The Messenger

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. The reason I can attest to this celestial display is due to my unrelenting insomnia, and tonight is evening thirteen of my daily jaunt outside. Breathing in the damp October air seemed to be the only sleep aid that worked. That, along with an occasional edible, but I could do without the crazy-ass dreams from ingesting weed. Since turning twenty-seven last year, sleep evades me, like every hot girl I'd even thought about trying to bang. I feel and undoubtedly look like a soulless zombie.

I arrived at the garden I passed through every night and sat on the wooden bench donated to the public by the family of Silas Bellingham. No clue who the dude was, but I appreciated the seat anyway. This is where I come to think about Chris. It's peaceful and quiet here, and that's when the good thoughts, the good memories, come. Not that I'm ever not thinking about him. The best friend I've ever had or will have, my last roommate and confidante, who died in a fiery, explosive car crash five years ago, is never far from my mind. Nor are the visions and nightmares of him burning in that car very far away. It's probably why I have this fucking insomnia. Half the time I'm too scared of what night will bring, to relax.

I looked up at the pastel waltz going on above and wondered if I truly had entered unchartered zombie-land. That was some weird shit happening up there. Beautiful, but weird. I'm not high on anything, either. I don't do any of that hallucinogenic crap. I leaned my head back on the hard bench. My eyes felt hot, sore, my lids heavy.

So tired...

"Hey, I hate to interrupt that lovely slumber you're so in need of, but I don't have a shitload of time. Excuse the language."

I bolted upright, my eyes zapping open. There was nobody occupying the bench but me. I scanned the darkness for a shadow or outline. Nothing.

"Up here. In the tree."

My gaze followed the voice to a tall oak a few feet away. I didn't even need to use my phone's flashlight to see what was vocalizing: a glowing, florescent-pink bird fluffing its feathers. I blinked furiously. Now, I know something about birds, because my mom is into them. We've had feeders and houses for years, and this was unlike any I'd seen in the Audubon Society books. I suppose I don't need to add that none of them visiting our backyard talked. Or used profanity.

The bird flew down and landed on the armrest of the bench. It looked like a cross between a seagull and an oversized dove, if that makes sense. Hell, who am I kidding? None of this made sense.

"My," the bird squawked, sounding exactly like my grandma tsk-ing on the phone with one of her gossipy friends. "You do look rough. Chris said you were John Krasinski's double, but I'm not seeing it."

I had no words. I'd been to Hazy's earlier. Did bartender Charlie manage to spike my drink somehow? It wouldn't surprise me. I'm pretty sure my constant presence annoyed him.

"Look." The creature preened itself like a monkey, spitting out what appeared to be a bug. "I'm not gonna waste time reassuring you this is happening. It is, and you're not crazy. Call me Barney to make this legit. That's your buddy Christopher's middle name, right?"

I stared at the thing incredulously, nodding. Its beak was moving with the words. Had I taken an edible and forgotten?

"No, you're not high, and nobody spiked your drinks," Barney said irritably.

I was sitting next to a talking bird, pinker than a flamingo and also telepathic. My words tumbled out like a paranoid drunk.

"How do you know about Chris? What in the actual fuck is going on? Is this some kind of mind trick?"

Barney scowled, looking scarily human in the process.

"What's that saying? "Calm down, Karen," or something like that?"

I laughed; I couldn't help it. "I'm not a Karen, but okay."

He lifted a wing, plucked a feather out with his beak, and nudged it on the bench. "Take this. To remind you later that our exchange took place. And, at the risk of sounding horribly sentimental, to never forget he's with you. Always."

Hesitantly, I put the neon feather in my jacket pocket.

"So, yeah. This is sorta like Cinderella's carriage. After fifteen minutes I'm out, poof, and the clouds change back to their inky color. In case you hadn't noticed, that's how long the rainbow sky party lasts."

I had. In fact, I'd timed it before. "What's the significance of--"

"Don't interrupt and ask a bunch of silly questions, like what parallel universe do I come from, am I an angel, and did God send me. You have to trust what I'm gonna tell you is the truth, and forget about anything else. Got it?"

I nodded, afraid he might peck my eye out if I ventured any response at all.

Barney raised his wings as a human might shrug his shoulders, and his head rotated in a few circles.

"Sorry. I gotta do some stretches, let the tension go. These meet-ups do a number on me."

He turned his body to face me. His eyes were closer together on his head than a seagull's, and bigger. And rounder, like two giant pennies, with a hypnotic effect as I studied them.

"First of all, he died immediately. On impact. There was no pain, no agonizing screams while the flames went up. Nothing like what you keep imagining."

Jesus. I'd re-lived that scene so often in my head, like a satanic sitcom re-run. I'd pestered one of the closed-mouth cops on the scene for weeks afterward, calling the station and begging him to tell me details that likely had given him nightmares too.

My agitated eyes coated with water, and I didn't care. The relief of knowing his end (if it was true, and how could it not be true when Barney-bird knew this stuff?), was overwhelming.

"Secondly, Chris says he's sorry."

"Sorry?" I was aghast. "Sorry for what?"

"Sorry he made you mad by...well, dying. By staying up all night and falling asleep at the wheel. He knows it was asinine. Almost as dumb as it was when the two of you showed up at a campus party with champagne and flute glasses, and then wondered why all the chicks thought you were gay."

I laughed as I wiped my wet face. That was one of the good memories, and there were so many. Dozens of times, I'd made him piss his pants laughing at my high school antics. We'd gotten into so much trouble together, but we never did anything bad, other than find ways to ease our suffering at the hands of asshole teachers. I could and did imitate them all, to perfection.

"But, but, I'm the one who's sorry! S...S..Sorry I didn't stop him that morning, or offer to drive him in my car--" Wrenching sobs hijacked my garbled sentence.

"Thirdly," Barney snapped. "Thirdly, he says, "I love you, bro, but you can't be with me. Not yet. I don't want you here. You have work to do."

The waterworks continued, and my gut clenched with searing shame. Chris knew; he'd seen the despair eating at me. He'd seen how my pathetic attempts at building new friendships crumbled, like the Keebler cookies we gorged on during a gaming spree. There was no substance; the world and our generation was loaded with fake and more fake. It made me sick, and he was watching. He'd seen how with every failure, whether it was a platonic betrayal or disappointing hook-up, I inched closer and closer to giving up. Checking out, like a loser coward. It didn't matter that I had a great family, a decent enough job, and I wasn't swimming in debt like most of my college degree peers. It all felt so pointless.

"I miss him," I choked on the river of spit in my throat, the snot running out my nose. "I just miss him so goddam much. Losing him was like losing a spouse, and when I say that, people look at me like I'm a circus freak show. Nobody fucking gets it. Nobody!"

My anguished shout rang out into the stillness of the night.

Barney blinked, looking as compassionate as an otherworldly bird could. "It's almost time, and I don't mind saying I want my white feathers back. Was pink his favorite color or something?"

I ran my sleeve across my sodden face, laughing again and feeling like a schizophrenic with the instant emotional switches. "Oh, my God. Yes, yes it was, and nobody understood that, either. What straight guy likes champagne and the color pink?"

A one-of-a-kind guy, I thought, and then I was yanked back to reality. Or some version of it, anyway.

"Two more minutes," he said.

"Wait!" In a desperate panic, I tried to pin Barney's bony feet down. "You can't go. There has to be more. Or you can give him messages from me!"

A second later I yelped in pain, jerked my hands away. He'd jabbed at my fingers with a surprisingly sharp beak.

"Don't touch the merchandise, pal. Be glad you were chosen, and let that be enough. Also, this is it. Don't come back here every night hoping I'll do act two. Nope, nope, nope."

"But what does, "You have work to do," even mean? A different job? Move somewhere and volunteer? What?"

"That's for you to figure out. You're a smart guy. Capable, even if you don't think so. Good luck, Ry."

And with that, Barney flew back to the oak tree, just as the clouds returned to their ashy November hue.

Chris had called me "Ry," all the time. Short for Ryan.

"Don't go," I pleaded into the mute shadows, the sobs still wracking my sides. "Tell me more, goddam it."

But the only noise to be heard came from me, muttering goddam it over and over, finally stopping when I fished the feather out of my pocket and clung to its fringes as though my life depended on it.

Which, as I'm walking home under the dull horizon, I think it probably does.