The Birdcage and the Barstool
By M. F. B. Porter
I sat huddled in the shadows of the corner of the room, observing silently the thick murky wax that lacquered the scuffed club floor.
The husky young man working in the room didn’t know I was there watching him, or if he did, he didn’t show it. There’s something alluring and mesmerizing about watching someone who thinks they’re absolutely alone. I’ve always felt that way. As I observed, the young man paced back and forth undecidedly, with the occasional arm flailing that comes with trying to express one’s self. He continued to mutter things that I couldn’t hope to hear, until he stopped. The young man peered around the room suspiciously, slowly, until he suddenly disappeared in the direction of the bar, and bringing back into the spotlight, a chipped but sturdy looking barstool. Lost to the shadows again, and for a little longer this time, the young man came back with a rusted copper bird cage. He must’ve gotten it from outside somewhere, and I held my breath as the cage swung back and forth in the young man’s calloused hands, making an uncomfortable screaming sound like the cry of the hopeless. Suddenly, the rickety birdcage clanked down on the barstool with a final thud, echoing through the old club. The young man looked to the shadowy corners of the dark room again, though less suspicious this time. And then, he walked out of the bar, and I never saw him again. I don’t know if that young man knew if he was alone or not, or if he left the birdcage and the barstool as a message to me, or as a symbol of resolution for himself. I guess it doesn’t matter. We both made choices that night.
The husky young man working in the room didn’t know I was there watching him, or if he did, he didn’t show it. There’s something alluring and mesmerizing about watching someone who thinks they’re absolutely alone. I’ve always felt that way. As I observed, the young man paced back and forth undecidedly, with the occasional arm flailing that comes with trying to express one’s self. He continued to mutter things that I couldn’t hope to hear, until he stopped. The young man peered around the room suspiciously, slowly, until he suddenly disappeared in the direction of the bar, and bringing back into the spotlight, a chipped but sturdy looking barstool. Lost to the shadows again, and for a little longer this time, the young man came back with a rusted copper bird cage. He must’ve gotten it from outside somewhere, and I held my breath as the cage swung back and forth in the young man’s calloused hands, making an uncomfortable screaming sound like the cry of the hopeless. Suddenly, the rickety birdcage clanked down on the barstool with a final thud, echoing through the old club. The young man looked to the shadowy corners of the dark room again, though less suspicious this time. And then, he walked out of the bar, and I never saw him again. I don’t know if that young man knew if he was alone or not, or if he left the birdcage and the barstool as a message to me, or as a symbol of resolution for himself. I guess it doesn’t matter. We both made choices that night.
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