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BIRD MAN

T he Past

Grandfather: I never trust a person who doesn’t like animals.

It suggests they have no empathy.

The Present

“I really want to take you to feed the ducks,” Timmy grins. “It’s really fun.”

“Okay! I used to love doing it when I was little. It’s been a while.” I think back to my mother dressing me up in way too many layers, a puffy coat and a woolen hat, and taking leftover white bread down to the creek. We’d throw chunks of it into the water while the ducks quacked, and eventually I’d get a bit overwhelmed as they swarmed around me. It was a fun, innocent memory I hadn’t thought of in years.

But apparently it’s something Timmy hasn’t outgrown, and it’s just another cute and interesting thing about him. He grabs some bread from the convenience store and takes me to a little pond with a fountain over near the beach. As he throws out chunks of white bread, the pigeons come and land all over him. He laughs with delight as they perch on his arms and his head. I laugh, too. I’ve never seen anything like it. I even take a video because the man is literally covered in birds.

The ducks quack and honk from the pond and as they waddle up to his legs.

He’s like this weird bird man, and he laughs with joy as he becomes surrounded by—and covered in—feathered friends.

And I love that he loves animals. He seems to live for them. His joy is palpable when he points out parrots that live in the palm trees, mongooses zooming across the grass, seagulls chilling on the shoreline, koi in the ponds. It’s a beautiful quality, loving animals this way.

And I associate it with trust and empathy. Animals seem to have a sixth sense about people, and every animal I’ve seen has gravitated toward him. Dogs at the beach, these birds. I can’t wait to see what Sabre truly thinks of him when he gets home. I bet they’re going to love each other.

I watch Timmy longboard along the pathway for a bit, and then we return to the truck.

“Wait here,” he says.

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Timmy, I’m not just going to sit in the truck and wait while you go do some mystery thing. Tell me what’s happening. Please.”

He rolls his eyes. “Calm down, Margaux. I’m just going to steal someone else’s registration tags so I can put them on the truck.”

“You’re what now?”

“See? I knew you’d have that reaction.” He rolls his eyes and frowns. “That's why I didn’t want to tell you. But it’s what I’m going to do, and you can’t stop me. ”

I feel sick. I sit in the truck, and I’m shaking. Is he joking? It seems like a very specific thing he’s doing, not a joke. Jesus.

His behavior is starting to make me feel more and more uneasy.

I don’t want to be around someone who does stuff like this.

After about ten minutes, he runs back and does something to the back of the truck, presumably putting a stolen tag on it.

“There. Done.” He’s out of breath, and seems exhilarated by the whole thing.

He speeds us away. “We have to run. If the cops find me, they’ll lock me up for this. It’s a crime, you know. Stealing someone else’s registration.”

“Well yes, Timmy. Theft is a crime.” My heart is racing. I feel like I’ve been sitting in a getaway car waiting for someone to rob a bank. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Neither can I!” says Timmy, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling. “It was amazing!”

“Not the word I would use, but okay.” Reckless, unnecessary, stealing. Those are the words I would use. “Why didn’t you just go and pay for your registration like everyone else, rather than stealing someone else’s?”

“Too expensive,” he shakes his head. Then he grins again. “And nowhere near as fun.”

“You can’t just steal other people’s shit, Timmy. That person’s going to be fucked if the cops notice they don’t have tags. And they did what people are meant to do. Paid for their own registration.”

He grins. “I know. Suckers!”

“No, Timmy. That’s called adulting. You have to pay for this stuff. You can’t just take it from someone else.”

“Not me! Derelict for life!”

My stomach churns. I think this is my first real ick moment with Timmy, although there have been a few other incidents that have left me feeling less than comfortable. I know everything a partner does isn’t going to be pleasing, but I have an ethical problem with theft. And, just the general premise that he thinks it’s okay to take something that someone else worked hard for, just to make his own life easier. Nobody wants to pay for car registration. Literally nobody. And everybody else has other things they’d prefer to spend their money on. But Timmy thinks, for some reason, he gets to take the thing someone else paid for, just because he wants it.

But I push my thoughts back down. I’m making a big deal out of nothing. I’m way too uptight, and I’ve always been considered a goody two-shoes. People probably do this stuff all the time. I wouldn’t, personally, but I’m sure he’s not the only person who’s done it. Right?

Ugh. I don’t fucking know.

There are so many good things about Timmy. If the odd questionable action is all I have to worry about, I just need to calm down. We can work on his ethics over time. It’s going to be fine.

He drives us to the top of a hill where roosters are roaming around in a pack. And the view is incredible, a sprawling panorama looking out over large, fancy houses to the beach. The ocean seems to go on forever, the coast peppered with palm trees and golden sand.

Timmy jumps over the cobbled wall lining the sidewalk and hoses himself off. He pours water into his mouth and blows it at me in a thick spout that falls near my feet, and then he does a ridiculous dance with the hose, a massive grin plastered across his face. I laugh and laugh, feeling lighter, as he puts on his little show just for me.

“Okay, now let’s go over to where I grew up. I want to show you some more of that area.” His eyes are sparkling and he seems excited, and I’m totally fine having my very own cute surfer tour guide.

The moment we crest the hill and the other side of the coast comes into view, I feel a little knot forming in my stomach. The energy has shifted again. It’s only the second time we’ve been over this way, but I can feel the same sort of agitation emanating from Timmy that I experienced the first time when we came to meet up with Steve.

It’s not any one thing that tips me off to how he’s feeling. His words pour out a little faster, his movements get a little more rapid and less intentional. He drives a little faster. And the stories start to flow from him. Things he’s shared before about when he lived with his ex-girlfriend’s family on the beachfront. The time he went up to another friend’s rooftop. Moments he spent at the dirt bike track and driving trucks around in the mud. It’s almost as if these stories are some type of playlist that play on a loop whenever he crests this hill.

He drives us to a lookout with a pretty view of the ocean.

He starts talking to a random guy, and hands him our shared drink. The man is unkempt, clearly on some kind of drug, and his mouth is lined with little drops of spittle.

I’m annoyed. I don’t share drinks with other people, other than my significant other or maybe a close friend. And here Timmy is, handing the can I just bought to some random nasty guy in a parking lot by the beach.

While he continues talking to the strange man, I wander around and notice a bunch of stray cats hanging out at the other end of the parking lot. Preferring their company, I walk over to them and they observe me with a cat’s typical lazy, casual arrogance. I snap a few pictures and eventually make my way back to the vehicle.

Timmy finally returns, and hands me the can. “No thanks,” I say, pushing it away.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“You let that random guy sip out of our can. That’s gross.”

He looks shocked, a scornful smirk playing across his face. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes. I don’t share drinks with strangers. It’s disgusting.”

“Jesus, Margaux. You’re so fucking uptight. And rude. I share things with people. It’s who I am as a person.”

His words are like a slap. He does seem very generous, always offering to help people. And he’s been so generous with me, helping me get my apartment set up, cooking for me. But I’m not going to flick a switch and suddenly get over my fear of germs from strangers.

“Well, I haven’t had Covid yet and there’s a reason for that. It’s who I am as a person. I’m very picky about what I put in my mouth.”

He smirks.

“I know. That’s what she said.” I laugh, and so does he.

But then his expression shifts again .

“There’s nothing wrong with sharing, Margaux. You need to stop being so selfish. The alcohol kills the germs anyway.”

I quirk a brow. “Does it, though?”

He nods, his eyes narrowing. “Yes. And fuck you for complaining. Because I was just talking to him about spray painting his car up like this truck. He might be paying me three hundred and fifty dollars, all because I was nice enough to chat with him for a bit and give him a sip of our drink. But all you want to do is complain about it. So if you’d like me to go back over there and say that sorry, my fiancée doesn’t want me to have anything to do with you and thinks you’re gross, so you can keep your three hundred and fifty dollars, I will. Is that what you want me to do?”

His words make me feel a bit foolish, and I look down. It’s great if he’s able to get some work out of the guy. Maybe I was a bit quick to judge him, even if he was sitting out at a beach park drinking by himself in the middle of the day. And it would be helpful if Timmy could get more jobs like this.

It’s just different from how I would approach a situation, that’s all. He’s right. I’m just too uptight.

We drive a bit further, and stop at his hometown beach. He hops in the water and floats around for a bit while I watch.

Being in the ocean seems to calm him, and when he gets back, I can tell he’s more settled and chilled out. He pulls up to the side of the road on a random side street, and I take another funny video of him dancing with a hose and pretending to threaten to splash me with a huge grin on his face.

He drives up to a parking area behind a nondescript strip mall. There’s a door covered in bright graffiti.

“I’m banned from that bar,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice.

I quirk a brow. “For what?”

“Oh, it was just a misunderstanding. Not a big deal.”

A guy walks past on his way to the graffitied door, and he glances over at the truck, and then at Timmy. He does a double-take. “O’Malley!” He calls out, grinning from ear to ear .

Timmy’s eyes grow wide and he beams. “Hey man! It’s been forever. How are things!”

He comes up to the car and nods at me and smiles. He’s got long, thick dreadlocks and is missing a few of his front teeth. But he seems friendly enough.

Timmy gestures at me. “This is my missus, Margaux,” he grins. “We just got engaged. Margaux, this is Dogfucker!”

His friends have weird nicknames. I have no intention of asking how this guy acquired his.

“Wow, that’s awesome, you guys! Congratulations.” He shakes my hand through the window. “You coming inside?” He gestures his head toward the door.

“Nah, can’t.” Timmy shakes his head. “Still banned.”

“Oh man, that sucks,” the guy lets out a low whistle. “Well, if you want to do a bump, I can bring some out.”

“Thanks man. I’ll let you know,” says Timmy.

“Okay, sweet,” the guy says, and then heads inside.

Timmy looks at me, his eyes sparkling. “Well, should we go get a bump?”

“Can we just go?” I ask, frowning. A knot is wedging itself within my insides. I just have a really icky feeling. No, I don’t want to go and do drugs outside a bar Timmy’s banned from with a random near-toothless man named Dogfucker. I’m starting to get a bad feeling about Timmy and the people he chooses to acquaint himself with. He seems sketchy, not someone I’d ordinarily hang around with. Not trying to be judgmental, but this isn’t how he presented himself to me up until now. Maybe I was missing some signs, and ignoring others, but I feel really out of my element.

Timmy lets out a massive sigh and rolls his eyes, his frustration exaggerated. “Fine, yes. We’ll fucking go because you want to, Margaux.”