XX: Birdie

Mr. Hung invited me over for dinner last night. "You should come," he voiced through the phone. So I went. He was drunk by the time I got there. His wife, Birdie, made lasagna.

Brenda Hung. Formerly Walbrandt. Birdie. An old hippy of the Saskatchewan brand: well-read, defensively political, and stubborn. A born New Democrat. But she's cool.

After a conversation-less supper Mr. Hung passed out on the couch with a whiskey bottle, leaving his wife to play hostess. There were several awkward minutes of fork scraping and chair-adjustment until Birdie asked, "D'y'wanna get high?"

Relief. "Okay."

Mr. Hung must've heard, 'cos he half-opened his eyes to mutter, "Yes. Y-you's should git stoooooeee-nd." We were in the kitchen, twenty feet from his perch on the sofa. "Mr. Wilk-ah-son!" he shouted in conclusion, and retreated again behind eyelids.

Birdie laughed.

We lit up.

Fifteen minutes later she confronted me in a serious tone. "What's the last thing you'd want to eat before you die?" she demanded, screwing her forehead in earnest concentration on the word 'die.' As she spoke she waved her fingers, as if conducting the insistent words. "I mean, the last morsel of flavour." She exhaled hard and long.

I laughed, interrupted from my own fancies. "I dunno Birdie. Maybe Milk Toast with egg on top. Or steak with good mushrooms." I thought to myself of the best sandwich I ever had. Clarke made it for me on a freezing cold Boxing Day. Lightly toasted home-made bread with left-over Christmas turkey, fried onions and mushrooms, and eggs. Who knows what else. We ate in his basement, and he took a picture of my first bite.

Birdie offered no response to my comment. She opened her eyes and began focusing on the sleeve of her shirt.

I looked over at Mr. Hung, now snoring quietly. "All my friends drink," I remarked. "I don't know any non-drinkers." It felt like a major revelation, though it isn't remotely true.

"Hey?" Birdie asked, more to the universe than to me.

"All my friends are drunks," I reiterated.

"Yeah.
Oh yeah?
Okay, oh-kay, oooooh-kay.
That's awesome."

I gave up and slipped into the warmth. I like her.

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Afterward I walked to the Trees and fell asleep beneath a swelling, knotty branch, feeling slightly paranoid. I woke at 5am to the feeling of a green caterpillar on my knuckle. Why do I punish myself like this?