A Freddie in the Flowers

Once upon a time I owned a store. Anyone who has ever owned a store knows the store owned me. I planted a flower garden behind it, which was my excuse to escape the store as often as possible.

Anyone who has ever owned such a thing will agree. As time passes you do everything imaginable in the store, seeing as you practically live in it. You will eat, sleep, drink, play games, build a carburetor and yes, Virginia, you might have sex in it, too.

This particular day was hot, and I knew I needed to be careful, but better to fall out outside than go crazy inside. I was weeding and doing other mindless things, trying to relax. Suddenly I heard a young girl say, “Hey Freddie.” Now I have many names, but Freddie ain’t one of them and it never has been.

It was broad daylight, and I hadn’t been out long enough to be loopy. That’s not to say that I’m not naturally loopy, but this seemed out of place — it sent chills down my back and ran the willies up my arms. I wanted to look around to see if there was someone standing behind me. It seemed too much like someone looking under a bed in a horror movie.

Slowly I scanned the yard and saw exactly what I expected, I was alone. A little rat scurried away on my left toward the store. I caught a glimpse, it was green. Standing, I moved toward the store peering into the wild flowers, it moved again, there was another flash of green. I scanned my surrounding to make sure no one else was witnessing my trip to the funny farm.

After everything quieted down I squatted and went back to work. I was pulling weeds and singing when a burst of curse words ripped the air. They were so strong they embarrassed me, and I can throw together colorful words with the best of them. Looking around the second time was akin to going into that basement, you know the one.

I don’t know about you, but I decided long ago. If I ever find myself in a horror movie with a bunch of teenagers and freaky music starts playing I’m not looking under beds, going into basements or attics, opening doors and I’m not using the outhouse, if there is one. I’ll let the others run through the woods, get chased by the mad man and see all the horrible stuff that needs seeing before you die. I’m gonna sit in the living room, eat boiled peanuts and drink Budweiser and make the killer come to me. Maybe he’ll be worn out from chasing teenage girls with wet T-shirts on and won’t have the energy to kill me when he finds me. Maybe the horror movie will end with him and I sharing a beer.

Anyway, the curse words were uttered with a coarse, crude voice, so I stood as I searched the yard for their source. I had no idea if I was going to fight or run, but I could do neither on my knees. Another scan verified I was alone. I decided it was time to go inside as the broad daylight was scaring the bajebies out of me.

Then the cursing started again, followed by the sweetest little girl voice saying, “Hey Freddie.” I saw it again, a green bird broke from the cover of the wildflowers and started toward the store, it was scurrying like a green streak through the underbrush. I started toward the store at breakneck speed trying to keep my eyes on it as it appeared now and again through the flowers. When I reached the store, which was made of brick, I was so focused on Freddie I didn’t see the store coming at me. I hit it head first at full speed.

Waking up in the hospital 12 hours later I had a few stitches and a concussion. I found myself in a battle of wits with a psychiatrist. It took me another 12 hours to convince him that the cursing bird I had been ranting about while I was out was caused by the heat and not an indication of my mental state. I played the game and made him believe that I didn’t believe, but I did.

As soon as I got home I headed to the garden to prove, if to no one but me, that I wasn’t crazy. It took an hour, but I eventually corralled Freddie in a corner and took him in the house. This proved my sanity to a worried wife. Freddie was a little green parrot, with a broken wing, with the vocabulary of a drunken sailor. He spent the next 10 years in our house offending visitors and teaching another generation the intricacies of colorful language.