Sometimes I wish birds had never discovered that humans were intelligent.
That's a mean thought, I know, but that's what I'm thinking as a magpie struts on the lanai railing outside the kitchen window, watching me wash up last night's dishes. "Cemetery birds," Dad called them--as in, "stay away from them cemetery birds, Kim darlin'"--because magpies would always be found pecking at fresh graves. I pretend to ignore this one. After all, who can tell the talkers from the signers from the arrogantly mute Avian Firsters? I rinse the remnants of poi and salsa from a plate, running it under the fierce, steaming water hoping it will take off the enchilada cheese that the microwave had practically sewn into the pores of the plate. With my other hand I reach for the soapy sponge, flipping it to the abrasive side.
You're wasting water, human, signs the magpie--a backstep with a dip of the butt for 'waste,' an extended-neck swallow for 'water,' and a raised foot for 'human.' Did I mention those half-fluffed black and white feathers for disapproving tone? Hey, I think, who are you to criticize? We Hawaiians have a word for nasty immigrants like you: haole.
I sign back, Get the hell out of my sight or you're cat food, making it clear that I have a cat at hand, ready--his name's Aristotle--not that I mean some abstract cat, someday. Birds aren't afraid of abstractions. The magpie takes flight with a yek-yek-yek! and an eye-flash of anger. Okay, I couldn't really see the pupils dilate, but when they flap away suddenly like that, with a couple quick wing pumps, you don't have to, eh? Sometimes I hate that I speak Standard Avian better than most people do English.
The wall bleats to announce an incoming call. I really need to find a better sound than the default sheep bleat. At least no sheep are running for president. Damn birds.
"Miss Kim?" It's Ahmed, who is going to pick me up in two hours for our ten o'clock face-to-face with Warren Chang. We could all have met by vid, but Chang obsesses about face-to-face meetings. I think he just takes any chance he can to hop a sub-orbital here. I suppress a smile. (You try to keep a straight face picturing a golden-crested myna flying on a shuttle. Flying! Can't blame him, though: With its rain, Dhaka sucks this time of year--no, Bangladesh sucks all year--and it's always cozy and tropical here on Maui.) Whatever. He's got the jute, I've got clients who need it. I've only got three rules: You got it, I'll trade you for it; The customer's always right; and Granny Jenkins's rule: You can do anything you set your mind to.
"Hi, Ahmed. You're not in your car," I observe, drying a coffee mug. Ahmed lives near Kaupo, not far from Charles Lindbergh's grave, but a good three hours' drive from me. He isn't going to make it, unless he's just bought a convertible and Haleakala has moved a lot closer--the volcano's cloud-covered top looms behind him in what I know is the view from his lanai, not his maglev. "You forgot you were picking me up?" I make a sour face. He knows I hate driving.
"I am so sorry, Miss Kim. I was on-line, voting, and lost track of time. There are so many issues this year! How do I know if Kalakoa School should be allowed a hundred million dollars for a new aquarium? So. I deeply apologize. Shall I call you a taxi?"
Damn! It's election day--which I remembered--but I promised Great-Grandma Jenkins that I'd drive her to the community center to vote--which I forgot. Of course she could vote from the health center. They have netlinks like anywhere else. But she prefers the old style, makes a big to-do about visiting a certain place. "We used to go down to the Baptist church to vote, your father and I," she always says, mistaking me for her daughter. She's so sweet, I can't bear to correct her.
I think I've held my poker face and haven't tipped off Ahmed that I would have had to cancel his ride anyway. This way I can pocket the favor for later. "Ok, Ahmed, this one time," I say, wagging a finger. "I'll drive myself."
He bows his head. "Again, I am profusely apologetic. I took far too long to decide on the president. I consider myself an enlightened man, but in the end, I could not vote for Parrot Silverbeak. I approve of her platform of establishing a world government, but I am ashamed that I feel uneasy trusting human affairs to a bird. The polls say the Avian Party would be able to take a majority in congress, if they could get the flocks--"
I hate interrupting Ahmed, but I hold up my hand. How that boy can talk! Guess that's why I hired him. Great salesman. "Ahmed, excuse me, but I have to repolarize the car if I'm going to make it in time," I improvise. "I don't want to keep Chang waiting."
"Oh, yes, yes, sorry. I will meet you at the Kaanapali Hilton. Ten o'clock, at Mr. Chang's usual tree in the garden?"
I hold my poise until the instant he signs off, then rush around the house like a madwoman collecting my datapads, car keys, more datapads, a sample of jute from 'a competitor' (okay, it's from Chang's flock, but, hey, anything to make the best deal), and the piece of laminated paper that Granny Jenkins would ask for--her 'voter registration card.' I stop before the mirror long enough to swipe a brush through my hair and tie it into a presentable pony tail. I bolt out the door, jump in the car, and shoot down the dirt road from my house to the main road.
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