Pigeon Variations – Ch 42 – Shot in the Style of John Cassavetes
By Mark Burrow
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(Long chapter 3,000 words)
Pyser felt like he could handle the transition alone. Do it all by himself. Walking the tightrope of shutting down existence as a man and re-emerging as a strutting, chest out, resplendent King of the Pigeons.
It wasn’t quite so straightforward in practice. Life never is. Pyser had known of transitions since he was a boy. Witnessed men and women hatching out of their own bodies. Their skin and flesh breaking apart. He had seen the infamous French documentary, L'oiseau de la Liberté, which the British Government tried to ban. Shot in the style of John Cassavetes’ Shadows, the documentary follows Sophie Peyroux, a down-at-heel jazz singer, through her final months in Paris as she transitions into a cockatoo. The brute realism of L'oiseau’s final scenes never lost their power to shock audiences.
Pyser knew what to expect. That didn’t make it any easier. The sweats, cramps and fevers. The growing pains that caused him to vomit. The vivid nightmares and insomnia. All interlaced with the constant mental pressure of not knowing when he would emerge from his eggshell flesh. There were so many unknowns. And still he had to walk among humans. Pretend to be one of them. Making calls about when to stop paying council tax and utility bills. The ongoing situation with work, where he needed a salary to live right up until the day when money would become irrelevant.
And then there was the abuse and bullying. As the rate of transitions increased, so did the anger of the anti-bird brigade. It wasn’t unusual to have people throw cans and bottles at him in the street, spitting and sneering.
“Oi, big bird,” they’d shout, “you’re not one of us.”
Or: “We’re calling pest control on you.”
And: “We don’t want your sort round here.”
“You belong in a cage.”
So Pyser found himself picking up the bland flyer given to him by the young GP about Believe You Can Fly. He didn’t want to call the number of the counselling group. The idea of intimate confessions and prying questions from strangers sounded like a non-starter. Frankly, he couldn’t think of anything worse, but as time wore on, he realised that he needed help and support. It wasn’t like he could blitz himself on booze and drugs anymore either. The cravings had faded. He found himself unable to get shit-faced the moment he woke up. A cold bottle of dry cider for breakfast now made his stomach churn.
The GP warned him that his appetite would alter. She was dead right. He developed a taste for decaying food, such as a mouldy bap or mushy, blackened fruit. Sugary beer or wine could make him spew. Fresh water was okay but he preferred his H2O to be germ-infested, preferably frothy with scum. There were other changes too, such as the urge to poo on people from a great height. The final straw was when he manoeuvred himself onto the window ledge of his bedroom and, four floors up, came within a feather’s breadth of leaping off in a bid to take to the skies. It was only his sparrow, Roland, who made him realise what the hell he was doing.
That episode was his rock bottom.
It’s what pushed him into giving BYCF a crack.
What was there to lose?
The meetings for the Chapter in his area were held in a suburban three-bed semi. It was run by a man called Terry, who sounded friendly enough on the phone. Genuine. None of that fake sympathy crap. Pyser caught the bus, sitting downstairs as otherwise he risked getting attacked by teenagers on the top deck. He stayed on the bus too, which was a miracle given how often he told himself to press the bell, step off and return home.
There were hedges in Terry’s front garden. They were neatly trimmed. It was all so normal. You’d never guess what the place was really about from the outside. Except for one giveaway. Pyser noticed two gnomes. One had the textbook dungarees, pointy beard and watering can. The second had a beak and wings.
Terry answered the door. “Welcome,” he said with a firm handshake.
Pyser introduced himself.
“Come in, come in.” Terry was wiry and muscular, with hollow cheeks and long, curly hair, like how Jim Morrison would have looked if he’d become a counsellor for Human Avian Transitions in South London. “Don’t be nervous,” he said, taking Pyser's coat, scarf and hunting cap, “everyone here is in the same boat.”
Pyser followed Terry into the lounge, which smelled of incense. There were five people in the room. Three men and two women. They were crouching on wooden chairs, trying to keep their balance. “Please welcome our newcomer,” Terry said, inviting Pyser to take a vacant chair. “We like to perch in our sessions,” he explained. “We find it helps us focus on what we are experiencing.”
Pyser stood on the chair and lowered himself down so his knees came up to his chin.
“Excellent perch, very natural,” said Terry, standing by his own leather swivel chair at the front of the group. The room was virtually bare. It was as if the house was only used for these sessions. “Good evening everyone,” he said.
“Good evening, Terry.”
He wore a T-shirt depicting human evolution. Except instead of the usual sequence of ape, knuckle dragging Neanderthal and upright man, it showed the final stages as a naked woman sprouting wings and taking flight. Dimming the lights and pressing play on his phone for wind chimes, Terry said, “Close your eyes. Try to slow your breathing. Are there areas of tension in your body? Think about where they are. Reflect on why you are here today and congratulate yourself for coming. Thank your loved ones too, for they will want you here, a safe space where you can prepare yourself for the next stage of living on this wondrous planet we call earth.”
Carefully, Pyser opened his eyes, squinting at the other attendees.
When the mindfulness exercise was over, Terry said, “Who would like to begin? Remember, there is no judgement here. We are all equal.”
A woman of a similar age to Pyser raised her hand.
“Yes,” said Terry, giving her permission to speak.
“Hi everybody.”
“Hi.”
“I’m Amanda. Some of you know me already,” she said, forcing a smile from what was left of her mouth.
“Hi Amanda,” they said.
“As you can see for yourselves, I’m pretty far gone. Any day now I’ll be perched like this but on a tree or a rooftop. I suppose I should be grateful. As you keep telling us, Terry, what I’m going through is a gift. I have been lucky to live a reasonably long human existence and now I am about to go through the next stage of an incredible journey.”
She stopped and fumbled in her handbag for tissues.
Terry removed a box from an empty bookshelf and handed them to her.
Wiping mucus and slobber from her mouth, she cried out, “The truth is, I’m angry and bitter.”
A couple of people nodded.
“Sorry to use bad language but fuck this journey.”
Terry shuffled uncomfortably in his chair of shiny leather.
“I’m happy as I am. Why do I have to go anywhere?” she asked.
No one could answer.
“If this is supposed to be a gift, I don’t want it. I finally met a man I love and he was caring and kind and devoted. We struggled to have a child and had to go down the IVF route, which was not very pleasant. We then went for adoption and somehow we have a beautiful baby girl. She is everything I ever dared to dream of having and more. And now he’s left me… He’s taken my baby girl as he can’t handle my transition… So I have to say goodbye to all that…. I mean, are you serious? Are you telling me I should be grateful for this? No, I’m raging against the universe and the injustice of what I have lost and am losing. I know you don’t approve of swearing, Terry, but I’m fucking livid.”
Those who still had their hands started clapping.
“It’s okay to be angry,” said Terry.
Amanda was dabbing her bird-like eyes with the soggy tissue.
Terry gestured to a man who looked a lot like the actor, Ray Winstone. “You were nodding there. Do you share Amanda’s sense of injustice? Would you like to discuss it?”
“Nah, mate, you’re alright,” he replied.
A guy in his mid-twenties put his stump of a hand up.
“Please share,” said Terry.
“Hi, I’m Andrew.”
“Hi Andrew,” everyone said.
“I completely agree with what Amanda shared with us. What is going to happen is terrifying and I am struggling to accept my fate. I suppose that’s natural, but I’m young and I have this sense of guilt about what I could have done with my life by this point, mixed with the anger you talked about Amanda.”
Terry cut in, “Just a reminder to you all, no cross sharing.”
“I’m not,” said Andrew.
“I know,” said Terry with a smile. “It’s my fault for not reminding you all at the start. Please continue.”
“I’m angry.”
“Tell us why, Andrew?”
“Obviously it’s because I don’t have the time left to enjoy what so many people take for granted. Why me? I’m not a bad person. What have I done to deserve this? And then there’s the uncertainty of whether I exist as a pigeon or if my memories are extinguished in the transition. In simple terms, I don’t even know whether I’m going to die when it happens. All I do know is that I am turning into a bird and I don’t like birds. Ever since I was a boy, they’ve creeped me out with their tiny bones and brittle wings. Plus, I suffer from vertigo. Really badly. So, all in all, the idea of becoming a bird is my worst nightmare. A gift you say? I don’t think so. Curse more like.”
There were nods of agreement. Ruffling of feathers and clapping.
Terry said, “Would anybody else like to comment?”
There was a man fidgeting from side to side on his chair, desperate to share.
“Yes,” said Terry. It was evident he didn’t want the person to speak.
“Finally,” the man said.
Terry forced a smile. “Please introduce yourself.”
“It’s Allan. Most of you know me already.”
“Hello Allan.”
“It’s easy for you, Terry, to sit there and tell us to accept our fate.”
“Did I say that?” Terry replied.
“Yeah, each meeting you do. Trust me. It’s like you’ve got shares in birdseed or something. Telling us to embrace a new beginning and all that guff, but you’re not going through what we’re going through. You say ‘we’. How is it ‘we’? You’re not even perched like us, you’re sitting down, showing off how you can cross your legs when we can’t. You don’t feel the clock ticking as the realisation sinks in that you’re running out of opportunities to kiss your children goodnight, to watch them ride their bikes, to have a kickabout in the garden, to read them stories, and that you’ll never have another family holiday. I will be extinct, gone the way of the dodo, living only in photographs and the memories of other people. It’s alright for you, you can go home and put your trotters up. We have to live with this every day and every night, alone until the bitter end.”
“We don’t know for certain that our human memories disappear,” said Terry.
“They’d better do. I’m not carrying memories of the life I’ve left behind around with me as a bird. I’ll fly straight into a ten-tonne truck if that’s the case.”
Terry looked at the other woman in the group. She gave a quick shake of her head, signalling she didn't want to share. “Believe You Can Fly is here,” he said, “because what you're all enduring is traumatic. There is nothing straightforward about your transition and the speed at which it occurs, but our view is that, one way or another, you are in the process of becoming birds. At Believe You Can Fly, we passionately feel that your journey will be far happier if you embrace your transition. Seeing yourselves as graceful, spiritual pathfinders in a new stage of evolution. Why not go with love and acceptance in your hearts, rather than denial, anger, bitterness and hate?”
The dissent in the room was obvious. Amanda inadvertently let out a piercing squawk. “Sorry,” she said.
“That’s fine,” said Terry. “Let’s have a few moments of reflection and then I’ll open it out to newcomers.”
They listened to the tinny sounding wind chimes on Terry’s dated mobile. Pyser breathed in the incense. He was the newcomer and he didn’t want to speak. Hated piping up in public. Whenever he was asked what he thought, he froze. It was like he didn’t know who he was anymore. Like he wasn’t sure what to believe in. If he spoke, he could hear himself and started thinking there were two Pysers and the one speaking out loud was a bit of a nonce. He didn’t want to be here. And why did Terry keep doing that crap smile? There was a phoniness to him that Pyser had missed earlier. First impressions are generally wrong. The fucker was about as real as an Adidas track suit from a stall in East Lane market.
“I’d like to offer the floor to any newcomers. Please feel free to share.”
There was only one newcomer. Why not fucking say so? Why go round the houses? And then Pyser was speaking. Sharing with the group. His voice cracking with emotions he didn’t realise he had inside of him. Words came out in a torrent. Verbal diarrhoea. Uncontrollable. Fucking embarrassing. It went like this: “I’ve been a horrible bastard. I guess I’m living with the things I have done. The people I have hurt. Women, especially the ones I punished for trying to love me. I’ve been fucking horrible to women and I don’t know why. Can’t figure it out. I don’t know. It’s doing my nut in. I’ve stopped drinking and doing drugs and I think it’s released this fucking reservoir of guilt that’s built up over the years. The way I have treated them is not right. I’ve done shit I can’t get my head round. It doesn’t add up. All I wanted to do was get fucking mashed. Do whatever made me happy. Get pissed. Bosh pills. Have fights. Shag birds. This fucking thing inside of me that kept pushing, pushing, pushing… I can’t describe it… I don’t want to either… I’ve pissed years away and have sweet FA to show for it. Fucking zero. And now this…”
Terry interrupted. “But how do you feel about your transition?”
It was brave of the cunt to interrupt. Very bold. Pyser fought the urge to squawk like Amanda had done. “I’m coming to it.”
“Please continue.”
“And now this… Well, this is a chance I don’t deserve but I’m going to take. You’re all talking about transitions as if they’re a death sentence, whereas for me it’s a rebirth. Who wants to be human, really? I know I don’t. Maybe you do. Maybe you’re happy with your lot, whereas for me to have wings and fly feels like the greatest gift I could ever imagine. And I’ll tell you something that perhaps I shouldn’t -- it’s not like I’m going to be any old pigeon either, I’m going to be the Pigeon King.”
There was stifled laughter. The bloke who resembled Ray Winstone rubbed his forehead.
“What’s so funny?” said Pyser.
“There’s no judgement here,” assured Tony.
The counsellor’s smiling wound Pyser up no end.
“It’s more common than you think to believe you’re going to rule the roost once you’re a bird.”
“What are you telling me?”
“Dwelling on what type of bird you’ll be isn’t necessarily healthy.”
“But the pigeons are mad about me. They follow me wherever I go.”
More sniggering.
Terry said, “That happens. They’re friendly, loving birds. They can sense pain and suffering and want to provide what comfort they can.”
“Bollocks, I’m special.”
Terry pursed his lips. He definitely didn’t approve of foul language.
Funny how total cunts pretended to have standards.
“Have you tried to fly yet?” Terry asked.
It caught Pyser off-guard. “Have I what?”
“Come close to trying to fly. It happens a lot. Transitions are intensely traumatic, you suffer the full gamut of emotions. There’ll be delusions of grandeur, followed by the darkest and deepest bouts of melancholy. You’ll question the fabric of reality itself as you search for meaning.”
Pyser cleared his throat. “What are you saying, everyone here has tried to fly before they’re ready?”
Terry nodded. “Exactly and that’s why it’s so vital to come to these sessions. To share your thoughts and express what you’re experiencing. Whether it’s megalomania, trying to fly, or heavy sorrow at forgoing your body and maybe your mind. Pyser, there’s nothing you can’t talk about and share with the group at Believe You Can Fly.”
“But I am the Pigeon King.”
“Okay,” Terry went on, “I’m conscious of time so we’ll have to move on I’m afraid.”
Pyser wanted to punch his lights out. How dare the bloke cut him off like that. He had to hold himself back from beating the cheeky, pompous, jumped-up t-shirt wearing twat black and blue. The meeting was supposed to make him feel better and instead the opposite had happened. He didn’t want to be a regular pigeon. He’d been there, done that. He’d been normal. Not even normal. More like subnormal. It wasn’t the deal. Not in the slightest. This is the Pigeon King talking. PK for short. Get that into your thick skulls.
They could snigger all they like but the joke would be on them.
When the time came, they’ll be laughing on the other side of their bird faces, especially if some of them turned into pigeons.
Too right.
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Comments
They should all listen - he
They should all listen - he is the pigeon king!
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No worries at all. Hoping all
No worries at all. Hoping all this hard work gets rewarded!
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group therapy. yeh, better in
group therapy. yeh, better in groups like AA where everybody starts from being a drunk, but then it gets fucked up too. This is pretty convincing. I like that.
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'They listened to the tinny
'They listened to the tinny sounding wind chimes on Terry’s dated mobile.' - made me laugh
echoing celticman - I like the group therapy/AA pastiche - keep writing!
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'I am the pigeon king.'
'I am the pigeon king.'
They could hear me laughing from outside my house.
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