After my parents divorced, my mom decided that she needed to fill a void in her life. She racked her brain for all of the normal things that make people happy, then scrapped them all and bought a cockatoo.
I’m going to keep referring to the bird as an “it” because we never did figure out if it was male or female. As my grandfather pointed out –
Grandfather: “It could be a CUNTatoo.”
* * *
Cockatoos, if you don’t know, are those large white birds you see in the pet shop, going –
Cockatoo: {crooning} “Dook, dook, dook.”
– and arrive at your home, saying –
Cockatoo: {screaming} “BWAHHH!”
I don’t know if this is a universal cockatoo trait, but our bird would strike an antichrist pose and screech in a way that truly made me believe it was possessed by Mephistopheles.
So, indeed, the bird did fill a void – the void of peaceful household silence.
* * *
My mom wanted to name the bird “Cuddles”; I wanted to name it “Fuck Face.” We compromised on “Martina.”
Martina and I were archenemies from the get-go.
The bird’s predator, I now know, is the snake; so the “sss” or “shh” sound would instinctively set her off. Originally unaware of this, I would take the bird out of her cage and say –
Josh: “Hey Martina. It’s me, Joshhhh.”
Bird: {freaking out} “BWAHHH!” {bites me}
Josh: “Ow. Shhhhit.”
Bird: {freaking out even more} “BWAHHH!” {bites me again, flapping wings.}
Josh: “Mooooom! The bird tried to bite me in the jugular again!”
Martina was also a professional mood killer. When I brought my girlfriend over, the bird would screech the instant I removed the girl’s shirt. It was as if Martina acted as my girlfriend’s conscience, screaming, “No! Stop! Do you really want your first time to be with him?!” It was kind of incredible, actually. We could be in an entirely different room from this bird, but it would somehow know the minute I moved my hand toward my girlfriend’s right boob.
If this didn’t do enough damage to our relationship, I also became intensely jealous of the bird’s life. Not only did it live in an eight-foot tall paradise of a cage, but all it had to do was bang its head against a mirror all day, going –
Bird: “BWAHHH!”
– which I did, too, on a metaphorical level — but I still had to go to school, study, and navigate interpersonal relationships.
The bird even received more attention and affection than I did. At night, I’d ask my mom –
Josh: “So…what’s for dinner?”
Susan: {stirring a pot of food} “Why don’t you warm up a can of Chef Boyardee?”
Josh: “What are you making?”
Susan: “Spinach quiche, fruit salad, and some filet mignon served with Mexican-style chili.”
Josh: “Can I have some of that?”
Susan: “Oh, no. This is for Martina.”
Josh: “Are you pouring her purified water?”
Susan: “Only the best for my baby.”
Josh: “Can I have some?”
Susan: “We’re running low. Just drink from the tap.”
Josh: “Is there any cheese in the refrigerator to place atop my Chef Boyardee this evening?”
Susan: “No, sorry. I used it to make the bird’s four cheese lasagna.”
* * *
Before my sister moved out for college, I was the dumb one in the house; thus, I received less attention. So why was Martina now receiving more attention than I was? Surely I was brighter than a mentally challenged bird.
And I’m not just saying that, by the way. My mom tried to teach Martina phrases, like, “Hello,” “I love you,” and “Josh doesn’t understand my charm,” but the bird couldn’t learn anything. My mom would be like –
Susan: “I love you. Martina? Martina, say, ‘I love you.’”
Bird: “BWAHHH!”
Susan: “No. ‘I love you.’ Can you say, ‘I love you?’”
Bird: “BWAHHH!”
Susan: “Closer.” {OFF Josh’s skeptical look} “Martina, what does B-W-A-H-H-H spell?”
Bird: “BWAHHH!”
Susan: “Perfect.”
My mom also tried to teach the bird to dance, which involved shaking her arm up and down while the bird freaked out –
Susan: “Martina? Dance, Martina. You wanna dance?”
Bird: “BWAHHH!”
Susan: “Did you hear that, Josh? She said, ‘I love you.’”
Josh: {sighs}
My mom acted like she has this telepathic connection with the bird, as if she knew everything it liked — and, not coincidentally, claimed that the bird liked all of the same things she did –
Susan: “You know what music I bet the bird would enjoy? The Titanic soundtrack.”
Josh: “Mom, I really doubt –”
Celine Dion: “Near…far….whereeeeeeever you are…”
Martina: {clearly hating this} “BWAHHH!!!”
Mom: {pleased} “See that?”
Then I hit my breaking point: my mom bought the bird a little tuxedo. It’s bad enough when you see a dog in an argyle sweater, but a tuxedo? I don’t own a tuxedo. Was the bird also attending more social functions than I was?
God knows it kept showing up to every large gathering we had at my house. In the middle of meals, my mom would disappear and return with –
Martina: “BWAHHHH!”
Anyone else at the table: “Jesus, Susan. Put it away.”
Susan: “Martina, you want to dance for everyone? Huh? You wanna dance?”
Martina: “BWAHHHH!”
* * *
As the bird reached its third birthday, I moved away to college. Despite my attempts to fit in there, I had a hard time finding a good group of friends. Additionally, I had difficulty keeping up with the course load I had given myself for the first year. My relationship with my girlfriend was now long distance, and I would spend most of our conversations complaining about how lonely and depressed I felt. She would spend most of our conversations crying, telling me how distant she felt from me and how selfish I was acting over the telephone. Maybe we never loved one another in the first place, we decided. Maybe we just wanted to. It was our first relationship. Maybe we had idealized one another. Maybe we were young. Maybe we were naïve.
I decided to end it. Sometimes when everything else is going wrong, you self-destruct. You think that by hitting rock bottom, you’ll have nowhere to go but up.
It was a low point in my life.
* * *
I drove home one weekend to surprise my mom with a visit. She, too, was doing quite badly. Without many friends her age, and having said goodbye to my sister and I, Martina had become my mother’s primary companion.
As I walked in, I saw my mom sitting on the floor. The bird was next to her, crooning and purring like a cat. Martina was the stupidest living thing I knew, but not stupid enough that it still couldn’t be affectionate.
* * *
Over time, my mom’s job required longer hours, and the bird was left alone in the house. It became depressed, eating away at its feathers, banging its head against the cage like an inmate going insane. When my mom was around in the morning, it would scream –
Martina: “BWAHHH!”
– but these were no longer outbursts for the bird to hear its own voice; these were cries for attention, the kind it was used to receiving, but no longer could.
It was with great regret that my mom finally decided to give Martina to another family. It was a hard sell. People would come to see the bird and my mom would say –
Susan: “This is Martina. She has a beautiful voice and –”
Martina: {screeching} “BWAHHHHHH!!!”
* * *
Months later, I drove home to help my mom hand over Martina to an affable woman with children. My mom knew she had made the right decision, but it didn’t prevent her from crying. She felt that she had failed the bird, that she had somehow wasted its time by not letting it find its proper family sooner.
That night, I went out to a coffee shop. Having grown up in a small town, it was no surprise to find my ex-girlfriend sitting at the table across the way. She was with a new guy. He seemed nice. I was happy for her.
Our home became quiet again, peaceful — but there was an empty space where the bird once lived. Its eight-foot-tall cage had left a dark outline against the white wall. My mom tried to wash it away, but it wouldn’t come off.
My mom didn’t miss the way the bird would lunge at my neck, bang its head against the mirror, or screech in her ear, just as I didn’t miss the way my ex-girlfriend would roll her eyes at my sense of humor, take everything personally, or screech in my ear — but we had both realized something: we were part of the problem, and it was our job to say goodbye so that our loved ones could move on.
It’s just too bad that the outline will always be there.
