No More Birds Will Die Today
Works in Progress
To purchase
Every Man For Himself
Every Man For Himself: Ten Short Stories About Being a Guy
edited by Nancy Mercado (Dial Books 2005)
excerpt from "No More Birds Will Die Today" by Paul Acampora
...The Grinch is about to begin. Chevy’s settling into his second six-pack and that old Grinchy voice starts. “Every Who down in Whoville liked Christmas a lot…” In no time, Liam is deep into it. To tell you the truth, so am I.
Chevy doesn’t say much. This could be good, but with Chevy, you never know. Chevy isn’t too much like other dads we know. First off, he makes us call him Chevy. Everyone calls him Chevy. This bothers Liam to no end because most of the time, Chevy drives a big red Mack truck. He parks the rig on the side of the house.
Our house was built by Chevy’s grandfather about a hundred years ago. You’ve probably seen it, the white, clapboard Colonial with a massive sycamore out front. It’s in all the Connecticut tourist guides and calendars. Chevy’s always talking about suing somebody because we’ve never given anyone permission to take photos of the place.
Chevy can be a lot of fun. He also has a mean streak in him that’s a mile wide. Like last April, he bought BB guns for the three of us.
We were at school, and he was in between long hauls. He must have spent the whole day setting up tin cans and targets in the backyard. Liam and I ride the school bus, and when we got to the back porch that afternoon, there was Chevy, ready to show us the whole setup, guns and all.
Chevy tells us, “These are Crossman bolt-action pump rifles.” They’ve got dark steel barrels and solid wood stocks. Chevy shows us how to load the little copper pellets and line up the sites. Ten or twelve strokes on the pump, and they’re ready to go. I tell you, we just about lose our minds.
The amazing thing is that right away, Liam is a natural sharpshooter. The first time he looks down the barrel of his gun, he has the whole thing figured out. He hits every tin can, every bulls-eye, every target we set up. I tape a quarter to the side of a chestnut tree about thirty yards off the porch. Liam puts a dimple right on George Washington’s nose.
Somehow, this ticks Chevy off. He gets this look on his face, the look of a trucker that maybe just got cut off by a Volkswagen, and he starts taking pot shots at the finches and sparrows that hang around our yard. The birds gather around these junky feeders that Liam slaps together in our basement. There’s probably twenty plastic and wood seed baskets dangling all over the place, so you can always find a few scrappy birds nearby.
I’ve got to say that Chevy’s a pretty good shot himself. Before you know it, there’s half a dozen dead and bleeding birds lying in the grass. Liam is screaming bloody murder yelling, “Stop! Stop!” He’s running around the backyard trying to pick up the wounded birds. The ones that aren’t unconscious are half crazed by now, and they’re just pecking holes in Liam’s bare hands. I hear Chevy’s gun making that pofft, pofft, pofft, pofft and three more birds—two blue jays and blackbird—fall right out of the sky.
Meanwhile, I’ve discovered that I’m one of these people that couldn’t hit the side of a barn even if I had a cannon. That’s okay. Chevy’s only two feet away. I don’t even hesitate. I put three quick shots into his ass, and I’m thinking, Did I really just shoot my father?