An Ode to Ptery the Parakeet

The “P” was silent. And he was a good dude.

My roommate had made some changes to our space and the first thing I clocked was the couch.

It was impossible to miss in our tiny Bushwick apartment, which I’d just walked into on a Friday evening after I’d been sapped of some of my will to live by a long-ass week of late nights and vocational frustration, ready to plop down on my foldable camping chair to catch up on my stories until the wee hours.

But my canvas thrown was folded and off to the side of the living/dining/mud/TV room, as was my roommate’s (we sat in them next to each other like Chandler and Joey’s recliners, but the poor kid version), and in their place was an old beaten-up taupe-colored couch upon which he was sitting, grinning like an idiot.

“Sup dude?” he said, all triumphant-like.

“What’s all this, then?” I said.

He draped his arm over the back of the couch, crossed his legs and said, “Found it on the street this morning. Snagged it before anyone could beat me to it.”

“You got this off the street? Where?”

“Couple blocks down, by the bodega.”

“Which bodega?”

“The one where you can buy loosies when I wanna rip a dart.”

“That doesn’t really narrow it down.”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember the cross streets.”

“Doesn’t matter I guess. Street furniture is street furniture.”

He noddeds. “Pretty sweet, right? Feels like it goes well with the decor.” He motioned toward the replica Leg Lamp from A Christmas Story my mom had sent us back in November that we’d decided to just use year-round instead of purchasing or scavenging for another more appropriate one. It was now May.

“A high-quality item, to be sure.”

He patted the cushion next to him. “Give Margaret a spin.”

“You named the couch?”

“Sure did, bud.”

“The couch that you got from the street.”

“Margaret. I named her that because she can be Marge for short. Marge the Barge, because boy is she a big couch!”

“Okay. Why do you think it — Marge — was on the street?”

“Someone didn’t want her anymore.”

“Or maybe Marge had bed bugs.”

He darted off the couch with a quickness.

“Fuck, I didn’t think about that. We better check.”

“You better check. I’m not coming anywhere near that thing until you do,” I said as I took my backpack into my bedroom, which may have actually been smaller than the one Harry Potter grew up in, and closed the door as if that would help mount a defense against the potential infestation of tiny bugs.

“All clear out here,” he said a few minutes later, and when I came out of my room he was spraying the couch down with Downy Wrinkle Release, for some reason.

“Gonna freshen her up a little bit, and we’re out of Febreze,” he said.

I took a load off on the right side, my favorite side, my unofficially assigned side, with an old-man sigh, and it was pretty comfy — though my barometer for a satisfactory place to sit was admittedly pretty low, given that I’d spent the previous several months sitting in a camping chair for hours on end most nights. It was a little bit damp, which I hoped was attributable to the Downy mist all over it. I didn’t want to consider the other potential causes.

My roommate, Rob, followed suit.

“This does beat the chairs,” I said, “by a rather significant margin.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“Wait, you found this actual blocks away from here?”

“Yeah, by the bodega.”

“How the fuck did you get it back here and up the stairs?”

“Oh so that’s a pretty funny stor — “

He was interrupted by a series of chirps.

His eyes darted to our “kitchen table,” which was a semi-rusty high-top situation Rob had brought home from one of his favorite bars that was shutting down. Apparently he’d just asked if he could have it, the bartender shrugged dismissively and so he had then taken it several stops on the M Train back to our neighborhood. The dude was nothing if not frugal and resourceful.

Upon the table was a cage with a cute little pale blue and yellow bird perched inside of it.

“What is it, lil’ guy?” Rob crooned to this bird. “You hungry?”

He got up and walked over to the table, poured some feed into his hand and held it out by the cage so this bird could nosh if it so chose.

“Rob, what the fuck is that?” I said.

“It’s a bird. A parakeet.”

“Why is it in our apartment?”

“I got him today, too!”

“Are you having some sort of manic episode?”

He paused to think for a second as the bird skittishly started dabbling in the feed he was offering from his palm.

“I don’t think so. I’ve just been stoned all day, but energetic. Productive. Even did some cleaning. Must have gotten sativa from our guy this time around. But if I were having an episode, I probably wouldn’t really know, right?”

“That’s a very fair point.”

“After I got the couch, this place really started to feel kinda cool, like it was coming together, and I thought a good home should have a good pet, but also that we probably shouldn’t have a dog because that’s a lot, and I know you’re allergic to cats. You always try and hang with that one that comes down the fire escape from the fourth floor to your bedroom window and then your eyes look like you’re stoned for days for, like, days.”

“Did you get this bird off the street?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I went to a pet store. You know, the one by the other bodega. The one with the good deals on 40s.”

“Right, for sure. That one.”

I didn’t know which he was referring to, and thought maybe he should start using other landmarks.

“I was gonna get some fish, but tanks are expensive.”

“Gotcha. So this bird lives here now?”

“I guess. Don’t think he’ll pay rent. But yeah. Dude at the store said parakeets were cool because they were low maintenance and generally pretty chill, but that you could form a bond with them where they perch on your shoulder and stuff. Just gotta give him some time. Probably needs to get acclimated.”

I’d yet to even attempt to keep a plant alive for any extended amount of time, but I figured a bird wouldn’t be all that tough. And since Rob had (I think?) purchased him, he was the actual guardian or whatever, and I blindly assumed he would be the main caregiver. So I wasn’t at all opposed to this bird living with us. It was exciting, even. My makeshift Brooklyn family had grown, and I was excited to welcome a new member who could double as a sort of mascot for our personal brands.

“So it’s a him?”

“He’s a him. I think.”

“How do you know?”

“Just a vibe.”

“So you don’t, really?”

“Yeah, no, not really. Why? Does that bother you?”

“The gender of our new friend does not make a difference to me one literal iota.”

“Cool. Not like it matters anyway. I don’t think parakeets lay eggs or anything.”

“All birds lay eggs, dude.”

“Get outta here.”

“True story. Well, female birds, anyway. Google it.”

“So if he lays eggs then we’ll know he’s not a he.”

“Precisely.”

“How often does that happen?”

“I don’t know, man. You’re the one who got the fucking bird. You figure it out. Also, what is his name?”

“I thought we weren’t sure if he was a him.”

“Their name?”

“Haven’t given him one yet.”

“Them one yet.”

“Shit. Right. Sorry. But yeah, I don’t know. He looks kind of like a Bertram but I’m not really sold on that.”

“They look like a — “

“Goddamnit.”

“Wait, so you named a couch before you named an actual living being?”

“Oh, come on. Fuck you if you can say to me to my face, with sincerity, that that couch doesn’t look exactly like a Margaret.”

I honestly could not.

“When you’re right, you’re right.”

“The bird isn’t as easy, though. Doesn’t look like, say, a ‘Frank’ or something, you know?”

“Probably because the bird contains multitudes. And yeah, definitely not a Frank. I agree.”

“I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“Burning a lot of brain cells, huh?”

“It’s like I’m trying too hard. I just have to let it come to me.”

“I have an idea.”

“A name idea?”

“Ptery.”

“Terry?”

“Ptery.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Terry.”

“I’m saying it with a ‘P’ in front, but the ‘P’ is silent.”

“What?”

“Ptery, like Terry, but short for Pterodactyl. Which was, like, bird adjacent. The P is silent.”

“Unless it splashes in the bowl.”

“What?”

“Think about it for a sec.”

“Ha. That’s actually a great dad joke.”

“I have my moments.”

“I like Ptery, though. For real.”

“It is unisex.”

“Oh yeah. Nice. Hadn’t thought about that.”

“Ptery it is,” he said and looked adoringly at the bird, who was still enjoying the feed-from-the-hand situation. “I love him already.”

“He does seem like a cool bird. Anyway. Want to play some FIFA?”

“Sure. I’m down for a couple games. Then you wanna watch Definitely, Maybe again?”

“I have, somewhat sadly, no place to be. Lemme change into my nightlies.”

By the time I had done my costume swap, Rob had gone through a Google search on the topic of how to discern a parakeet’s gender. Something to do with beak color or some shit that I didn’t really care about, and he was confident that he was in fact a him. I took his word for it. Then the three of us, like the proud males we were, settled in for a viewing of one of the most underrated romantic comedies of all time.

We did our best to welcome Ptery warmly, treating him more as a roommate and friend than a pet that Rob I guess technically owned, if you want to get semantical about it. (Who rescued who, though?) This adorable little bird quickly ingratiated himself and his companionship brought us plenty of entertainment and joy. We’d watch him do the simplest things and be totally enamored with them. He fit in well with our home dynamic, which was always congenial and very easy-going, as Rob and I had been best friends since we’d met in college, during which we’d already lived together for a summer before reuniting as chums who shared the same domicile when I made the move to Brooklyn a couple years after graduation. The only time either of us ever really irked each other was when I would leave the refrigerator door open for more than two seconds at a time, because, according to Rob, it would let the cold out and jack up our electric bill. Soon as I realized this was something that rubbed Rob the wrong way, I made a point of doing it just to mess with him, kind of like how I would always put the TV volume on an even number and watch him squirm until he finally gave in and switched it to an odd one.

The bird had a pretty solid thing going, I think. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that he now lived in a building that almost definitely should have been condemned, and likely has been by now. I was worried he’d feel a little out of place or even lonely, given that he’d been separated from his pals at the pet store (if indeed he had any), but he seemed jovial enough being the only avian creature occupying the compound.

As the irresponsible and mostly ambivalent young adults we were, we quickly became pretty lax when it came to keeping Ptery in his cage, allowing him to really freely explore the railroad-style apartment space. Which was fun and fine, except for the fact that the dude could and would shit with wild abandon all over the place. But Rob made sure he kept things clean-ish. The only time we’d really relegate him to his cage was if neither of us were going to be home, or it was bedtime for bonzos. The rats came out at night, rats larger than you’ve ever seen, probably, and we wanted to protect him in case a turf war of some sort broke out.

Before long, he settled in and seemed more than comfortable with his two human comrades. Also generally pretty social. He’d perch on your pointer finger and let you tell him about your day without too much flack or judgment aside from the occasional inquisitive chirp. Sometimes he’d set up shop on your shoulder, like a parrot to a pirate, or even atop your head — which presented some nice photo opportunities but was also kind of a roll of the dice, as you knew he was liable to shit right on your balding crown at any moment. Like Rob and I, he was also a big pop culture and media guy. He’d hang out on the coffee table while we watched shows or movies or played video games. But his absolute favorite place, it seemed, was the ceiling fan. He’d spend hours up there, flying around a little bit every now and then before returning. Sometimes, we’d turn the fan on low and he’d spin around for a while, just enjoying the ride.

The three of us had an excellent run, but as they say, nothing gold can stay.

Toward the end of our lease, Rob decided it was time he make his exit from our dilapidated domain to share a home with the woman he had been dating, and I chose to stay if I could find another roommate. (I have extreme inertia, or laziness, when it comes to moving, unless it’s to another city.). A college friend of ours happened to be moving to town for work, and the timing worked out perfectly, so she took his room. And I began fielding questions from my grandma, who was having a very difficult time wrapping her head around the concept of my living with a woman I was not only not married to, but strictly platonic with.

I’d assumed Rob would take Ptery with him, but his girlfriend was vehemently opposed to this, for some reason. (Talk about a red flag.) In hushed tones, we discussed what would become of Ptery, and I told him I’d gladly keep him around — that he could come visit anytime he liked.

We broke the news to Ptery one night while he was hanging out on the fan, looking down at us.

“So, I’m not going to be living here anymore, little guy,” Rob said. Ptery responded with what I believe was a bit of a despondent chirp. “But you’re going to stay here, with Scott.”

Ptery paced back and forth on his chosen ceiling fan, digesting the information.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Ptery,” he assured him. “I just have to go, and I can’t take you with me.”

“Yeah, he chose a woman over you, basically,” I said, feeling that Ptery deserved at least enough respect to have it shot to him straight, no chaser. Didn’t need to sugar-coat it for my guy. “She’s apparently not a fan of birds — but don’t take that personally. I’m not sure she’s a fan of most humans, either. Or fun, joy, fulfillment, video games, the film Definitely, Maybe, etcetera.”

“Whoa, man,” Rob said. “Comin’ in a little hot there.”

“I said what I said.”

Ptery chirped.

“Our friend Sam is going to be staying with us soon. You remember Sam? She’s good people,” I said.

Ptery chirped again and fluttered his wings.

Rob left and Sam came. Ptery and I continued to flourish. Until Sam admitted that she was more than a little bit grossed out by Ptery’s penchant to poop all over the apartment. Which was, of course, more than reasonable. Initially, she was completely opposed to keeping him around at all. We’d both assumed that Rob would take Ptery with him as he embarked on an adventure that was likely to conclude with him having his first ex-wife.

So, without telling Ptery, I wrote up a craigslist ad offering him up gratis to a good home — hopefully one with fellow parakeets around so he could kick it with his brethren. I got, unexpectedly, like, 30 responses from people who were interested, and I started to wonder how I’d go about finding the right fit.

But then I came home one night to find him perched on Sam’s shoulder. She was cooing to him, having a real deep conversation about something. Could have been they were plotting how to eradicate our unit of rats.

“I guess he can stay,” she said. “But he can’t just fly around willy-nilly all the time. He needs to be in a cage — and we should probably get him a better one.”

This was fair, as Rob has come home very drunk one night and fallen into the kitchen table, mangling Ptery’s cage something fierce. (Luckily, Ptery was on the ceiling fan at the time his home within our home was decimated.) He’d managed to gnarl it in a way that it now had several bent spots that Ptery could wiggle his way through, and he never stayed in there of his own accord.

I deleted the craigslist post and ghosted the people who had emailed me to inquire about Ptery. Then I went on Amazon dot com, seller of books and other things, and found Ptery a brand new cage that emulated the design of a Brooklyn brownstone and cost more than a bird cage should reasonably set you back.

“Nothing but the best for my little man,” I muttered to myself as I added it to the cart.

Unfortunately, Ptery did not take kindly or all that well at all to his newly assigned digs.

He’d had many tastes of sweet, sweet freedom, and it tuned out he was a bird you cannot change.

I assume that to him, the brownstone felt something like a prison. Sometimes it goes that way.

His irritation and disgruntlement were not difficult to detect. He seemed to spend most of his time trying to figure out ways to get out of the cage and back to his beloved ceiling fan. Sometimes, when Sam wasn’t around, I’d let him out for a while, just like the olden days. This was probably not the best move if we were attempting to acclimate him to his space, because it gave him hope that things would return to the simpler times he seemed to love so much, but I couldn’t stand seeing him locked up and so forlorn about it.

Then, one Friday evening when I returned to the apartment after I’d been sapped of some of my will to live by a long-ass week of late nights and vocational frustration, ready to plop down on our street couch to catch up on my stories until the wee hours, I found Sam in distress.

She’d come home to Ptery repeatedly butting up against the caged walls in which he was restricted, attempting with desperation to get out for a fly-about. He’d fly from the top of the cage straight into its side, like he was going to plow through it like the Kool-Aid Man. It was giving Kamikaze a little bit. There was no way to know how long he had been at this, but it was apparent that he had sustained some damage doing so, and had fully bought into the concept of “Live free or die.”

Not knowing what to do, Sam had let him out, but he was in really bad shape, shuffling around back and forth on the coffee table as if he were drunk. I offered him my finger and he managed to hop on. But he soon wavered and fell into my palm where he lied sideways, breathing faintly and gazing deeply into my soul.

Several moments later, a time that felt like years, Ptery died in my hand.

Sam and I both wept heavily.

Then I took him outside, where I buried him in the backyard of our building, using a garden shovel to dig up a spot for his final resting place.

Now I think of him every time I hear the song “Free Bird.”

He, in his own way, brought joy into my life for a short amount of time. That’s not something I’ll ever forget. And I’ll always miss him.