BB Meets Bob White
The cold cell door slams shut with an attitude. "Enjoy your stay. Or not." The hulking guard displays a contemptible grin, creasing a scarred and stony face.
BB stretches his wings across the iron bars. "Ok. Now I'm startin' to get a lil' worried."
The bird world hums along to the pristine rhythm of melodic sound. BB's new world? Not so much. From the harsh clang of forbidding metal to the blush-worthy commentaries of fellow inmates - not exactly a lovebird's idea of harmony. Harmony. Oh sweet harmony. Such a lovely word, such a wonderful thing, such a beautiful --- No, BB mustn't allow his thoughts to go there right now. Too distracting. There are more pressing concerns at the moment.
Suddenly the bona fide jailbird detects a somewhat-more-pleasing tune. It seems to be near. Yes, it is definitely near. Very near. But where - where exactly is it coming from? It is assuredly a human-made sound. One of the less-vexing ones.
At last BB arrives at the unavoidable conclusion. The mystery music is in the same room, in the same cell, with him. It's behind him. Slowly he turns to literally face the music.
There, on the top bunk of two stone-hard beds, lies BB's new roommate. The gray-haired stranger is playing (of all things) a harmonica. Here we go again, says BB to himself. Harmonica. Harmonic. Harmony. I wonder what Har --- no, not now. Focus, BB. Focus.
The last lilting note eventually fades into the hope-plucked air of the iron cage. The man, lying on his back, stares in awkward silence at the dingy ceiling. BB accepts the ice-breaker role.
"I enjoyed that."
Nothing.
After an eternity of more silence (or so it seems), the man speaks. "Bob White."
BB is a tad confused. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Bob White," the man repeats. He has not stopped glaring at the ceiling.
BB scratches for a tactful response. "Well I ---"
"Bob White. That's my name. And yours?" Still his eyes have not left the ceiling. BB begins to laugh.
"Hear a zinger, didya?," asks the man.
"I'm sorry - did you say your name is Bob White?" BB stretches out the name for emphasis.
"As a matter of fact I did. What's so funny?"
"Ok, ok. I'll play along. Nice to meet ya, Bob White. Now my turn. I guess my name will be...Dan Quail." BB just about pops his plumage with laughter. He chirps, squawks and flaps his lovebird wings. It's this last sequence of sounds which apprehends the attention of the man who says he is Bob White. His bushy eyebrows lower with confusion. Now the ceiling loses his gaze.
He turns his head toward the source of the out-of-place sounds. Nothing. He sees nothing. Just the same, old, dismal cell space. Slowly he lowers his view downward. Finally his eyes rest on BB for the first time. Forehead wrinkles. Man swings legs over side of bunk bed. Man falls onto hard cell floor.
"What in the --- What's going on here? Who put you in here? Is this some sort of joke? Where did my new cellmate go? Ah great. Listen to me. I am talking to a bird." The man presses his face against the cold, metal bars. "Alright," he calls out into the vacuous corridor. "Very funny! Somebody call the doctor cuz my side is splittin'! Puttin' a bird in my cell. Very clever. Why don't you go --"
The man's rant to nobody in particular is suddenly and abruptly interrupted by a voice from behind him. It's a familiar voice. "Hey fella, let's moonwalk it back a little. Still me. I am your new cellmate. The name's BB. That's my actual name."
The milling machine of the man's internal dialogue runs at a furious pace. Is this real? Am I dreaming? Hallucinating? Maybe all the years of being confined in here like a caged bird has finally got to me. That's it! I bet this BB character is nothing but a figment of my imagination. I'm just seeing a metaphor - a symbol - of myself. I am the caged bird. That makes sense. Yes! But wait - what am I happy about? Doesn't this mean that I've gone crazy? Ok, here's what I'll do. I will close my eyes, turn around and count down from ten. When I open my eyes again, birdie will be gone.
As the man slowly pivots around, said birdie is not in fact gone. Nor will he be any time soon. But the ironically-named prisoner doesn't yet know this. There he stands, eyes shut and fists clenched, inaudibly counting down. BB can't decide if he feels amused or downright freaked. Maybe a mixture. Is he wanting to play hide-and-seek, BB doubtfully asks himself.
"10-9-8-7..."
BB interrupts. "Um, guy? You alright there?" The man tightens his closed eyelids and fists even more.
"6-5-4..."
BB tries again. "Well, I love a good countdown. Ask anybody. Boxing, MMA, wrestling, rocket launches. Even The Final Countdown - great song. But not gonna lie...this is gettin' a lil' weird."
For the last three numbers, the man covers his ears with his formerly-clenched palms.
"3-2-1."
Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifts open his eyelids. He is less than thrilled at the sight awaiting him. It is a feathery, you've-got-to-be-kidding-me, disgustingly-cute sight. Then it speaks again.
"Sorry to disappoint you," offers BB. "I didn't exactly make reservations to be here, ya know."
The man continues to stare in stunned silence. BB presses on. "Let's push the restart button. How about you start by telling me your actual name?"
The man clears his throat. Hesitantly, he decides to play along with this --- this --- well, whatever is going on here.
"I thought we already covered this. My name is Bob White. Of course, I can understand how you might forget, seeing as you're just a figment of my imagination."
"Did you just call me a cookie?"
For the first time, the man cracks a grin. "No, that's a fig newton. I said you're a figmen --- oh just forget it. Anyway, the name's Bob White. I have the birth certificate to prove it. My first name is actually Robert, of course," the man explains, "but I've been called Bob for as long as I can remember. Still not clear on why you think it's so hilarious."
BB is amazed at the man who calls himself Bob White - amazed at his blindness to the humorous irony in his name. Still, BB thinks it best to move on from the subject. "Never mind, not important. So...what's your story? Why you in here?"
Bob White looks down and shuffles his feet. "Bank robbery," he answers after a few moments of regretful reflection. "I'm not proud of it. At the time, I convinced myself that I had no other choice."
BB finally feels a sense of rapport and connection with his human cagemate. "Get outta here!," exclaims BB. "I mean --- I know you can't literally do that. It's just that I'm in here for the same reason. Actually, I am innocent. I didn't rob any bank. It was a case of mistaken identity."
Bob White smirks and nods. "Sure, little guy, sure. Of course you didn't do it. You're just a sweet, adorable, harmless creature. Right? You are sprouting wings." BB slowly and pointedly spreads his colorful wings. Message received by Bob White. "Ok, poor choice of words. No need to sprout."
Suddenly, and quite strangely, the interspecies communication is disrupted. The cell becomes hazy and dim - even more so than usual. BB can see Bob White's mouth moving, but his gruff voice has been muted. Furthermore, BB thinks he hears, from an undetermined location, the muffled sound of a television set. What's going on here?
BB shakes his head. Gradually everything returns to normal - well, to his new normal anyway. At last he can hear the sound of Bob White's voice again.
"You know what I'm saying, birdie?"
No, BB assuredly doesn't know whatever it is that his cellmate has been saying.
"Actually I ---" BB stops himself. No need to reveal that apparently important information has fallen on deaf ears. This interaction has been rocky enough.
"Sure, Bob White. I hear ya. Totally."
BB would love to know what Bob White actually said. But there are plenty of other pressing concerns to occupy his bird brain.
© Matt Decker
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