Pete’s Sign – Russell Richardson

The birds’ white shit, flung down from an electrical cable, had blotted out the three feet tall lettering that once read “Pete’s.”

His business had suffered enough. The locals barely paid Pete any mind — or money. How would a traveler, an outsider, find his tiny corner diner now, with its sign completely eradicated by birds?

Linda, one of the regulars, first told him about the sign. Daily, the raspy, desiccated woman angled for free caffeine or nicotine. She would wait at the small counter to see if he’d charge her for a cup. If he did, she would grumble and croak, “Spot me a smoke then?” To get rid of her, he would dispense a cigarette, and she would hobble outside, victorious.

One day, she had come back in to announce, “Your sign’s out.”

“What do you mean, the sign’s out?” asked Pete. “It’s not electric.”

“The birds whitewashed it,” said Linda. She trailed off, noticing him handling his Marlboro pack. “Say . . .” she said, licking her chops, anticipating another freebie.

Curiosity led Pete out the door before she could finish the thought. She limped outside to join him. They stood by the building, under the soiled sign. Pete glared at the row of a hundred birds, none of whom knew Leonard Cohen. Linda asked carefully, “Bum a cigarette?”

Without looking, Pete shook out two cigarettes. He lit his and hers. After a prolonged silence, he made her jump by yelling, “Goddamned birds!”

Pete could not tell a swallow from a sparrow. He had know idea what he was looking at as he fumed and squinted, hands on hips on the dusty sidewalk. Pigeons may have participated, too. He hated them even more.

“No respect,” said Linda. Her cancer voice sounded like ripping bed sheets. Her scissoring fingers put the entire cigarette filter into her mouth. She made a mmm sound while she exhaled.

Pete lowered his gaze to her. He seemed surprised to see her. Often, he was surprised to see her alive at all. One day her ruined body would realize she was dead, and that would be that.

He grunted and bent to survey the pavement. With a cigarette held fast by his lips, and smoke billowing into his watery eyes, he gathered a handful of good-sized gravel and rocks. He stood, wiping his tears with his hairy wrist. He cradled the ammunition in the crook of his elbow, like a little league coach throwing batting practice.

“Watch this,” he said around the cigarette. Linda’s twisted frame stood straighter, at attention. All those cigarettes he’d given over the years had bought respect. And respect, Pete knew, was in short supply anymore. Even birds shat on you. Actually, Pete rather loved Linda’s reverence for him, though he had never realized it. The truth would shock him, since she was a repulsive, haggard creature, below even his rung on the ladder of looks. Bald, fat, unshaven, and always glossed with grease from his kitchen – but, at least Pete owned his own business and bought his own tobacco.

So, Pete had a secret, confusing affection for Linda. What he most definitely did not love, especially then, was birds. His arm drew back a baseball-sized rock that he pitched at the bastards on the wire.

Linda cheered him on like a buzzsaw.

The arc of the rock crested five feet under the birds and fell with a thud onto Pete’s roof. The birds did not flinch.

“That was a warm-up,” said Pete.

“Let me try,” said Linda. She reached for his arm, but Pete pulled away. He nodded with confidence, cocked, and flung another heavy stone.

This attempt beat his previous record by only a foot. If there were any customers inside, they would have been alarmed by the rock banging on the roof.

Once again, the birds blinked at him. A swallow flew off, probably to round up reinforcements. Embarrassed, Pete said, “I never played baseball.”

Linda wrenched a rock from his possession. “High school softball champ,” she said with a twinkle. She spat her cigarette butt aside and stepped back, into the road. Squinting one eye, Popeye style, she lifted a leg and began whirling her arm in a wild pinwheel. Amazed, Pete withdrew from this dervish and watched as she let her underhand pitch fly.

Their smiles faded. Their eyes grew wide. The rock sailed easily ten feet over the line of birds, continued to rocket through the air, and landed behind the diner with a smash of glass.

A car alarm shrieked.

Horror stretched their faces like pilots in G-Force training. After a beat, Pete bolted into the diner and Linda scuttled along after him. He scooted behind the counter, and she reclaimed her stool. He took up a spatula as if he had been working; her jittery hands spilled coffee down her wrist.

Then they began to laugh.

They laughed like fools. Pete folded at the waist and pounded the counter in a screaming fit. Linda rolled about in such hysterics that she nearly fell to the floor. They wept with laughter. Even when the laughing subsided, they held their chests, their aching ribs.

Outside, the car alarm continued its wail like an outraged banshee, echoing through the city.

Pete propped himself up on one arm and said, “Actually… that might be… my car.”

The pair burst into roaring cackles again.

She laid face down on the counter and slapped her palm in surrender. But their riot continued.

“What if you hit… a cop… a cop car… oh, Jesus!” howled Pete. He massaged his sternum and sweated as if he was having a heart attack. His puffing cheeks made Linda cry out wildly.

She managed to say, “I peed… a little… I’m so… ashamed!” She slipped to the floor and flailed to get up. Pete came around and lifted her by the elbow. She was a paper bag of sticks, weighing nothing. He felt thrilled to hold her. As she sat back on her stool, her raised eyes were wet, chocolate brown, and alive. She smiled broadly at him. Pete looked past her teeth.

“Want eggs?” he asked, retreating behind the counter. “Bacon?”

“Well,” she said. She slipped her hand in and out of her pants pocket, revealing nothing. “Can I pay with lint?” Pete waved her off and got busy at the griddle.

Then the car alarm stopped. The sudden silence was jarring. Almost painful. They strained their ears, trying to hear it still, but the alarm was gone and with it, the moment. They both sighed.

“Wasn’t your car,” said Linda with a weak grin. Pete smiled and nodded. She arched her eyebrows, encouraging him to laugh once more, but his well of silliness was dry.

Another customer shuffled in. Linda cleaned her plate while Pete served the new man. When she stood to leave, Pete tossed her a cigarette for the road. That, the coffee, and her breakfast were on the house.

Outside, Linda looked back. The birds stayed steadfast, immobile. Pete went on with his business. His sign was still buried in shit.

Russell Richardson lives with his wife and sons in Binghamton, NY, USA. His publishing credits include October Hill Magazine, Crimson Streets, Scarlet Leaf Review, Jitter Press, Fabula Argentea, and others. @ruxxdeluxx www.russellrichardson.org