with his hands behind his back, mister?”
“Say, are you hiding something from us? Are you carrying a gun?”
Pepe noticed, too, that the giant had his hands behind his back, but he said, a little too heatedly: “Of course not! He always stands like that. Where do you want him to put his hands? On his hips?”
“Nah…I don’t trust him. I think he’s hiding something.”
“Me, too. I think he’s got a gun.”
“Let us see your hands, big guy,” said the one with the BB gun, his tone soft yet menacing.
Except for his eyes shifting to stare at Pepe, Brusco refused to move.
“Well?” #1 demanded.
Pepe took the Cease and Desist papers from his back pocket and put it up for Brusco to see. “You know how much I hate this, but there’s nothing we can do, big guy.”
“I’m sorry, boss,” the giant replied. Then, from high above his head, he drew apart his huge hands and out flew the bird with the bowler hat.
Harold was disoriented from being kept in between Brusco’s two palms, and spiraled downwards. Pepito, who had been between Brusco’s legs all this time, jumped into the air and swiped at Harold’s head. His paw knocked the bird’s hat off and it fell on the ground, weightless and silent, along with a couple of grey feathers.
Critter Catcher #3, formerly cool and collected, went into a panic; he aimed at Harold as the bird flew upwards, and took a shot. The sound startled the feathered hangers-on and they flew into the air, with Harold flapping among them. He now was just one among many, lost in an avian grey cloud.
He flew high into the sky and then looked down to witness a disorderly dance on the ground featuring humans and feline: the three catchers scrambling to trap and shoot randomly at the confused birds too slow to flee; Pepe trying to shoo them to safety; Harold’s bowler hat on the floor being attacked by the cat; and Brusco’s face turned up to the sky, towards the birds, detached from the commotion around him.
Harold didn’t quite understand what just happened, but he knew he was the target of harm and had to escape. Along with other frightened birds, he flew fast in order to hide among the trees. A crow, one of Pepe’s regulars, the very one who coined him “Mr. Fancy”, flew past him.
“Hey, you,” he squawked. “Get out of my way!”
Harold realized then that, without his bowler hat, he looked just as he did before: like everyone else. He was just another rock pigeon; nothing special. He never would have admitted it but, before the hat came into his life, this had bothered him; it had been the cause of his discontent, being ordinary. But now, being ordinary had given him safety. It had saved his life.
Harold flew home. As he passed his neighbors, they hardly gave him a glance. They got used to the bird with the bowler hat that now, hatless and short, he was not worth even a first glance.
“So, where’s your hat?” His wife asked as he landed down.
“The cat has it,” he said simply. “Some humans tried to catch me – kill me, even.”
“What?” His wife started crying. “What if they had succeeded? I would have lost you. I never would have seen you again.”
Harold, for the first time, felt ashamed for having worn the hat for so long. He had been oblivious to the events that unfolded because of him, to the lives he had changed. He was unaware of the lawsuits and the controversy a song based on him had caused. But he had been aware of his wife’s unhappiness and elected to ignore it. All he chose to see was how unsupportive she was of what brought him joy.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize the hat would cause you so much grief.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “I just couldn’t understand why it gave you so much happiness.”
So he told her.
He told her how deeply he enjoyed humans, their sound of their voices and the glimmer in their eyes; but they didn’t enjoy him and would always shoo him away. That all changed, however, the day he started wearing the bowler hat. They became nicer -- wanted him around, in fact. They were amused by him and enjoyed his presence. And then came the day he met the grieving widow. He was the very first human that really connected with him; saw him as more than just a funny bird. Dejected, he spoke to Harold as if the bird could understand, but he left smiling and less unhappy. After the widow, more and more people seemed to want to connect with Harold, to unburden themselves in some way. And he kept coming back for their eyes: some were sad and tearful just like the widow’s; some were fiery and full of hatred. But always, at the end of their whispered confessions, all left Pepe’s with moods much lighter than they came in with.
“The hat just made me feel very special,” Harold confessed to his wife the way the humans did to him. “I put it on and I became somebody.”
“Silly, husband,” his wife said gently. “The hat didn’t make you special.”
Harold stared at his wife, ashamed, “I guess that’s true.”
But she continued.
“You’re special… because you put the hat on and kept it on. No other bird would have been special enough to have done that. None, except you.”
Through tearful eyes, Harold smiled.
“You know I’m right. I’m always right,” she chided gently.
“Yes, you are, dear,” Harold said, gratitude filling his heart. “Yes, you are.”
***
A few weeks have passed; a lot had happened since Harold lost his hat.
Pepe filed a lawsuit against Greaves, Jensen & Sinclair for the damages the BB pellets have caused on his property. To avoid being liable for the damage, the Critter Catchers served as his witnesses. They had the evidence: the law firm’s typed instructions to terminate Harold if they couldn’t trap him. The indignant bistro owner even went on the local news to air his grievances; he gained the public’s sympathy, including a few celebrities and politicos that went on Twitter to tweet their support. Wierd Shite and Stuffs!, or WSaS, LLC, was ultimately blamed for the whole mess and the website lost an enormous following. Its young founder was labeled, quite erroneously, a bird murderer and his site called out for ruining the English language with its badly-spelled words and inane posts, as if scales fell from the readers’ eyes and it was only now that they noticed. WSaS, LLC founder posted an apology on his website, assigned the footage to Creative Commons, and dropped out of sight and site.
Pepe’s Bistro became so popular and relevant that its namesake received the key to the city. Said the mayor of Pepe: “This man is the embodiment of what our dear city values most: courage. Like David, Pepe Pantaleon threw the stone of justice at Goliath all in the name of the weak and defenseless.” The mayor then opened the lid of a basket and out flew a couple of white doves. His secretary was quick to put back its lid after seeing there were 8 more inside: the birds perished from the heat created by the cramped, tightly woven splints of the basket. Despite his secretary’s quick action to save him from embarrassment, the mayor became the latest target of a lawsuit after his live microphone picked up what he hissed afterwards at her: “You fucking cunt! You bought the wrong basket! The birds are fucking dead!”
Goliath, A.K.A. the law firm of Greaves, Jensen & Sinclair, came out of the whole hullaballoo unharmed. The stone of justice Pepe threw wasn’t enough to cause their law firm to topple as the bible giant did. From among the rubble, they gained infamy, and it was business as usual, with perhaps even more clients from which they can pick and choose.
The Critter Catchers, though, wasn’t as lucky. They were forced to close after the IRS decided to do a check up on their tax return and found the company wanting.
Finally free to use the footage, P.D. Stills, accountant-turned-rapper, came out with a new rap song called “Bird and BB Gun” which became an instant hit on YouTube before going mainstream. Asked by a local radio station why he kept coming back to the bird theme, Stills said: “I don’t know. I think I see myself in that bird, you know. That bird is me. That bird is all of us, yo.”
Much improved emotionally and financially, the grieving widow was still at The Casa Soler Retreat Facility in the middle of arid Arizona. But because of the speed of his progress and his willingness to work for a measly pay, he was now one of the counselors there. And always, to his new group of depressed individuals, he would mention the day a bird in a bowler hat hopped on his table and enabled him to pour out the pain that was trapped inside of him. He would say: “It wasn’t really the bird that did it. I’m not crazy; I knew he couldn’t understand what I was saying. But it was his gaze that did it. He stared at me like he understood. He didn’t look away; didn’t look down to his phone; and didn’t look like he was waiting for his turn to speak. He stared at me like what I was saying mattered – that I mattered.”
And during the most recent group session, after he retold his story, someone in the group started sobbing. It was the WSaS! founder, feeling guilty and contrite. He looked worn out and defeated, much like the grieving widow when he first entered the facility. Later the two men hugged; one asked for forgiveness, the other forgave.
Meanwhile, as these lives intertwined and events unfolded, Harold stayed home.
He spent his mornings helping his wife clean the nest and do other chores. When that was done, he would sit on a branch and stare far ahead until called by his wife for dinner. She had been very gentle with him since that fateful day the Critter Catchers tried to trap him. She made sure he had his space.
One day, however, dinner was served along with a question: “Harold, why don’t you go back to Pepe’s?”
“What do you mean? I am happy to stay and keep you company, my love.”
“I know what you’ve been staring at from that ledge,” she said sternly. “Do you think I’m stupid? You have good eyesight but not good enough to watch Pepe’s from here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
His wife sighed and just stared at him, eyes unblinking, head cocked to the left. Harold stared back and held his breath, determined to pretend he was fine. A minute of silence passed, both birds like statues in the nest.
Finally, Harold folded. “Alright. I do miss Pepe’s. But I can’t go back.”
“Why not?” His wife asked gently.
“What if they try to catch me again?”
“They won’t. You don’t have the hat. They won’t recognize you now.”
Harold sadly nodded. “Yes. I’m nothing without the hat.”
“No,” his wife said, her wings touching his. “Husband, I want you to listen and listen well to what I’m about to say: you are you. The hat didn’t make you.”
“No?”
“No”, she agreed and repeated: “The hat didn’t make you. You made something of that hat.”
Harold looked at his wife and slowly smiled. “My dear, I think you are right.”
“I’m always right,” she joked.
“But what about you? You’ll be alone.”
“Oh, Harold,” his wife laughed. “I can’t wait for you to go back to Pepe’s -- I haven’t seen my friends for weeks!”
Harold laughed. “Is that so? By all means, my love! Tomorrow you visit them as I brave Pepe’s once again.”
Tomorrow came and Harold did as he promised. He flew off, waving goodbye to his wife who was on her way to see her friends. His courage wavered along the way and he made stops on branches at certain points. One branch housed the nest of a robin who would often jeer at him because of the hat. “Say, you wouldn’t have a sharp twig on you, would you? I told my wife I’d get one but my wing hurts too much when I fly.”
Harold glanced at the Robin’s wings and saw that it was wounded.
The robin saw Harold’s gaze and said, “Those BB pellets hurt like a mother.”
So Harold did his good deed for the day and picked a sharp twig for the wounded robin and went on his way. Before he ventured too far, the robin called out: “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Harold!”
“Thanks, Harold!” The robin, forgetting his pain for the moment, tried to wave his wing. “Ouch!”
Harold flew away, feeling lighter than ever before. He forgot his fear and didn’t make any more stops on his way to Pepe’s. When he got there, it was the peak of brunch. Pepe’s started opening earlier, even opening for breakfast some days to accommodate his loyal diners. From the air, Harold could see that Pepito was back into his owner’s graces. The feline, too, had a tear in one of his ears. Harold hadn’t realized that his arch enemy had suffered a BB pellet injury as well.
Another change in the premises was the addition of a water fountain dedicated to the birds of the bistro. It was made of white marble and water flowed gracefully out of the beak of the figure of a bird in a bowler hat. The feathered hangers-on flocked around it, twittering and cooing as diners delighted in them, some taking photos and videos to be posted on, “The Birds of Pepe’s Bistro”, a big hit on Instagram and Twitter, #bistrobirds. Pepe had a new large sign welcoming everyone, the feathered and featherless alike, to his bistro. “If you have a problem with birds, please enjoy your food elsewhere.”
Harold flew downwards and landed on a table near the fountain. There was a queue for a place near the water but the birds, bellies full, were happy to wait. Harold made his way to the queue.
“Hey there!”
Harold turned to see a small bird behind him. He was excited and kept rocking back and forth from leg to leg.
“Well, hello,” Harold said, smiling.
“Is it your first time here? It’s mine!”
“Well, not really…”
“My parents have been telling me all about this bird in a hat ever since I was a hatchling. I couldn’t wait to learn how to fly so I could get here and see for myself. I finally made my first flight yesterday,” the young one said proudly.
“Bravo, little one,” Harold said approvingly.
“When I get older, I want to be just like him!”
“And what is that like?”
“Well, my parents,” he pointed towards two doves nearby. “… Said that he was really something! Brave – won’t take any nonsense form anybody, and really smart! Everyone loved him!”
“Really now?”
“Yes! My friends and I want to meet him one day,” the little bird twittered eagerly. “No! No! We want to be him!”
Then he stopped: “Say, maybe you know him!”
Harold paused then shook his head. “He sounds like a fantastic fellow, though. I, too, would like to be this bird someday.”
A shadow fell over the two birds, and the young one gawked over Harold’s head then flew off hurriedly towards his parents. Harold turned to stare at the shadow-caster. It was Brusco. The giant stared at him right back, his eyebrows as bushy as ever before and hands still the largest Harold has ever seen.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Brusco asked in a gruff but gentle voice.
Surprised, Harold stared at the big man with big hands.
“I know it’s you, even without your hat. I knew you’d come back.”
Harold was dumbfounded. He didn’t speak human but, from his gaze and the tone of his voice, he knew the giant that once frightened him has recognized him.
The erstwhile bird in the bowler hat flew up to do something his fear had prevented him from doing before: gaze into the giant’s eyes. Finally, fresh from his own battle and fear gone, he discovered beneath the bushy brows were eyes of, not a giant, but a soul who truly saw him.
Head hatless and feathered, Harold was one grey bird from among thousands and yet a human recognized him. This human didn’t see the hat on a bird; he saw the bird wearing the hat.
“Here,” the giant whispered so as not to wake up the cat. “I saved your hat from Pepito. It’s not as nice but you can still wear it.”
Harold stared at the bowler hat he once enjoyed. He remembered what he felt the day he found it and put it on. He thought of why he decided to keep it on: it wasn’t because it made him feel special; it was because he desperately needed to feel less ordinary. He believed the hat to have made him so, like some talisman with magical powers. But his wife was right (she always is!): it made him special only because he chose to wear it. The hat itself meant nothing.
Harold stared at the hat dangling between Brusco’s thick fingers. It was riddled with holes from Pepito’s sharp teeth but still wearable.
Harold cooed then flew up and around the giant’s head, then dropped down to take the hat from his fingers. With hat hanging between his beak, Harold looped into the air, making a dance for the humans and feathered at the bistro. They noticed, pointed, and marveled at the sight and shouted/twittered: “It’s him! It’s the bird in the bowler hat!”
Pepe raised his gaze and clasped his hands in happy thanks as some of the birds joined Harold in the air; Pepito stood up in attention, eyes and tail alert; and the silent giant, arms upstretched to the skies, laughed joyfully at the sight of the grey bird, with hat in beak, dance in the air.
Harold looped and leaped. The hat means nothing to him, but it could mean something for someone else. He spotted something from the tables and dove downward; dropping the hat on the head of the young bird he met in the queue.
“Here!” He said with a smile so blissful. Then he flew upwards to join the others, lost in the cloud of grey feathers; just one among many…
Happy.
*I started writing this story probably in 2008. I say "probably" because I lost the original file and only salvaged this from a hard copy I found. I finished in only yesterday.
The story was inspired by an art work by V.Crimson, a DeviantArt visual artist I met through the site. I found it whimsical and challenged myself to write a story out of it. Below is the link to the work that inspired me:
http://vcrimson.deviantart.com/art/portrait-number-7-22857080