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Bird Island, Chapter 4: Mcjob

Patrick Fealey

    Wawp is out here with the DONALDFISH. Bird glides from the lightpost: “DONALDFISH!”
    “With extra tartar sauce. Got it, Bird. Here, you better eat before those seagulls get any ideas.”
    The white ones glide in and settle.
    Wawp puts the fish on the hood of the car.
    The fish is warm and soft and without bones.
    “Eat my mother’s car while your at it, you little bastard. Your first sound was a howl for food. It was one long word that lasted months. Your mouth was a pit. I threw more sardines and fish sticks down that red throat than anyone would believe. Dog food. Crickets. Worms. All you did was eat and shit. Every 20 minutes. You were a punishing infant. I didn’t know what I was getting into the day I nabbed you. You looked so innocent and cute – in an ugly sort of way.”
    “HOT DAWG!”
    “those too.”
    The DONALDFISH is gone.

    A car pulls in beside Wawp and Bird. Humans get out.
    “Lunch break, huh?” It says to Wawp.
    “Yeah.”
    “Your bird?”
    “Cool,” says one of the small humans.
    “Does it bite?” says the other.
    “No, not usually. Unless you’re a fish.”
    “Can I pet him?”
    “That’s up to him. Let’s see.”
    Wawp puts out Wawp’s finger. Bird climbs onto it. Wawp lowers Bird near a small human face and another small human. “It’s okay,” Wawp says.
    The small human raises its hand to Bird and touches Bird’s back. It pulls away. The other small human puts its small hand on Bird’s head and strokes.
    “He’s soft.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Is he yours?”
    “We’re attached. I brought him to work with me, but he’s free. I raised him and he hasn’t left.”
    “His eyes are brown,” says the the small human petting Bird. “No, they’re kinda grey. What’s his name?”
    “Bird.”
    “He’s cool.”
    “He’s disgusting,” says a big human. “C’mon boys. Let’s wash our hands.”
    “But Mom . . .”

    “You’re good with kids, Bird, but I don’t see you attracting many chicks. And the only person you ever bit hard was Steve, my best friend. That was a case of instant dislike. Maybe you were jealous. Or maybe it took me a lot longer to figure out.”
    “BREAK’S OVER!”
    “No it’s not. Shut up.”
    “BREAK’S OVER!”
    “I’ve got like 20 minutes. I say when it’s over. Twenty more whole minutes of freedom from hell. When I look at those golden arches I think of the first rainbow after the apocalypse. You will probably survive that. You’ve been here for tens of millions of years. What a feast the apocalypse will be. The only reason I have this job is Liz. You have to take a girl out. You wouldn’t know because you’re . . . Maybe you are a chick and that’s my problem.”
    “DONALDFISH!”
    “Yeah. When I go back in there, there’ll be a dead and frozen kingdom boiling away in vats of oil. If life is one big food chain, you and I are not doing so bad, Bird. Maybe someday there will be a crow vat and a human vat. Donaldsfish have their own unique beeper sound, a slow, high-pitched pulse. The fries, burgers, nuggets, pies, all of it, they make so much noise it’s almost overwhelming.”
    “DONALDFISH!”
    “You ate yours. Now you’re going to wait three hours for me. I’ll bring you out another one, but you’re going to stay out of trouble. Don’t talk to strangers. I’ll be the guy covered in grease.”
    “DONALDFISH!”
    “You’ve been brainwashed. Why don’t you go catch a real fish?”
    “HOT DAWG!”
    “We don’t have ‘em. I cook 18 hamburgers at a time with the help of a computer. Is that survival? It is mine. Every time I am told to put six burgers down, I have to reply with a ‘thank you.’ ‘Thank you’ is the code the guys at corporate headquarters made up. Whenever a manager tells you to do something, you say, ‘Thank you.’ It lets him know you heard the request and are on it. It’s a verbal confirmation you are kissing ass against your will. The customers hear it and think, ‘What a pleasant place.”
    The humans return to the car. One of the small humans approaches carrying a small bag. It has food.
    “Does he eat french fries?”
    “Yeah. He’ll eat gypsy moths. He’s jumped into flames after a steak. French fries fall within his range.”
    Bird is standing on the car. Bird hops onto its shoulder. The small human laughs. It feeds Bird. Bird bites and shakes and breaks the fries before swallowing. Some fall to the ground. Bird jumps down.
    “Thanks,” Wawp says.
    The humans get inside the car. The small human bends down and touches Bird’s head while Bird is eating.
    “Bye, Bird.”

    “Bird, you have the life. I’m going to go back in there to count pickles. Two per burger, no more, no less. Somebody’s figured it out to the tenth of a cent. But I have confessions. This is my first job and I hate it. I use as many pickles as I want. Sometimes I put three, four, five, even six pickles on one burger. I’m going to cost them millions in the end. Things happen back there you wouldn’t want to know about. Well, maybe you would . . . Sometimes when you are transferring cooked burgers from the grill to the prepared buns, one slips. Nine times out of ten, it lands on the floor. They are slippery with grease and move fast. When a burger hits the red tile floor, you are in a dilemma. It’s lying there in its grease and you’re thinking ‘Fuck.’ Common sense tells you to throw it away, forget about it and cook another one. Cooking another one will take only three minutes. But three minutes? That’s a long time in the fast food business. The manager is up front waiting for six burgers, not five, now. You know if you send up five there will be questions, bitchings, maybe a report. There is one missing. Where is it? At the very least you’ll be punished. He’ll ask you to go sweep the dining room and empty all the trash cans. That’s where you undoubtedly run into everyone you know from high school. So, in the two seconds you have to think about the fallen burger, you weigh the consequences. And then, in a moment of stealth in which you convince yourself the floor is actually clean, and the burger is so greasy it did not actually touch the floor, you bend down and sweep up the burger. You deliver it to its pickles and bun and then you send them all six up together on a tray. ‘Six up!’ Nobody knows the difference and everyone is happy.”
    The car is burning Bird’s feet. Bird flies to Wawp’s shoulder.
    “You understand. We’re getting a new job, Bird, outside. You’ll like it. I want to be a lifeguard. You’ll be closer to the fish and I’ll be closer to the women.”

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