The Grackle

Not the bird mentioned here.  I mean, I didn't have my phone on me!
Courtesy: Becky Matsubara

His yellow eyes always betrayed an aura of acute awareness.  Nothing would sneak up on him.  There would never be a surprise attack.  But, looking at this rugged fowl, I couldn’t help but imagine a larger brethren applying an atomic noogie.  Its crest was unkempt, it looked perpetually hungover.  It was quite shabby.

Yes, my two boys and I were bored.  When we left the house, to make a point to ten-year-old Julian, I turned my phone off and placed it inside my wife’s purse.  And now she was gone.  And we were waiting.  Waiting.  

My wife abandoned us as she walked the aisles of Marshall’s.  What’s so great about that place?  Sure, we had the “opportunity” to accompany her.  But, c’mon.  No thanks.  And now we regretted our choice as we sat in the car, us three.  No electronics.  Just the kids station on the satellite radio.  That’s when I noticed our scruffy avian jester.

Its existence is not what captured my attention.  Nor its grisly demeanor.  No.  It was the spent pack of Hunt’s ketchup (catsup?) in its beak.  High fructose corn syrup drenched foil hung from his snout.  Then it didn’t.  As quickly as he picked it up, he dropped it.  Underneath the car adjacent to the pickup in front of us it yo-yo’d the smelly flattened condiment container.  Too sweet?  Can a bird have a sweet tooth?  Would it be a sweet bill?  Julian laughed uproariously when I told him what had my gaze.  Naturally, little brother Willem whined about not partaking in this visual delight.  By time news of the feathery pageant registered into his mind, the bird had scuttled off.

No sooner had he looked away (quite disgruntled) did a robin appear on the scene.  Fret not, our hero once again fluttered into the picture and chased the intruder away.  The bandit bird thought he could just help himself to the buffet of bugs caught in the grille of the car that gave shelter to the ketchup pack?  Ah hell no!

And so, the grackle picked at the bits of moth, bee, cricket, whatever, on the front of the Ford Taurus.  But, honestly, it was probably too crunchy, or maybe gamey?  That’s most likely.  And so, it was back to the discarded Hunt’s Ketchup one more time.  And once again, it made its way back to the asphalt.  

And we waited for my wife to come.  What’s so good about Marshall’s anyway?

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