The Chronicles of Edgar
As told by Terry Walstrom
Cue the Edgar Origins story ...
__________
I broke off a piece of multigrain bread from my sandwich and tossed it toward the little scavenger.
Every frickin’ day thereafter he appears demanding (like a sleazy Hollywood agent) 10% of my snacks.
The mafia could learn from this Crow.
I pay up or else the relentless bedeviling mischief commences without letup.
I asked myself, "What would a gratuitous Socialist do?”
The answer: UBI: Universal Bird Income.
For the record: I am quite fond of birds. Let’s get that out of the way.
Cardinals make cheery sounds.
A Robin signals Springtime.
And so on.
I’m only human and some birds simply do not find a “nest” in my heart’s affection.
Am I stalling or will I come right out and say it?
CROWS are the exception!
I don't get along (specifically) with one Crow in particular. I’ve named him Edgar.
Sorry to ALL the rest of the crow families around planet Earth.
I can’t help myself. He’s ruined it for me.
After all, when I'm minding my own business riding my bike, Edgar tends to shadow me.
Edgar paces me as I peddle.
Yes - right alongside he flies at the same speed.
As he flaps he glances over with an unsettling gleam in those creepy yellow eyes.
But -
To offer you a fair sampling of his customary behavior I offer the following evidence.
On more than one occasion he ruined the bicycle seat cover in a fit of pique (I had no cashews that day.)
Amazingly, he’s used his beak to let the air out of my tires. (If you saw it happen you still wouldn’t believe it.
Sure he’s stolen my muffins (and even managed to hide my iPhone once) - but - that’s small potatoes (as they say) compared to the Con he runs on me.
I’ve learned to prepare a Crow feast even Chef Gordon Ramsey would approve.
CASHEW is top of the charts; number one with a bullet on Edgar’s Hit Parade.
_________________________________________________
The Edgar Chronicles continues . . .
What happens if I run out of whole-grain bread?
How dare I leave the house with No lunch planned for Edgar!
He’ll rely on his panhandling skills and luck.
If I fail him, the innocent bystanders will become easily acquired targets of his grift.
I bicycle to Starbucks (my customary go-to when I want to write).
A typical scenario now ensues…
There was this one day when Edgar brought with him a guest.
An injured crow with its foot hanging limp at the end of its right leg!
If you could imagine a bird on a tiny pogo stick you'd have a pretty good idea what this creature looks like bobbing and bouncing and favoring its left leg.
Naturally, guilt consumed me and I had to give up my oatmeal cookies.
I’ll name her Lenore.
Lenore is famished, judging by the crazed enthusiasm she displayed at the bits and pieces of cookie.
Suspiciously, five minutes after her arrival, there he was--Edgar the freeloader!
The two gangsters pretended not to know each other but they aren't fooling me.
I figure Edgar wasn't taking any chances on my charity today so he contrived to send the most pathetic-looking fowl he could convince to hobble onto the patio in my plain view.
From the opposite direction, Lenore returns puzzled and disoriented--where the heck did the free food go? So, I reach for the cookie in my backpack and break off about one beak full of scrumptious cookies and toss it her way.
It bounces off the edge of a nearby table and plonks to the side.
Before you can shout, 'Bob's yer Uncle!' A rambunctious little sparrow zips over lickety-split and snatches the cookie!
Lenore is not a conscientious objector!
This shall not stand. Her pathetic rubbery right foot prevents her from running over to the little crumb snatcher and demanding redress of grievances.
The sparrow pirate dashed away, up and over and around to a tree out of reach.
Lenore turns and gives me the standard stinkeye.
"Are you just going to sit there and let this happen?"
I offer a shrug. As my good friend, Alfred E. Newman says, "What--me worry?"
I find myself speaking to Ms. Crow as any madman would in these circumstances.
"Ya snooze, ya lose!"
Lenore struts about like a feathered version of Charlie Chaplin's Little Tramp with an expression of,
"Why would the old man at the table allow a crippled creature to starve?"
Okay. I get the hint.
I toss a Frito aloft over the table just as the door swings open again.
Bad timing. Rotten luck. I don't have to tell you what happens next.
Score: Sparrow 2, Lenore 0
Suddenly, out of the blue of the Western sky, a black blur plummets like a Stuka dive bomber at Dunkirk. Instead of the death rattle of 50-caliber machine guns, I hear the staccato
"Caw Caw Caw!"
Not only does the sparrow get the hell out of Dodge, but the precious morsel of ill-gotten gain also gets left behind, like a lone sinner having missed the rapture.
Edgar, the feathery Spitfire, holsters his weapons and scoops up the Frito, a swaggering John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Then, this regal Lancelot drops it on the sidewalk in front of his Lady Guinevere.
"Hey, you two get a room, okay?"
Bonnie and Clyde might be reincarnated.
___________
But then - there is Archie!
___________________________________
Archie
Archie is a sparrow version of Gangsta Edgar.
For a little guy, he pushes his weight around; all 6 oz.
The boodle he's boosted would land him in Leavenworth for five years with no time off for good behavior.
(Ain't no bird cops around to bust him.)
____VICTIMS____
Two ladies sit outside at a table with fancy schmancy drinks, (whipped cream and frilly colors) then a paper sleeve from a straw blows off their table to the patio.
Quicker than Mandrake's hypnotic gesture, Archie lands on her table as she stoops to catch the litter, and he nabs half a dozen crumbs from her muffin.
Mind you, her friend is sitting right there going, "Oh-oh-oh look Doris--look!" gesturing like an Italian fishmonger--but Archie gives not a care.
Quick in--quick out--grab the loot and scoot!
I thought sparrows would be a bit more reserved.
Perhaps only the English sparrows with all their pomp and boarding school. Suffice to say, Archie, if he were human, would have Tats of a dead cat on his biceps and would wear his pants low with his tidy whities showin'.
______
. Being of a curious nature, I sit and observe steadily for ten minutes.
Funny what you discover if you simply stop and observe.
All these stores, restaurants, fast food places dump recycling and trash bags in bins out back. Birds take turns. In they go, make a hole in a bag, find a tossed Dr.Pepper cup with sugary fizz water--and out they come ripped on caffeine and a sugar high like little crack addicts!
No wonder Archie is a criminal, he's zonked on meth!
(Breaking Bird.)
_________
____________
Murder of Crows
___________
Puffy grey clouds have mushed together into lumpy, weightless gravy hanging above the Starbucks patio. Today is more pleasant than usual.
One of those Motor Coaches from a nearby Retirement Center chugged into the driveway about half an hour ago. “Motor Coach” is a frilly term for a kind of tour bus filled with blue-haired Seniors; all women.
Obviously, no sane man would board such a vehicle and take the daunting ride. Not more than once.
I’m sitting 30 yards away and I can hear the crackle of timeworn voices: complaining.
After the door hissed open, a non-stop cascade of complaints rose into the morning air like the smell of old tires burning.
It would take a dead person about 45 seconds to cross the driveway to the entrance of Starbucks. These elderly citizens of a lost, ancient civilization, required at least 10 minutes of wandering, drifting, and chaos.
Go figure.
There are two dozen Seniors and 7 of them elect to sit outside, dear God, 10 feet away from my table. The others fight over what they’ll get to drink while disappearing inside. I don’t dare glance over at them. I reckoned, if I remain stock still, not breathing, they won’t . . .
“IS THERE A WAITRESS?”
The query is aimed at the invisible bullseye on my forehead.
Why me, Lord? Why, why, why?
“This is your first trip to Starbucks, I’m guessing.”
“How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. There is no waitress. The Barista inside will take your order--and your money.”
“What does that mean?”
“What does what mean?”
“You said something about a blister.”
“No--I said Barista.
Buh. Riss. Tuh. It is a fancy word for the person who creates the beverage you order.”
“Creates? What does that mean?”
“Prepares your order of coffee. . .”
“Oh, I don’t want coffee!”
“Never mind …the PERSON who prepares your drink is called a Barista.”
It went on like that.
I knew I was doomed to inconsequential banter no matter how I wiggled.
These ladies were bored to death with each other. They needed a fresh victim to slowly torture for amusement. Sort of like Emperor Caligula.
And then--along comes Edgar!
Game changer.
The blue-haired, magnificent 7 take one glance at him then pounce on the topic of blackbirds, starlings, ravens, rooks, and crows.
Thank you, Edgar. I think I’ve escaped their clutches. Right?
Wrong.
_________
I made certain I had at least 2 kinds of crow dainties to offer the winged-extortionist today.
No way I’d risk reprisals.
I am chastened and well-trained. I know my place in God’s order of things.
I have but one purpose on this Earth: to serve the needs and whims of my Crow Master.
I flipped a Frito toward Edgar.
He stood impatiently between my table and the 7 Seniors.
My toss was not perfectly calibrated, however. The errant chip landed much too close to one of the blue-coiffed Biddies.
She leaned down and snatched it off the concrete with amazing agility a half-second before the bird beak could snap shut.
I said to my secret self: “Oh dear Lord Jesus--deliver us in our hour of need.”
Have you ever seen the movie, THERE SHALL BE BLOOD?
The leader of the girl gang suddenly erupted with an admonishing shout:
“Never feed a crow! You’ll never get rid of it for the rest of your life!”
I don’t know which was worse, her words, or the look Edgar gave me--blaming me for this soul-crushing, unforgivable loss.
The lady chip-snatcher was directing her admonition directly at me, of course. As if cued by an offstage Director, the chanteuse began lamenting her odd tale quite theatrically.
_______
(Here is her chilling tale of feathery malice and misadventure)
“I grew up in Iowa and my family and townsfolk learned the hard truth about crows.”
(What was I supposed to do now? I was poised with another chip in my hand. Edgar scrutinized my inaction like the judges at the Nuremberg tribunal. Who knows what fate hung in the balance?)
“Ma’am, I’ve been feeding this crow for over a week. In fact, I named him already. Heh-heh-heh.”
A look of dawning horror flushed the otherwise pale face of Lady Crow Hater.
The other Seniors at the table started in, peppering their companion with questions. This ridiculous topic was fresh meat! The piranhas circled for the feast. But first--the fable!
_____
“I grew up in a farming community in Boise, Idaho.” she began, “One year, thousands and thousands of crows passed through our town. It was sudden. Why now? Everybody wanted to know. Turns out one of the local children had been feeding a lone crow. Just one crow. Where’s the harm in that? Well, she made the same mistake you made. (Pointing at me with a craggy finger of doom). She gave it some corn. And each day, for a week, the bird returned for more. Then the crow stopped coming. That was that. Except--obviously--it wasn’t! There were now nearly half a million of the horrible, chattering demons filling the trees and bushes all over the city!”
(Unbelievably, Edgar hadn’t budged. It was as though he too was interested in this ominous crow fable unraveling in such dramatic overtones, from the mouth of the klepto-Frito dame with the blue hair and hot red lipstick.)
“Farmers were roused with alarm at the sight of all those hungry creatures. They knew all too well the devastation which lay ahead. A hasty town hall meeting was arranged by the Mayor. Open Season was declared. A small bounty was placed on the crows. Two bits each, 4 dead crows brought a dollar. The menfolk that night pulled their rifles and shotgun down off the mantle for cleaning and loading.”
(I cringed in anticipation of where this story was heading. Should Edgar be exposed to such a violent story? I certainly didn’t want to hear it--why would he? I stood and walked toward the crow, to shoo him. Damn if he didn’t give me a boisterous, “Caw!” He wouldn’t budge!)
The tale continued to unwind.
“One of the local farmers carried a rifle in the back of his pickup truck. Straightaway, after the Town hall meeting, he marched to his Chevy and jerked the gun off the rack, and took aim at one of the blackbirds on top of the flagpole in front of the courthouse. You could hear the ‘bang’ all over town.
Here’s the spooky part.
Until that rifle was fired, there was a constant background of bird chatter and ‘cawing’ so loud and ever-present, we had stopped being conscious of it. It was just like living next to a waterfall--eventually, nobody noticed any longer. With the gunfire, however, a weird silence descended like a black curtain.”
Townsfolk were drawn by the rifle shot out of the storefronts, barbershops, and parlors. What did we all see? Farmer Hutchins--standing there next to the flagpole--holding a dead crow, hanging upside down by it’s leg in his hand; he had a big old grin on his red face. He said, ‘The Mayor owes me a quarter!’ Everybody clapped. That was pretty funny. At least, for a few hours.”
(As soon as Our Lady of Perpetual Chatter uttered the lamentable words, “Dead Crow”, Edgar gave a hop and a half--Zoom! Gone in a feathery flash. Well, thank goodness for small blessings.Or I so innocently thought.)
“Next morning, there were a couple of hundred men wandering all over the place wearing favorite deer season hunting gear; top to bottom: red plaid shirts, duck hunter vests, waders, ammo belts crisscrossing their chests like Pancho Villa. By sundown, they wandered back into town empty-handed. Nobody had seen or shot anything but squirrels and rabbits--and only those out of frustration and having their blood up for a kill. None of us could believe such dumb luck. The crows had gone--all half million of them. The sight of one assassination had been enough to get the message across.”
(One of the other ladies wasn’t satisfied. She frowned and pouted.)
“Why did you say this was a ‘Spooky’ story? There wasn’t anything the slightest bit weird. Crows are smart. Why would they remain in town and get shot?”
The first lady snorted indignantly.
“Well, Viola--I wasn’t finished--do you mind?”
I glanced around behind me and in the trees and bushes for any sign of Edgar. Nope..
“All that commotion took place on a Friday and Saturday. Come Sunday evening, Farmer Hutchins had not returned from his favorite fishing hole down at the creek. He wasn’t the sort of man to stay out past sundown. His wife grew frantic. The next morning, his brother set out for the fishing hole and wasted no time climbing down the hill toward the creek. There he found him. Hutchins was dead.”
Of course, the storyteller had stopped.
This is what tellers of tall tales are experts at doing.
At just the right moment--they stop and allow the listeners to clamor and beg for details.
It’s some sort of satisfying ego move--a finesse, I guess you’d say.
This chatty lady knew her audience. She paused and immediately 6 blue-hairs cackled and begged like hounds with a sniff of dinner at a kitchen screen door. When the last, “Tell us what happened” had rung silent, she nodded and smiled satisfied with herself.
“Hutchins bled out. A leaf with a serrated edge was stuck inside his neck-- a sliced wound--directly across his carotid artery. A LEAF! There was no knife. There was no jagged lid of a Pork-n-Beans can, or anything like what you might expect. It was the craziest thing anybody--including the Sheriff and Coroner had ever seen. The Medical Examiner was summoned from the big city nearby. He couldn’t explain it.
He said it only took 15 seconds to die. There was no reason to suspect anything but a freak accident--which, of course--nobody could explain.
Then, a little fellow named Morris, the town’s Taxidermist, spoke up. He spotted something that completely aroused his curiosity, making the hairs on his arms stand up.
Another pause. She was milking this for all it was worth.
“Morris asked why there were bloody crow tracks on Farmer Hutchin’s shirt. Nobody else had caught it. There was blood and you better believe stomachs were turned that morning. But, Morris knew all sorts of things about wild creatures.
For instance? He knew Crow tracks.”
The door to the front of Starbucks burst open and the entire herd of grumbling Seniors poured out like geese, squawking and complaining exactly the same as when they’d entered earlier.
None of the inside group wanted to sit outside. The outside group hadn’t even received one sip of a drink because they hadn’t ordered. The two groups switched places.
Half an hour later, it was time for the carnival of old souls to pull up stakes and scoot back to the Twilight Zone of Retirement Living.
That’s exactly what should have happened.
It didn’t.
The Motor Coach filled with a dozen darlings--including one Frito thief--discovered something which delayed them in the parking lot for a while.
A flat tire.
Hmmm.
I had a tire like that yesterday.
Right, Edgar?
_____________
THE TREAD of the SKULKING CROW
What's that I spy with my little eye? Tail feathers jutting from behind the trash receptacle! What are the chances of having an entire crow attached?
I'd say bloody inevitable--ah yes!
There's His Majesty Edgar the Great now. Oh my, he's strutting about like Lord Muck fancying imaginary morsels between the shoes and flip-flops of the disparate crowd outside on the patio at Starbucks.
It isn't lost on me how much Show Biz pantomime fuels this performance. He simply must be the center of attention. What layabout ragamuffin ever went about in public without a cup in hand and a riveting tale of woe?
I'm ready for the coal black beggar. I've packed whole wheat heels from the bung end of a loaf, as well as Cheerios in a sandwich bag.
Like a mortar on Pork Chop Hill, I've locked and loaded my salvo. Alas, no--I'll switch to a couple of Cheerios instead.
He's wearing that sneaky expression and rolling his starboard yellow eye at me--knowing clairvoyantly what my next action must entail.
FIRE ONE!
Two Cheerios soar violently toward the quarry with uncanny accuracy--as inevitable as Boom follow Ka. At the last possible millisecond, this spry scavenger twerks his feathered booty j-u-s-t enough to avoid a direct hit!
SCORE:
Edgar= 2 Cheerios
Me = 0
This Crow of crows runs a field pattern right to left and around like a Dallas Cowboy receiver at the Super Bowl into the bushes, out of range and well into the thicket of his hidey-hole treasure trove.
By my reckoning, he'll stay hidden for less than three minutes.
Before you can cry "Jack-o-Napes!" he's out and about again, circling a table with three men and a lady--most likely praying for the cookies flashing about to shed tender crumbs.
I've concealed a whopping Howitzer shell sized dollop of wheat bread rolled and compacted for aerodynamic stability and momentum. The strategic goal of our game is this. I feed the brigand--but--for sport, I bean him when I can. Everybody wins!
The cookies at the yon table are waved about between bites, yet there is careful conservation of crumbs frustrating our anti-hero no end.
Any second now he'll turn his back. . . and. . .then. . . I'll. . . take careful. . .aim . . .and . . .
FIRE!
The mighty pellet of doom whizzes toward the hapless crow's noggin with frightening velocity until----bloody hell! Edgar jerks to the side with preternatural sentience and agility of frame. The ambush dies aborning as the feathered musketeer bounds away with a beak strained to maximum carrying the yummy orb to his stealthy cache.
SCORE:
Crow= 3
Me = zip
I'm relying upon--when all is said and done, the brilliance of Plan B, which Rommel himself would undoubtedly envy and approve. Generals are destined for greatness on the battlefield when they are masters of terrain and tactics come what may!
I've placed a spare slice of whole wheat atop my Coffee of the Day and arrayed a handful of Cheerios along the edge of the table at which I'm sitting. Depending on the angle of his approach, Edgar will either find himself facing a surprise "Blap!" of Mrs. Baird's Whole Wheat loaf. . . or. . . a shotgun array of Honey Nut Cheerio scattershot zeros from which there is no escape possible!
Straight away, Lenore lands in front of me with all the grace of a drunken gardener dropping a wheelbarrow. Plop.
She's thud-boom thud-booming like Long John Silver in clueless surveillance--expecting food, like manna, to fall from heaven. That's my cue to play deity.
However--
In the split second of my inattention--having been distracted by the peg-legged Lenore--the swift sword of Damocles descends from above with blinding speed both snatching away the entire slice of wheat bread, as well as toppling my tall Coffee of the day into my lap spilling just enough to make me appear incontinent!
"You bloody Bugger!"
Final Score?
Aw--mind yer own business!!
_____
(much more to follow) on request
