Among The Humans

Among The Humans

A Novel

Nolan Whyte

First Edition Copyright 2014 Nolan Whyte

This Edition Copyright 2023 Nolan Whyte

This is a work of fiction.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

About the Author

Chapter One

Tank was a skinny guy with a crew cut. Up close, his face was covered in a patchwork of scars, little lines blending together to give his skin a mottled look. A deep gash had given him a permanent line in one eyebrow where the hairs wouldn't grow back, and there was a purple line on his jaw, just to the right of his chin. They were battle scars from his youth as a hockey goaltender, before he'd started wearing a mask. Everybody wore masks now, he told me, but at one point they'd been a sign of weakness.

He'd come to the city to play goal for the Sparrows, the local minor league team. He showed up at the apartment court one afternoon in early September carrying a bunch of big equipment bags. I was stepping out to go to the store and found him moving these bags of gear into the second-floor apartment next to mine. He was surprised as hell to see me, but he was soft-spoken and played it cool. We made our introductions and he said we should have a beer some time. I said that would be all right.

At the time I was working my way toward a stable, almost normal life, which is nearly impossible for a bird living among humans. People don't like to give jobs to birds, but I knew how to read and write and had started writing detective stories for the magazines, which paid me a little money. During a year that I lived in a homeless shelter I'd used the administrator's typewriter to write story after story, shamelessly ripping off what I read in the magazines at the library. After about a hundred rejections I started selling a few pieces.

I knocked off a short, bad mystery novel, the kind you see on the spinning racks in drug stores and bus stations. The publisher sent me a check for two hundred and fifty dollars, and I used the money to rent an apartment, picked up a used typewriter of my own, and started working on novel number two.

A groaning sound woke me a few nights after Tank moved in.

The apartment court was in a bad part of town, and strange noises during the night weren't out of the ordinary. The buzz from the cheap Italian wine was gone. My head was thick, and I tried to ignore the noise and go back to sleep.

I began to drift away, but another sound broke in. It sounded like Frankenstein's monster coming to life on the other side of the wall. I lay still and listened.

Arraagh!

I blinked one eye open. That was...more than a groan.

Maurice! Maurice! Get that son of a bitch!

I rolled over and looked around the room. Light from the street filtered in through the curtains, and I could see my little bedroom in lines and shadows: the nightstand with its lamp and empty drinking glass, the dresser with the drawers open and shirts hanging out, and the folding table that served as my desk, with the typewriter, pile of loose papers, empty bottles and full ashtray. Nothing was out of place.

He's got a lane! Close! Close!

The sound was coming from the next apartment. I sat up and hung my bony legs off the side of the bed. Another shout came through the wall.

He's got a shot!

I got up and staggered out of the bedroom.

I'd seen a few young guys coming and going from Tank's apartment, but I figured they were his hockey buddies. I didn't know what the hell he had going on in his apartment now. A fight? A drug deal gone wrong? Should I call the cops? I'd never called the cops before.

There was nothing left in my apartment to drink. I wanted a shot of something, a beer or a gulp of wine to clear away the fuzz in my head, but I'd finished the wine before going to bed. I'd been typing. Once the wine was gone, I lost steam and crashed, and there wasn't a drop of anything left in the apartment.

Another moan came from next door. I figured I should at least go knock. I was only wearing an undershirt (pants don't fit me properly), but I opened my door and stepped out onto the walkway. In September it starts getting cool at night, and I gave myself a little shake to fluff up my feathers for warmth. Tank's front window was dark. I walked to his door and banged three times.

It was quiet. Maybe the drug dealers were deciding who should shoot the dumbass knocking on the door. I waited, then knocked again.

There was the sound of footsteps staggering toward the door. Who was it? Was it Tank? Was he bleeding out, desperately trying to get help, while his assailants scrambled out through the back window?

The door opened. It was Tank. He peered out at me, looking sleepy and confused.

The bird... he said, searching his brain for my name. Was it Jerry?

Yeah, it's Jerry, I said. What the hell's going on in there?

What? What do you... Nothing's going on. I'm sleeping.

It sounds like a gang war in there, man!

He shook his head. I'm alone in here. I'm telling you, I was sleeping.

Yeah? Who the hell is Maurice?

He rubbed his eyes. Uh, Maurice. Maurice plays on my hockey team. Well, not this team. He played on my last team. Why?

You were screaming for Maurice to get some guy. You said he had a shot.

Tank looked blank, then cracked a sleepy smile. Oh, hell, man. I must have been dreaming. I really woke you up?

Yeah, man, I said. You really did.

I'm sorry, Jerry, he said, running a hand over the stubble of hair on his head. We had our first preseason game tonight. I guess I'm still a little keyed up. I don't sleep well after games. I had a beer before bed to settle down. He looked at me and grinned. Maybe I need another.

You scared the crap out of me. I sighed. Hell, I could use one too.

He shrugged. Come on in, buddy.

He flicked on the lights and I came inside. The apartment didn't have much in the way of furnishings. There was a ratty couch against one wall, and a table and two chairs by the kitchenette. There were some open duffel bags on the floor. It looked like he just rooted through his luggage for whatever he needed instead of taking the time to properly move in. Next to the door was a stack of empty pizza boxes and a black plastic garbage bag.

Don't worry about the mess, he said. It always takes me a while to settle in.

It doesn't bother me, I said, and took a seat on the coach. I wasn't there to judge.

Tank pulled two bottles of beer out of the fridge, then came over and sat next to me. So I was saying someone had a shot, eh? I guess I was getting shelled. He popped the top off a bottle and handed it to me.

I don't know what that means, I said. I tilted my head back and poured some beer into my open beak.

I'm a goalie, he said. You know anything about hockey? The other team tries to shoot the puck past me to score goals. My job is to make the puck hit me so it doesn't go in. My job is to get shot at. Funny job, huh?

It sounds stressful.

He took a drink. It's like choosing suicide for a career. He ran a hand over the numerous small lumps and scars covering his face.

That's rough, I said. You have a lot of bad dreams?

Yeah. I'm not a good sleeper. It drives the ladies up the wall. When there are ladies. Some girls like hockey players, but they don't like getting kicked when you try to make a toe-save in your sleep. You ever been married?

No, I said. Well, common law I guess, if that counts.

Yeah, that counts, he said. I've been hitched twice, full on, church and everything. What went wrong with yours?

The usual, I guess, I said.

He laughed. Yeah, me too. I'm technically still married now. We're done, but we haven't divorced yet. Two small kids. She's got them in Haverton. She didn't want to keep moving them around while I ran off to join another new team. We didn't work together anyway. We get along better now that I'm away.

Is it hard being away from the kids? I asked. Not having known my own parents, I didn't know much about the subject.

He swallowed another mouthful of beer and slowly nodded. Yeah. Yeah, it is. But you gotta pursue your career, right? You can't play hockey forever. Gotta go for it while you're young.

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. I had no idea how old he was. He could have been as young as twenty-five or as old as forty.

I miss them. They're a pain, but I love them. They were my idea. She was pissing me off, and I started asking myself, shit, do I even love this woman? I figured if we were going to stay married, we should at least have a kid or two. That way there would be someone there for me to love with my whole heart, you know?

Sure, I said. But you gotta pursue your career, right?

Yeah, he said. While I'm young.

I finished the beer and left him there, working on his second. He seemed to be getting into a depressive funk and I didn't want to get too deep into things with him in the middle of the night. Before I left, he invited me to a party he was going to have when his apartment was ready.

Will it be all hockey players? I asked.

Yeah, but I'm inviting some of the people from here, too. Like that chick in the apartment on the other side of you.

Penelope?

Yeah, her. She said she'd come. You should drop by too.

I'll do my best, I said.

Chapter Two

Penelope already lived there when I moved in. I liked her right away, because she was the only one in the place that didn’t give me the stink-eye when she saw me. Like I said, the apartment court is not in a nice area. There’s a criminal element around, and the streets aren't always safe to walk at night. But when I showed up everybody was quick to decide I wasn't good enough to live in their slum.

To hell with 'em, I figured. When in doubt, give 'em the bird. Not that I actually gave anyone the bird. It was good enough to think it.

But the first time Penelope saw me, she gave me a great big smile. I was unlocking the door to my apartment just as she was coming out of her place. I'd only been there for a few days, and I'd already decided the place was full of assholes. When I saw her smiling at me, I froze.

Hi, she said. You just move in?

I nodded.

She was carrying some boxes, but she set them down and stepped over to offer me her hand. I held out the end of my wing and we shook. I'm Penelope, she said.

Jerry.

Nice to meet you.

I smiled. I can never tell if people notice my smile. It's not obvious, just a little turning up where the beak meets my face, but I smiled at her anyway. She let go of my wingtip, said see you around, then picked up her boxes and went away. I stood and watched her go, and for a moment I felt like maybe the town wasn't just a big pile of shit after all.

Tank had his party on a Friday night. I did my best to clean up for it. I had a long shower and spent some time grooming my feathers. I had a look at my face in the bathroom mirror: small brown-black eyes with bags under them, a big orange-yellow beak, and dark gray feathers, including a few on top of my head that never quite stayed in place. Not exactly movie-star handsome, but I am what I am, as the saying goes.

I looked tired. I always looked hung over. I looked middle-aged, for a bird. But I didn't know what middle age should be for me. I wasn't an ordinary bird. I was five feet tall. I spoke, and I could read and write. I lived in an apartment and drank beer. I was living a human lifestyle, but I was still a bird. A freak bird, I guess.

At eight o'clock I could hear voices in the next apartment. I pulled on a clean shirt and grabbed a six-pack of bottles from my fridge. I tucked a bottle opener in my shirt pocket and went over.

I banged on Tank's door. A young man opened it and looked at me blankly. I'm here for the party, I said.

He turned his head. Hey Tank, there's a bird at your door.

That's my neighbor, Tank replied. Let him in.

He stepped aside and I entered. There were half a dozen young men with mops of hair and moustaches, all holding cans of beer. They all looked at me like I had five heads.

Hey, I said, waving hello to the group. I'm Jerry. I live next door. I looked around. All males. No Penelope. Where are the chicks?

Is that a bird joke? one of them asked. He was slouching on the couch with a beer in his hand.

No, I meant human females. Although I can see how you might get confused.

Tank was in the kitchenette, loading beers into the fridge. He came over and shook my wing, and directed me to take a seat on the couch next to the slouching guy. I sat down and set the six-pack on the floor between my feet.

So you're a bird, huh? he asked.

Since the day I hatched. I pulled out one of the bottles and popped the cap off using the opener.

That's a twist off, isn't it?

Yeah, but I've got small thumbs, I replied. It's not bad though. Most birds have no thumbs at all. At least I can hold the bottle.

I guess it's hard to get a good grip with the feathers.

Yeah. I took a long drink, tipping my head back and pouring the beer into my lower beak. It washed over my tongue and down my throat.

So what's it like? he asked.

What's what like?

Being a bird.

It's all right, I said. Except people ask some weird questions.

He belched. Like what?

Like how come I wear shirts, or why don't I fly around all the time, or what it's like being a bird.

Oh, he said, pointing at me, then at himself, then back at me. Like I just did, right. Ha ha. I get it. He held out his hand to me, and I shook it. My name's Mike, he said. I play on Tank's hockey team. We all play on Tank's hockey team. Except I'm good. The rest of these guys suck.

Someone threw a potato chip at him. He picked it up and ate it.

So what's that like? I asked.

What?

Playing hockey.

Oh, it's easy, he said. You just skate around and score goals. Well, for me it's easy. For the rest of these guys, it's hard. They look like a bunch of apes on skates out there, but they try hard. That's what makes it so sad.

Fuck you, Dempsey! one of the other guys shouted, and he laughed. I could see they were all buddies. Seven hockey players and a bird. I drank my beer and listened to them. They were drinking and talking about towns and travel and women and bus rides and summer jobs and crazy teammates and getting into jams and getting drunk. Shop talk. More people arrived, including some women, and the drinking and talking went on. But no Penelope.

It was almost midnight when she showed up. The little apartment had filled up with people, mostly hockey players and their companions, plus a few other people from the building. Tank