Bluejay Bully

The Kid sat on the couch, across from Grandpa, devouring a bowl of ice cream, in a similar fashion that crocodiles use to swallow their prey, at the same time, staring at the tattoo on his grandfather's arm. The tattoo was as old as the flesh that decorated it. The Kid was trying to make out what the tattoo was. It just seemed like a blob of mangled, blue ink, weathered by the sun for years and years, and further obscured by the wrinkled, liver-scarred flesh surrounding it.











The Kid's fascination with his Grandpa's tattoo suddenly switched focus when Grandma walked in. Grandma carried with her a cup of coffee, stained brown on the outside of the cup as the coffee inside of it, and also puffed intermittently on a stale cigarette she had re lit at least three times before rising to go into the kitchen for the coffee, and returning to the living room. The Kid was as fascinated by his Grandma's wrinkled face, especially the spider web of crinkled skin around her eyes, and at the corner of her mouth, as he was by Grandpa's tattoo. Grandma's face seemed almost plastered out of an ancient cast of wood. And, her beading, blue, youthful eyes jumped out of that plaster cast, and could hold the Kid's attention for hours at a time. He would stare at whatever she stared at; constantly looking back at her to receive some signal of actually SEEING what she saw, and if she looked right at him, he would look away embarrassingly, and then bolt his stare back at hers, laughing uncontrollably at the fact that she seemed to know the game he was playing, and seemed also to want him to see, and understand the things she did in the world around her.











"You gotta' earn that ice cream, Kid." Grandpa said, breaking the silence the room had become as he read the newspaper, and Grandma played magic tricks with her eyes.






"It's trash day, tomorrow. Go out and move the cans to the curb, so us old, poor folk can relax a bit longer."







With his command set in place, Grandpa got up, and went into the kitchen to heat himself a bowl of the same stew he ate everyday; always kept warm, and fresh inside a big metal pot on the gas burner of the stove.







"I don't want to take the trash cans out!" The Kid said, in a surprisingly insolent tone. Grandma blinked twice, her blue eyes shuttered privately in judgement of this child that had never spoke back to either her, or Grandpa in all of his four and a half years. Her mouth, also, in it's transfixed wrinkleage of a permanent frown, flinched a little.







"If Grandpa says to take out the trash cans, you better do it. He'll hit you. You sure can bet to get a spanking, at least, if you don't do what he says."







Something powerful moved through the Kid's mind, then. The idea that Grandpa's right arm, with the burly, indistinguishable design of some form of tattoo would, in fact, come cascading upon him in a violent fashion, terrified him. He ran outside, out the front door, to move the trash cans to the curb, as Grandpa had ordered him to do; realizing once outside, he did not even know which side of the house the trash cans were stored.







Before the Kid had time to search out the cans, he heard the gate on the far side of the house rattle, and swing open with a big CRASH! sound that held the Kid frozen in fear.







Grandpa appeared then, pushing one metal can out front of him, and pulling another behind him- both of them grinding across the driveway pavement with a noise that rose goosebumps on the Kid's flesh. Grandpa then turned, after smacking the cans down onto the street at the bottom of the driveway, and walked up behind the fence again to grab a plastic trash can that held the cut grass from the lawn, and the clippings, and weeds from Grandma's garden.







The sound the plastic can made across the pavement was not quite as ferocious as the metal cans, but it seemed to the Kid that Grandpa drug it extra rough, and slammed it double-hard into the street for extra emphasis.







"Did you tell that boy I was going to hit him if he didn't take the trash cans out?"







Grandpa was yelling at Grandma inside the house after moving the cans, while the Kid crouched by the front door, still in the front yard, afraid of going back in and having to face Grandpa's wrath.







The Kid could not hear Grandma's response, but a moment later, he could hear Grandpa yelling again.







"Of course, I was going to help him with the cans! But not after you scared him so bad, he run out of the front door to hide! You must want that poor kid to be scared of me! What's wrong with you?"







The Kid could Grandpa stomp off into the back of the house, where the kitchen was, and the backyard. He had noticed that Grandpa and Grandma spent most of their individual time in separate rooms of the house, and even slept in separate bedrooms. He just chalked this up in his childish, ignorant mind as the way all old people were, and didn't think too hard about it.







Grandma stuck her head out the front door then, and said, "Grandpa may need your help in the backyard, Kid. And if you don't hurry..." She paused slightly, and crossed her blue eyes like a clown.







"....he'll hit you!"







Grandma stuck out her tongue at the Kid, like a childish playmate his same age, and then disappeared into her bedroom, giggling, and slamming her bedroom door behind her, as if, hiding from the both the males in her house.







The Kid realized Grandma was just playing one of her crazy games, and so he went out to find Grandpa, not believing Grandpa would now hit him, or hurt him in any way, but still unsure of the nature of Grandma's game, and if Grandpa, as harmless as he truly was, got the joke of it any better than the Kid did, or not.







Hours later, out in the small backyard of the house, Grandpa sat on a wooden footstool, sipping on lemonade, and watching the Kid entertain himself in the yard. Grandpa had fed the Kid stew, and more ice cream, hoping the Kid would sleep, but the food and sugar had hopped the Kid up into a boundless energy; like the Tigger character from the Winnie The Pooh stories that Grandma read to him.







It took Grandpa a few minutes to figure out the game the Kid had invented for himself to play. A few pigeons wandered around the grass the way pigeons do, in endless, imperfect circles. The Kid would watch them, carefully, crouched down like a little Indian hunting.






Every few minutes, a large blue jay would fly down from the vine trellis next to the house, pecking at the ground where the pigeons circled erratically, sending the less-graceful birds into a titter of confusion, and march around joyfully; obviously, proud of his dominance over the patch of grass the pigeons were attempting to roam upon.







When the blue jay did this, the Kid sprang from his hunt-crouch, and chased the blue jay, wailing his arms, and growling like a dog, back up into the trellis, where it sat squawking in protest, but unable to defeat the small boy, who, after chasing the blue jay away, went back into his pigeon-defense crouch.







"I don't like that blue bird!" The Kid announced, after the fourth, or fifth time chasing the blue jay out of the grass.







"That's a blue jay, Kid." Grandpa said, pointing up at the trellis where the blue jay sat, looking down at the Kid, and patch of grass, and stupid pigeons.







"He's bigger and smarter than those pigeons. If they're scared of him, that's not his fault. He just wants to eat the seeds and other things in the grass like they do."







"I don't care about that!" The Kid declared, puffing up his chest, and looking angrier than Grandpa had ever seen him look.







"He's a bully! And I don't like him picking on those other birds."







"Well, I guess you're in charge, Kid."







Grandpa chuckled, and chuckled again when the kid took his same crouched position to wait for the blue jay to invade the grass, even though it looked like the pigeons had scattered completely, most likely, just as frightened of the Kid, as the blue jay.




Grandpa went into the kitchen, then, momentarily, to refill his glass of lemonade. When he came outside again, the Kid held a stick he had found in the yard, and was swinging it wildly up into the trellis vine, while the blue jay leaped about the vine out of reach of the boy's stick, but refusing to leave the sanctuary of the backyard.



"Well, Kid, you better finish that battle now that you started it."



Grandpa checked the back window, and looked into the kitchen to make sure Grandma wasn't going to suddenly walk outside and see her grandson chasing a bird with a stick. Most likely, Grandma had laid down for a nap or was busy with her needlework.



Then, Grandpa just stood, sipping his lemonade casually, watching the joust between the Kid, and the big, bad blue jay. A couple of times, it seemed like the blue jay threatened to fly down and peck the Kid on the head. But, the Kid was pretty good with the stick and kept the blue jay out of reach, although, he still could not quite drive the bird farther away than on top of the roof.



It was a little more interesting of a show to watch than the afternoon ballgame Grandpa had been meaning to turn on. He continued to watch, still sipping on his lemonade, wondering which party would run out of energy first- the kid, the bird, or the old man who could not sit comfortably in his footstool, as tired as he was, because he wanted the Kid's game to go on endlessly.