Vogel. Vogel scrambles for an escape. Birdy has two points for the takedown and Vogel one for the escape.
Same thing happens again and Birdie has another two points for takedown. Vogel escapes again just at the end of the period. Score: Birdy four, Vogel two. The crowd’s beginning to laugh; everybody’s rooting for Birdy. Birdy’s walking around looking goof y as ever, the wrestling suit hanging all loose on him.
The second period starts in referee position with Vogel on top. He really hunkers in on Birdy. Birdy’s not even looking at anything, just smiling to himself. I figure this is where Birdy gets pinned. Vogel’s a strong kraut bastard; he’s all red in the face he’s so mad.
The ref slaps his hand on the mat and calls ‘wrestle’. Vogel pulls Birdy’s arm for a breakdown and somehow, I don’t know what he did, some kind of forward roll, but Birdy’s standing and Vogel’s there all alone on the mat. Jesus, the crowd breaks up. Vogel’s on his hands and knees like an old bear, and Birdy is standing, looking down at him.
Vogel charges across the mat at Birdy. He fakes going into a wrestle position, then goes down for a leg drop. Birdy twists around and winds up sitting on Vogel’s head. It’s too much. I get so excited I bump my knee into the back of the guy in front of me. He has a sharp pencil in his hip pocket. The point jams into my knee and sticks there. I still have the mark; souvenir of the day Birdy beat the district champion hundred thirty-five pounder. Beat him twelve to six on points, didn’t even work up a sweat. Vogel’s so pissed he spends all season trying to make up for it. He just misses being state champion by two points; gets beaten in the final at Harrisburg.
When brought to meaning, all importance becomes small, as in death, all life seems nothing. Knowing is destroyed by thinking, not destroyed but sterilized; distilled into knowledge. Thinking, the processing of knowing to knowledge.
Finally, I’m puffing so from trying to catch Birdy I straighten up and look at him. He smiles at me. He’s still playing games. He wants his knife all right but he’s not mad at me. I’m just the long arm of fate. I take out the knife. I open it slowly to scare him. I go into a crouch like I’m going to kill him. He stands there watching me. I begin to suspect there’s no way I can get him with that knife, even if I want to. Throw it and he’s liable to reach into the air and catch it. I begin to see how funny the whole thing is. Mario’s still standing there. I throw the knife into the ground at Birdy’s feet. Birdy picks it up. He cleans it, closes it, then walks over and gives it to Mario. He says if it’s really his knife, he can have it. Says, maybe Zigenfus found it, or stole it, and maybe it’s Mario’s all the time. I tell Mario not to touch the fucking knife. I take it from Birdy, then give it back to him. I feel like General Lee surrendering his sword. That’s when Birdy asks me if I like pigeons and invites me into his yard to look at the loft he’s building. Mario goes along home and Birdy and I get to be friends.
– Birdy, you know you could’ve been state champion if you wanted to. You could’ve wrestled all those shrimps at a hundred twenty-five without even trying. Could’ve broken all kinds of track records too.
We’d sit across the street on Saturdays watching pigeons on the gas tank. Birdy has great binoculars he got at a pawn shop. They’re perfect for watching pigeons. We’d watch all day, taking turns and eating hoagie sandwiches we bought on Long Lane.
Birdy makes drawings of the pigeons. Birdy’s always drawing pigeons or any kind of bird, the way other guys draw hot rods, or motorcycles, or girls. He draws details of feathers or feet and he makes drawings of birds like blueprints, with arrows and top views and side views. When he sets himself to draw a pigeon like a pigeon, he can do that too. One of the things Birdy is, is an artist.
One day some cops sneak up on us. They say we’re peeping into people’s windows with the binoculars and they’ve had complaints. People are nuts. By luck, Birdy has a lot of his bird drawings and we say we’re making a report for school. This is something even a cop can understand. He’s going to have a hard time explaining to some lady why we’d rather look at pigeons than peep through her window and watch her pee.
There are a few good strays in those flocks at the gas tank and we want to get some. Birdy, most likely, could’ve talked them into his pocket, but we’re both sold on the idea of climbing that tank. It has to be done at night when the pigeons are roosting. There’s a fence and a night watchman but we’ve been checking and know where to go over.
It’s hard for me to do this. I must kill each bird, defeather it, disembowel it, for one bite. I must. I am hungry; I starve for knowledge. My brain spins in knowing. We trade all for knowledge.
We use our rope ladder with the hook to throw up and pull down the bottom section of the ladder on the back side of the tank. I go first; we both have gunny sacks to put birds in. We have flashlights, too, so we can see the birds and choose the ones we want.
We get to the top OK. There’s a fantastic view up there; we pick out the Tower Theater and lights going all the way into Philadelphia. We sit up there and promise ourselves we’ll come up again sometime just to watch the stars. That’s something we never get to do.
Scary as shit catching birds. We have to reach over the edge into the slits on the tank where the pigeons roost. I try it first with Birdy holding my legs, but I can’t make it. The top of the tank slants to the edge and you have to lean out so your shoulders’re clear over. I can’t get myself to do it. No matter how strong you think you are, there’re some things you can’t make yourself do.
Birdy doesn’t mind at all. He reaches under and hands them to me. If they’re junk, I hand them back; good ones I shove in the bag. We go all around the tank, stopping and checking whenever we hear pigeons. First time around, we get about ten reasonable birds that way.
Birdy says there’re more good ones in the next slit down. He shimmies out till he’s practically hanging from his waist over the edge. I put the bag of birds down and sit on his feet to keep him from flipping over. I’m ready to quit. It scares me just sitting on his feet that close to the edge. He’s leaning out so far now he can’t hand the birds back, so he takes another bag to put them in directly. I figure we’re liable to get all kinds of crap with Birdy choosing, but we can always let them go later.
That’s when there’s a clatter, and some pigeons flap in the dark behind me. I look around and see two birds getting out of the bag. Without thinking, I lean back to shut the bag. Birdy’s legs swing up in front of me and over the edge!
There’s a rush and pigeons fly out and up into the dark. I’m scared shitless; I wait, afraid to move. I have a feeling the whole tank is rocking. Nothing happens. I slide on my stomach toward the edge. Birdy’s clinging to the slits. He still has the gunny sack over his arm. He looks up and gives me one of his loose smiles. He holds out a hand.
‘Gimme a hand up, Al.’
I reach out but can’t make myself lean far enough out to grab him. I close my eyes but then I get dizzy and I’m about to fall off. He takes his hand back and shifts his grip. He tries to leg up over the edge of the tank but can’t make it. I’m beginning to shake.
‘I’ll go get somebody, Birdy!’
‘I can’t hold on that long. It’s all right, I can do it.’
He pulls his feet up to the next rung and tries to reach with one hand to the top edge of the tank. I try to reach for him but I’m absolutely paralyzed. I can’t make myself go near that edge. Birdy hangs there with his ass leaning out into the dark. I get down on my stomach and try to reach as far as I can. I get my hand to where he can reach it if he lets go with one of his hands. Birdy says, ‘When I say three, I’ll let go and grab
