Carnegie Mellon is Not a Fruit

(1)

It was an ordinary day in most ways. There were no unusual weather patterns--among my acquaintances, my relatives, no birthdays. Still, the day was made memorable.

An enormous, mechanical bird, its hinged beak resembling the front end of a Volkswagen, could be seen outside the window of the local beauty parlor.

Everyone pretended not to see it, reading magazines while parked under the noisily whirring hair drying helmet; laughing at idle gossip whispered by the manicurist, whose eyes twinkled and playfully darted from side to side; staring at the ceiling, quietly waiting one’s turn for Stella, the favored beautician, to call one's name.

Outside, the upper half of the giant metal beak rose and then fell with a murderous clang.

(2)

“That was ridiculous.”

I have heard these words so many times in my mind. I have played them in a loop, over and over, while waiting for sleep to come. Endless, seemingly endless nights.

“That was ridiculous,” the voice would say. “That was patently absurd.”

(3)

“Calico cats, won’t you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight,

Calico cats, won’t you come out tonight, and dance at the sight of a spoon?”

The man stumbled down the cobbled street, barely able to walk, much less dance.

His throat was scratchy as he sang. His enunciation perfect. His tears profuse.

(4)

I received instructions in the mail. They were typed, apparently using a manual typewriter, on an index card. The alignment of each letter was slightly askew. The typewriter’s ribbon must have been fairly well used, for the letters, not black, were grey.

“Imagine yourself the roofer of a bungalow,” the directive said. “The bungalow owner is far away. He is skipping. He is wearing plum-colored lipstick. He is reliving past agonies, past moments of joy. Meanwhile, you are on a ladder leaning towards the roof. You have a nail gun. Look up and search the sky.”

With a sense of liberation, I flung wide my door and strode outside. “I will comply!”

(5)

A certain scent triggers vivid memories, long suppressed.

It is related, perhaps, to biscuits and to poignant shame.

Almost immediately, it skitters away.

(6)

There is no number six.