Yesterday I realized that the one gloomy day of the year had arrived when I could briefly “celebrate” another year of existence. 42 years of it, to be exact. To honor this achievement, I sat in my sparsely furnished loft eating a bland microwave dinner and chatted with Bubba, a ridiculous parrot that I got conned into taking care of. He originally belonged to Edna, the ancient lady living in the loft above me who seemed to be flying with the fairies.  Although nice enough, she would talk your ear off about nonsense if you let her. About a year ago I found her wandering the hallway outside my loft dragging Bubba and his cage around. I kept hearing bits and pieces of sentences outside my door. I cracked it open a tad. There she was, her frizzy white hair floating behind her and a dusty grey robe shrouding her pale skin. She looked rather ghost-like.

“Talk about peanut butter, that’s no good. They should have never left me with that nutty buddy peanut butter,” Edna was muttering.

“NOT THE PEANUT BUTTER!” squawked Bubba.

Edna started to turn right at the end of the hall, then paused, as if her feet didn’t know which way they wanted. After a hesitant shuffle she made a one-eighty to the left and headed back my way. I was just shutting the door when I heard, “ Craig Wilder!” in a raspy voice. I looked up and down a bit and answered quite sincerely,” Yes, Satan.” That same voice called out a little louder,“ Craig Wilder, just you wait a second.” That’s when I noticed Edna with a stretched out arm pointing her boney finger at me, and holding the cage in the other close to her fragile body.

Rats. I did my best impression of a smile and it seemed like days…weeks… passed before she finally reached my door. I think I must have fallen asleep halfway through. “I’ve got your birthday gift for you!” Her eyes crinkled with delight as she handed me the cage. “ Here you are. Enjoy!”

“Oh no, no, NO! I couldn’t possibly take your bird, Edna.” I gently pressed the cage back toward her.

“It’s not up to you! And it’s not up to me. My little green-feathered friend told me you’re the chosen one!” Her eyes danced with excitement.

“CHOSEN ONE! CHOSEN ONE!” Bubba cried out, and swiveled his head sharply, his black beady eyes peering at me with great interest.

“You two will get along great! It’s not healthy to be alone all the time,” she chided. “Besides, I just got a cat and he’s ready to have Bubba here for lunch. So, this is final. Happy Birthday, Craig.” With strength never before seen in an old woman, she shoved the cage into my arms and hobbled off.

Jinkees. I sighed. How was I supposed to get any writing done with this loud-beaked barbarian? And so it was that I began going up to the roof with my laptop. Or sometimes just a notebook. Come rain, come shine, you’d always find me up there.

Fast-forward about a year later to yesterday. There I was, 42 years behind me and I’m sitting there eating my dinner with Bubba. I had actually grown to like the bird and his antics. Sometimes I’d let him out of his cage and he’d sit on my shoulder. He seemed to prefer the shoulder with the tattoo on it. Ugh, the tattoo.

Right now Bubba was perched on his little swing inside the cage, preening his feathers.

“Enough of this microwaved rubbish,” I said to him, and got up to toss the remaining lumpy, flavorless mass in the bin. “I’m going up to the roof to write, I’ll be back in a while.”

“PARTY TIME! EXCELLENT!” Bubba shouted, and began bobbing his head up and down. It was a phrase I had taught him to associate with the word “roof” so he could misbehave while I was away…not that he would inside of his cage.

As soon as I opened my front door and stepped out, I wish I wouldn’t have. It was just terrible timing. There she was, also exiting her loft at the same time. No, not Edna – she lives upstairs – I’m talking about Nancy. That goody two shoes Nancy Parker.

Catch me next week – Craig Wilder