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Authors: Aimee Liu, Daniel McNeill
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felt myself moving backward,
leaping off as I did in my dream, gliding outward, arms spread and steady, just long enough for the illusion of flight to
take hold, then suddenly plunging headlong down through the gray to the white, blinding heat of the city below.
Laughter poured from my mouth like shattered glass. The wind snatched at it.
“I’m sorry.” He was behind me coming closer. Leaving the edge. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Maybe—” He was turning me, both hands firm on my shoulders as if to keep me from running away, as if there were somewhere
to go besides space.
“You don’t want me,” I warned him.
The old lady next door has a bird. She sits outside admiring the brilliant blue and green and yellow feathers. She sips her
afternoon sherry with her photo album at her elbow, the bird’s bill thrusting between the bars of the large domed cage. The
macaw is as big as a cat.
“Pretty boy.” Her voice rises an octave and quavers. “Can you talk, pretty boy?” She takes her glass with both hands and sips
contemplatively. The bird pecks at the bars. I can’t see its expression from where I perch, but I read it as sullen.
Suddenly my neighbor lets out a raucous, shocking wolf whistle devoidof the slightest quaver. The parrot answers with a predictable flapping of wings. One feather flies free of the cage, and
she grabs it, smooths it on her lap.
“Pretty boy!” She opens her album and slides the feather into a plastic sleeve, then slams the book shut. “I know! I’ll call
you Euripides!”
But before the bird can reply, the old lady’s nurse appears, briskly gathers up the glass and book, mutters about the mess
this creature is going to make, and wheels her patient inside.
Alone, the macaw squawks ferocious, unintelligible gibberish. The noise spills over the fence to the schoolyard, where the
kids pause periodically in their games to imitate the bird’s sounds. That only ups the ante, and he screeches louder. Finally
the old lady’s nurse storms out with a black cloth in her hands.
“Hush your damn squalling!” she yells over the din.
“Awwk! Fuck you, bitch!”
“All right, bird!” the kids cheer.
The nurse yanks the cloth over the top of the cage.
“Go on, bird. You tell her,” cry the children.
But the darkness has forced the bird’s silence.
The phone rang eleven times. I counted, willing it to stop, let me finish this glorious, frigid shower and go to bed. Maybe
a dreamless sleep. But no amount of wishing can stop my brother when he’s on the prowl.
“Hey, sis. What’s up?”
“Henry. It’s nearly midnight. I’m dripping wet—”
“What’s this? I’m trying to make a brotherly connection and you act like it’s an obscene phone call.”
I waited. The background roared with the street where my brother was calling from.
“I’m losing my sublet, and I figured—” A siren at close range cut him off.
“Have Mum and Dad rented out your room?”
“Maibelle. They’re convinced I’m a deadbeat as it is.” His next sentence dissolved in a confusion of angry male voices.
“Where are you?”
“Pay phone down the block.”
“Christ, Henry. Come on up. You can crash on the couch tonight. Just tonight.”
Henry is the one member of my family with whom I stayed in touch—albeit erratically—during my odyssey years. He never left
New York. In fact, he lived at home most of the time, designing software on a contract basis for Atari. My mother said, after
all his hands-on practice, he should be producing the crème de la crème of video games, and Henry claimed he was. Just a misunderstood
artist who wasn’t paid his due. Nevertheless, his last Christmas present to my parents was to move into an apartment of his
own. Apparently it wasn’t exactly his own.
“You weren’t staying with another Miss Argentina, were you?” I asked when he’d hauled the last of his bags
leaping off as I did in my dream, gliding outward, arms spread and steady, just long enough for the illusion of flight to
take hold, then suddenly plunging headlong down through the gray to the white, blinding heat of the city below.
Laughter poured from my mouth like shattered glass. The wind snatched at it.
“I’m sorry.” He was behind me coming closer. Leaving the edge. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Maybe—” He was turning me, both hands firm on my shoulders as if to keep me from running away, as if there were somewhere
to go besides space.
“You don’t want me,” I warned him.
The old lady next door has a bird. She sits outside admiring the brilliant blue and green and yellow feathers. She sips her
afternoon sherry with her photo album at her elbow, the bird’s bill thrusting between the bars of the large domed cage. The
macaw is as big as a cat.
“Pretty boy.” Her voice rises an octave and quavers. “Can you talk, pretty boy?” She takes her glass with both hands and sips
contemplatively. The bird pecks at the bars. I can’t see its expression from where I perch, but I read it as sullen.
Suddenly my neighbor lets out a raucous, shocking wolf whistle devoidof the slightest quaver. The parrot answers with a predictable flapping of wings. One feather flies free of the cage, and
she grabs it, smooths it on her lap.
“Pretty boy!” She opens her album and slides the feather into a plastic sleeve, then slams the book shut. “I know! I’ll call
you Euripides!”
But before the bird can reply, the old lady’s nurse appears, briskly gathers up the glass and book, mutters about the mess
this creature is going to make, and wheels her patient inside.
Alone, the macaw squawks ferocious, unintelligible gibberish. The noise spills over the fence to the schoolyard, where the
kids pause periodically in their games to imitate the bird’s sounds. That only ups the ante, and he screeches louder. Finally
the old lady’s nurse storms out with a black cloth in her hands.
“Hush your damn squalling!” she yells over the din.
“Awwk! Fuck you, bitch!”
“All right, bird!” the kids cheer.
The nurse yanks the cloth over the top of the cage.
“Go on, bird. You tell her,” cry the children.
But the darkness has forced the bird’s silence.
The phone rang eleven times. I counted, willing it to stop, let me finish this glorious, frigid shower and go to bed. Maybe
a dreamless sleep. But no amount of wishing can stop my brother when he’s on the prowl.
“Hey, sis. What’s up?”
“Henry. It’s nearly midnight. I’m dripping wet—”
“What’s this? I’m trying to make a brotherly connection and you act like it’s an obscene phone call.”
I waited. The background roared with the street where my brother was calling from.
“I’m losing my sublet, and I figured—” A siren at close range cut him off.
“Have Mum and Dad rented out your room?”
“Maibelle. They’re convinced I’m a deadbeat as it is.” His next sentence dissolved in a confusion of angry male voices.
“Where are you?”
“Pay phone down the block.”
“Christ, Henry. Come on up. You can crash on the couch tonight. Just tonight.”
Henry is the one member of my family with whom I stayed in touch—albeit erratically—during my odyssey years. He never left
New York. In fact, he lived at home most of the time, designing software on a contract basis for Atari. My mother said, after
all his hands-on practice, he should be producing the crème de la crème of video games, and Henry claimed he was. Just a misunderstood
artist who wasn’t paid his due. Nevertheless, his last Christmas present to my parents was to move into an apartment of his
own. Apparently it wasn’t exactly his own.
“You weren’t staying with another Miss Argentina, were you?” I asked when he’d hauled the last of his bags
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