5. Small Wing
Chaos from above as glittering charcoal wings dive from nowhere, only narrowly missing us, and the bird settles in the path of oncoming foot traffic. The sea parts around the bird as it serenely picks at its feathers. Not content only to remain an obstructing nuisance, it launches itself directly into the peak-hour crowd. After sending a young family into panicked disarray, it swoops back in a tight arc to take a go at a trio of teenagers at the bus stop. They look familiar, probably on their way to the same party as we are.
One of us laughs. “Look at him go.”
A little bird, barely bigger in wingspan than my forearm, it carves an impressively destructive path through shoppers and commuters alike. Buoyed by a leisurely gust of wind it alights on a lamp post and returns to preening. Perfectly framed by the setting sun, he’s aware of the lights’ dazzling effect on his pristine feathers. Satisfied with their arrangement, he gazes at the pedestrians below him. As he watches the slow trudging mass on the way to the train station and bus, shopping centre or home, he shuffles his wings in a prideful gesture. Meanwhile an argument has ensued. Flanked either side by the debaters, I only listen.
“So you’re some kind of ornithologist now are you?”
A father dotingly brushes off a terrified and sniffling child between nervous glances at the comically sinister creature. They’re probably out of earshot, but I worry. Do they hear our inane conversation?
“You bloody well know what I meant. A bird won’t kill you.”
Such a little bird.
“It tried to kill me!”
Such an impressive impact.
“No,” I murmur. “He’s just showing off.”
The argument rolls on for a moment, then the instigator sighs a chuckle.
“You’re afraid of a little bird, buddy.”
Such a little bird.
* * *
A plastic cup is raised to my lips, and a moment later I discover it’s my hand that holds it. Taking a reflexive sip, I return to focusing on a smudgy face before me.
“Sorry, what was that?”
He turns for a static-charged moment, gives me an annoyed glance, then back to his friend. A joyous flurry of white noise rushes past as he waves a plastic wine glass about. They’re laughing, but what was the joke? I lean in with intent.
“What do you want?” he demands. “Do I know you?”
“Oh! uh...” Why am I? I was… I realise he mustn’t know me after all, an inquisitive moment passes and I discover that I don’t know him either. I am in the wrong room. This is the wrong person.
So switching tracks, I lock eyes with the massive wooden coffee table in the centre of the room. A rose-hued timber that looks almost soft in the low light..
The golden glowing rectangle at the end of the hallway rushes towards me as indistinct silhouettes tangle round my feet. Reaching up to tug at my ankles they drag me down by my heel. Taking a sip for courage, I lurch onward, letting gravity do half the work. Rattling high-hats cascade over my head and I can see. I’m in a kitchen, someone’s making cocktails (“I call em Molotovs, ‘cause of the vodka”) and one ends up in my hand.
“That’s a pretty dumb joke.”
Confused eyes peer at me above the rims of a miscellaneous set of glasses. I’m going to have to back that up. They look like they’re waiting for me to explain. Or I could back down entirely, but they’re expecting something profound and witty. Right? Who the hell comes to a party just to insult people?
As I lose their attention I can feel myself falling backwards. The inky tendrils have followed me from the hall and they’re winding themselves around and down my throat. Don't be stupid, I chide lethargically. It’s just your brain shutting…
* * *
I’m on the dance floor now, limbs flailing around. Not sure if I’m moving them but a deeply familiar hand free-falling past my face says I must be. Watch the coffee table. Is that my hand though? No one’s paying attention. I’ve disappeared into the dark again. “Hey dude, watch it!”
Must be my hand. Funny how you see a thing every day and its edges kind of start to blur. ‘Frayed by intimacy.’ That’s a nice phrase, should use it.
“Watch out.”
Throwing myself wholly into the movement, legs kick back into air, the unforgivingly solid table breaks my fall. Belly up I can hear shouts flying across the room above me. There’s a sense that this was an unpopular performance. I’m trying to keep track of the eyes. Pinprick lights. Swirls of incandescence; world spins down on top of me. Hazy, angry face. Nothing.
I think I hear the swelling low end before the voice. A familiar face swims into focus, then calls me a dickhead. I’m not certain why yet, but I suspect I’ve deserved that. I’ve ended up in the bathroom. White tiles stab my eyes. The light’s too bright.
“Party s’going?”
“Not for you it’s not.” He helps me up.
“Can look after myse…” I fall. He catches me.
The party’s not dead, just passing peacefully into sleep. I stop at the door; need to apologise. Our host is leaning against the back of the couch, nodding thoughtfully at someone. He smiles as we approach
“Jus’ wanted to say… sort of apol…” Before I can pull my words together he cuts me off with a hand to my shoulder.
“It’s fine man. Happens y’know.” He chuckles. “Not so fucken smart now huh?”
My jaw swings down, and I hope that something clever might fall out. Instead, I nod mutely and let myself be guided to the door. A haze of incandescent white light tumbles towards me, and I’m free.
* * *
An undulating wall of parallel white streaks suspended in the void. Hurtling through space; absolute freedom. Spinning, shimmering swirls of pinprick light and I dance past hundreds of distinct nights. Then, I stumble. It's a short, exhilarating fall to Earth, and I can see the rest of the universe. The still warm black rock as a pillow, I gaze up at the lights of the neighbourhood reflected in the sky. Glittering objects of…
* * *
I hear, “Hey buddy! Maybe let’s not lie down in the middle of the road, yeah?”
He has a point. Huddled under the glow of the streetlights, they stab blearily at phones. I want to ask when the bus is coming. The angelic outline of one watches me rising from the asphalt with concern. I can look out for myself just fine thank you.
“What would you know about meeting the void anyway?”
“I swear if you refer to you blacking out as ‘the void’ one more damn time tonight…” The brute.
One of them watches me rejoin the swaying shuffle on the footpath.
“Good night,” he grunts. Was that a question?
“Good night,” I agree.
Is that an approaching dawn? Or the blanket of streetlights? Same as the drunk/tired dichotomy. I decide this is a thought worth sharing.
“I think you think you're being profound.” Damn right. “But slurring three syllable words doesn't make you sound smart.”
Oh.
“Bus’ll be here any minute.” Regardless, there’s something pleasantly sobering about the low gusts of night air. The neon hum of the lamps rattles its way into my consciousness, shaking me awake. Fragments of the night start to fall into place, punctuated by careening hands knocking over wine. There are messages to be sent when the sun comes up.
“You sure about that?”
He nods, silent and totally assured. Some things you simply feel.
A bird lands on the vibrating streetlight and smugly watches us. Gazing back at the buzzing yellow aura, I can see myself flying alongside him. Just for a moment I’m hovering, immortal, then I dive back down onto a coffee table. The arrogant prick is still watching though, knowing. It’s hard to tell which way the little black bulbs of its eyes are looking; I start to disappear into the uncanny sheen. I’m only pulled from the reverie when I notice someone watching me.
“Think that’s the same one?” This time I can’t be bothered joining the ensuing discussion. I watch in bleary focus as he once again straightens his feathers. No one but me is watching, and we're content.
Minutes later, when a thin orange glow has started to appear on the horizon, I’m momentarily blinded by the glare of headlights, and with a hydraulic hiss we fall into the easy warmth of public transport.
William (Billy) McKay is a freelance writer based in Melbourne.