In the Wings
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday February 21, 2015

The bird-man entered our lives last Wednesday. He was parked at a small table outside our local growers market. A faded Bintang t-shirt strained against his belly. His right arm, bent at the elbow like a chicken wing, was hooked across the back of his chair. I noticed the stump of his ring finger, missing two knuckles. A long wispy white beard fanned out from his chin and tapered halfway down his chest. His nose was misshapen with a patchwork of scars where I presumed he’d had sun damage carved from the bone. Propped against the wall beside him sat a bag half-filled with empty soft drink cans.

But it was the bird attached to his shoulder that captured our interest. Its parrot-shaped head was electric-yellow, its nape and chest a fiery orange. Tucked against its small body, two long wings were splashed with turquoise. Ruffling its feathers, the bird cocked its head to inspect us and I saw a flash of bright blue tips in its tail.

And then it squawked so loudly I flinched. My youngsters startled – seven-year-old boy clapped his hands to his ears. An elderly lady, stopping to readjust her walking frame, jerked upright, scanning for the source of the noise. Failing to spot the shoulder bird, she refocused on her feet and stepped cautiously away.

My four-year-old tugged my hand and pointed at the bird. ‘Why is it wet?’ she asked me.

“He’s just had a shower,” his owner answered gruffly. My daughter inched closer to my side. The bird-man lifted a four-fingered hand to stroke his feathery epaulette.

“What sort is he?” I asked, intrigued.

“He’s a South American Sun Conure. Endangered, so they say.”

“What’s his name?” blurted my son, emboldened by our conversation.

“Sunny,” said the bird-man. “Suits him, huh?”

My boy nodded, returning a shy smile. The bird-man, encouraged, coaxed Sunny onto his finger.

“Some fella did his dough on this bird,” he continued.

“Paid 600 bucks for him, he did. And then the stupid bloke carked it six weeks later. My sister ended up with his bird. Then she got sick, so now Sunny’s living with me.”

“How old is he?” asked my boy.

“He’s five. But they say he could live to thirty.”

“Nearly as old as Mummy!” I fibbed to my small fry.

The bird-man grunted, amused.

“He’s got a big voice for a small bird!” I said as Sunny blinked at me.

“Part of his charm,” replied the bird-man, before adding quietly, “I’ve seen you before haven’t I?”

“Yeah. This is my local.”

I felt a pang of guilt. I’d failed to acknowledge this familiar stranger until he’d worn a bird.

“I come here most days to sit in the air-con,” he said. “I like watching the shoppers go by.”

He swatted at a fly and Sunny flinched, letting go another ear-grating squawk.

“Most people look straight through me. One time, this fella hands me a $20 note. Jeez! I must’ve looked rough that day! I don’t dress like a millionaire but I own my own flat.”

He chuckled and leaned forward so no passers-by would hear us.

“If people wanna pretend I’m not here, that’s fine by me. But you know what? Sunny’s changed all that. Now everyone wants to talk to me about the darn bird!”

I glanced behind me and saw small daughter had tired of our conversation. She was now helping her toy bunny scale the dividing rail between the checkouts. Her brother was still by my side, mesmerised by Sunny’s riotous plumage. I wondered why I’d never chatted to this old man before. How I could be so indifferent to such an interesting face?

“I ain’t lonely,” he said, reading my mind. “Truck driver I was – Readymix – but I gave it up at 53. They wanted me to do more and more for less and less. Now I collect cans. I walk all over the joint. Been collecting twelve years. The scrap dealer used to give me $1.60 per kilo. Now he’ll only pay 55 cents. But that’s OK. Life’s tough on him too.”

With a note of pride in his voice, he went on: “I’ve donated $7000 to charity from collecting cans. Keeps me going, searching for them.”

We paused, and I realised we’d run out of things to say. I bent down to gather my green bags. “Nice to meet you,” I said, feeling awkward at not knowing his name.

“Herb,” he offered.

We shook hands as my two youngsters bounded ahead and disappeared around the corner.

Moments later, I heard a shout. I looked back to see Herb waving daughter’s forgotten toy bunny above his head.

The kids and I haven’t stopped talking about him since.