PsittacusA Story by Woody a talking parrot that is too clever for its own good. Today, I’m moving
house. Not only me, but also my wife, my two kids and my wife’s African grey parrot, Eko. I wish
to God they’d stop following me around. I’m standing in the
middle of what will become the living room. It’s huge, as the actress said to
the Bishop. I picture where the couch will be placed, the LCD TV set, the
bookcase, the wet bar, the coffee table and the rest of the knick knack. The landlord
has stepped outside to take a call and my wife is probably drooling on the kitchen
floor, imagining what her domain will look like once it is well equipped. The morning sun is
streaming through the picture window. Beyond the pane, the lawn is impeccably
manicured on either side of the driveway and the gigantic pine tree is reaching
up to a dazzling blue sky. I look around at the
whitewashed walls, mentally placing the various paintings I own, all authentic,
the fencer assured me. Botticelli, Rembrandt, Dali and the piece de resistance
Mona Lisa. My left elbow is
cupped in my right hand and my left hand is absently scratching my cleft chin. “SCRATCH! SCRATCH!” goes the echo. Don’t you hate it when the echo repeats every sound it hears? I do. Just to irk it, I say “Hello!” The echo goes “Hello, hello!” “Bugger off!” I tell it. It dutifully repeats “Bugger off, bugger off!” Irritated, I say “one-two-three-four.” And the echo: “Five-six-seven-eight.” Wiseass! But apart from the
echo, which will be dealt with once the place is filled up, the house looks
perfect to us. We sign the contract then and there and three days later we are
settled in our new home. -------------------------- One evening, we were
sitting side by side on the Ikea (sorry, I need the money) couch like two potatoes.
I had my usual tumbler of Glenfiddich. Neat. I don’t always drink my whiskey neat.
I sometimes drink it without a tie and with my shirt hanging out. My wife was
sipping her usual Gin and Tonic. I keep telling her to get a new one but you
know women. The kids were upstairs tucked up in bed. We were watching a rerun of “The Hangover”. Eko was dozing behind us on its perch. When the commercials
came on, my wife turned to me and said in a hushed voice: “when are you going
to get rid of that stupid bird?” “But I th…” “Shhhhh!” she shushed
me, “I don’t want him to realize we’re plotting against him,” she hissed. “Goodness gracious!”
I shot back, “you’re making it sound like he’s got brains and can unders..” “As a matter of fact,”
she cut me off again,”I do believe he can understand. He’s no normal bird, I
tell you. You don’t have to spend the whole day with him. I do.” “I don’t know, honey,
all I hear him say is good morning Pretty, what a wonderful world or he
sometimes sings jingle bells.” “Darling he scares
me. He doesn’t only say things, he’s an incredible impressionist. It’s uncanny. This
morning, as I was bending down to pick up the glasses, I heard Joe Pesci say:
that’s a nice piece of a*s. I nearly had a heart attack.” I couldn’t help it. I
guffawed. “Honey, sounds like
he can make us rich,” I tell her. “OH, please! The other
day, the minute he saw me, he went: "It’s show time," in Jim Carey’s voice. I
tell you I’ve had enough of his wise cracks.” I decided to humour her and try something myself. Besides I was curious to hear his impersonations. The following morning, I phoned my company and took the day off, then pretended
to go to work, shouting “Bye, honey. I’m off.
See you, Eko.” I left and went round and used
the back door to get in. My wife was waiting for me with her floral skirt. The one
I'd bought her for her 30th birthday. I put on her pink wig and
applied some make up and went to the living room. I started dusting the furniture and arranging things and straightening the paintings that needed no straightening. I was humming under my breath. Eko followed my every move and
ogled me the whole time but said not a word. I was getting tired so I tried to
provoke him. I kept bending down and wriggling my bum at him. Not a sound! I
surreptitiously tugged at the skirt to reveal the top of my crack then bent
down just a couple of feet away from him. It’s then that Al Pacino said: “Get your sorry a*s
outa here! I don’t go for guys.” He scared the s**t
out of me. © 2014 WoodyFeatured Review
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17 Reviews  Last Updated on December 26, 2014 Tags: echo, parrot, moving house, impersonation Author
WoodyMateur, Bizerte, TunisiaAboutok, time for an update I think. my old friends have come to know me pretty well, I trust so this is for the new comers. I'm a Tunisian 60-year-old teacher-cum-translator, book worm who enjoys writing.. more..Writing
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