Thursday, April 19, 2007


I could just see the tip of his foot through the screen door. He was tapping it on the edge of the ottoman, presumably to the beat of his music, and it caused a little squeak out on the porch. The squeak drove parakeets wild, but he didn't hear them squawking up a storm in the parlor. There was something about that squeak of the old boards--the pitch--that made the parakeets go crazy. They slammed up against the bars of their faux Victorian cage like they really wanted to end it all, rattling their little plastic feeder, shaking the bell attached to their miniature vanity mirror that was smudged with their refuse. Standing in the doorway, I quietly asked the parakeets to cut it out, but they paid me no mind. Another option would have been to go through the screen door out onto the porch and politely ask if he wouldn't mind not tapping his foot. Instead I decided to put up with it for a little while longer, figuring someone would stop sooner or later.

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