Birdy Heads

By jmax young

My clients started the bad habit of pointing at strangers and calling them birdy heads! Most people will forgive the rantings of people with Down syndrome, but these strangers were not having it. My apologies didn't do much to assuage the victims of the name-calling, and I soon found out why. What I discovered was that they were, in effect, "different" from the rest of us, and I snooped to find out why. I almost wished I hadn't, because the realization of who or what they were set a whole chain reaction of chaos and disasters, including my crimes of kidnapping and murder and fleeing for our lives. In the course of our running from the strangers, the law, and others, we found friends, allies, and a lot of enemies. But I couldn't run away from the truth, no matter how much it cost me, us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645449317

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Birdy Heads

jmax young

Copyright © 2020 jmax young

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64544-930-0 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64544-932-4 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-64544-931-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

From the Mouths of Babes and Adults with Down Syndrome

More Birdy Heads!

Tony’s No Dali, Maybe Better!

Not Wanting a Rooster to Crow

How Stupidly Daring Can I Be?

Zeke Ain’t Most People

Some Trivia to Attend To

The First Move Is Made

Ho-Hum, Another Day, Another Move

Our Intrepid Hero Recaps

Movin’ Again? Then What?

A Plan? Yeah, Right!

Okay, That Makes Sense, Sorta

KOA, AOK, LOL

A Body to Deal With

The Pros and Cons of Casinos—Neither Exist

Not All Catty Insults

Try and Chase That Nightmare

Yeah, They Also Can Kill

Wow! A Free Trip to Hawaii! If Only

These Fuckers Are Everywhere

Will Rogers Was Wrong

Pele: 1; Birdy Men: 0

One’s mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions.

—Oliver Wendell Holmes

Other stuff by jmax young (give or take a few)

The She Devil from Fire Island

Ribald Reader Trilogy

The Ribald Reader

The Ribald Revolutionary

The Ribald Roamer

A Stroll in the Park

Ash Street with Attitude*

Some Beech Street Business*

Cedar Streeters are Old*

Wanna Date!?*

Birdy Head Trilogy

Birdy Heads

Birdy Brains

Birds of a Further

The Great Maine Down East Revue and Medicine Show

The Prism

*A Denise Delgardo Adventure

From the Mouths of Babes and Adults with Down Syndrome

Donna, look at that man. He’s funny.

Robert was pointing at a fairly mundane-looking character. I would have guessed shoe salesman or entry-level bank teller who had stayed too long at entry level. Nothing funny about failure.

He’s a bird head, a birdy head! Giggles all around.

Since I was supposed to be in charge, I cautioned Donna, Robert, and Thomas not to point and laugh at people. I sort of pantomimed an acknowledgment/apology toward the target: shoulders shrugged, head cocked, raised eyes. He had heard my group’s comments and did not seem pleased.

Well, too bad. No one in the community—or outside world, as I called it—really cared to listen to a gaggle of Down syndrome characters. They seemed infantile in their enjoyment of odd humor at times, maudlin to the point of uncontrollable weeping at others. Their particular disability—or challenge—seemed to lend itself to extremes of emotions. While we in the nondisabled world tried to excel in areas of cognitive skills and athletics and making money and/or bombs, people with Down syndrome let their emotions do the talking and walking.

They, me, us came from the group home near Crown Point in Pacific Beach. There was some legend as to how the nonprofit, long financially suffering agency had acquired almost three acres of prime real estate two blocks from one of San Diego’s pristine beaches for the price of a condo on the cheap side of North Park. So there we were, two six-packs (group home housing six individuals with developmental disabilities) and an apartment unit with twelve two-bedroom apartments catering to a mixture of disabled and nondisabled adults. Brighton House, my assigned residence, had a full studio apartment above the actual group home. No one seemed to know why it was there and why it wasn’t used. I, unbeknownst to anyone, started using it.

I was one of the long-term employees. I had worked for seven months and had seen scores of aspirants come and go—young and old, big and small, tall and short, white and otherwise (mostly otherwise), smart and not, jaded and wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. Since I had learned to read and write and had taken those skills to a couple of post-high school years, I was the one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind. Because math was one of the three R’s I had been somewhat successful in, I continuously turned down any offer for promotion. This place figured that a twelve-cent increase in hourly pay would result in the foolish and unwilling candidate assuming unreasonable hours and responsibilities.

I continued to work the three-to-eleven shift, and as they were continually desperate to hold on to any staff, I was in that one-eyed man catbird seat. Nope! No promotion.

These group homes had some sort of scoring system depending on how much supervision or care the residents or consumers or clients or whatever required. This place I worked in was scored a level 2, which meant that the residents were pretty okay, and my role from three to eleven was to feed them, provide some sort of meaningful activity, get them to do the basic bed preparation (brush your teeth, don the PJs, take a dump), and then give up the day and accept sleeping. Not unlike myself, many of the residents I shepherded could not accept sleep.

This home was dedicated to the Down syndrome population. When I went through my initial training, I learned that the ignorant, uneducated population had once referred to these folks as mongols or mongoloids. And yep, I remember referring to them with the same and similar unkind descriptors, not knowing the unkindness.

Day programs were supposed to recognize what they were good at and what they were supposed to do during the day. These places provide all sorts of training and activities that the managers don’t like to be considered babysitting. Since we were always short on staff, I often pulled double shifts as the expected overnight staff didn’t arrive. Then my duties included waking, showering, dressing, breakfasting, and loading them all into the minivan and delivering them to their various daytime activities. There were six of them, and they shared a lot of similarities that all seemed to inhibit their ability to wake, shower, dress, eat breakfast, and get into the minivan.

My schedule? Monday through Friday, from three to eleven; Saturday and Sunday, from 7:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.; and all those extra shifts that no-show staff created.

If I ever wanted to be a parent, this was the schedule.

I put them to bed, often with a struggle. I awoke them in the morning, and the routine included showering, reminding them to use the toilet, and correctly getting them dressed, and also correctly assembling in the kitchen for breakfast.

Tony’s objective to correctly pour dry cereal into a bowl with minimal supervision, two out of three trials each week. He was supposed to pour the cereal so that it wouldn’t cascade onto the table and then the floor.

Angie’s objective in the morning was to pour her own juice into a fairly small juice glass. I had proposed a larger juice glass but was ignored. Her juice cascaded onto the table and the floor.

Thomas was supposed to simply stop grabbing anyone’s torsos: Tony’s, Angie’s, or mine.

Some of these objectives were addressed at the breakfast table, some at their individual day program, and some out in the community—again, my job.

Today, Donna, Robert, and Thomas made fun of some random guy at the local rec center. I’d witnessed worse.

Bonnie, one of my coworkers at Brighton House, was a pretty good worker. She liked the people in the house and was willing to go the extra mile or two so that they were provided with a good life. I really, really admired that. It was easy enough to convince Bonnie to join me and the four residents who didn’t get to go home for the holiday weekend (Fourth of July) for a lunch at the Harpoon House, a fairly trendy restaurant/bar right on the beach, north of PB central. It was Saturday, and the place was busy, but we got a table deep in the restaurant’s bar/lounge/diner section.

No beer, wine, or martini. I pretended to enjoy a cola with my bacon-and-tuna club. Bonnie had a salad, and all four of our guests opted for french fries with anything. More than a lunch, this was an opportunity to engage the four in conversation. It was a time to evoke their thoughts and dreams and wishes. Both Bonnie and I were good at this level of communication, so the table sparkled with bon mots that would have rivaled the wittiest table at the Algonquin, but in a special sort of code. I took the opportunity to partake some social correction.

Remember, when we’re out anywhere, shopping or eating or going to church or Disneyland or anyplace, we can’t call people names like Robert did yesterday. That is not polite, and people won’t like that. And if the people get mad at you, you won’t be able to go out in the community. I ended with the ultimate threat.

Look! Two birdy heads! Robert was indicating a couple too few tables away who could have been whispering sweet nothings except they both looked like they had just shared a lemon. Of course, they heard Robert, and the lemon became more sour. More pantomime on my part.

Before I could lecture Robert, Donna pointed dramatically at the couple and shrieked with laughter. I considered convincing Bonnie that we need to cut short the lunch, but the couple beat me to it. They ignored us as they marched to the cashier’s spot.

Pondering both the timing and effectiveness of my mini lecture, I decided since it was a holiday weekend, I wasn’t even going to try to correct anybody.

Don’t forget to make an ID note when we get back to Brighton. Bonnie was grinning.

As we were closing down the meal, the four forcing ice cream into areas already stuffed with french fries and Bonnie and I calculating the costs and how we were going to cover the same, staying within carefully monitored controls, a disturbance occurred.

As a young woman approached a table of four other young women, she was greeted with screams of joy. That was nice. Evidently, she had been gone a long time, and the reunion was robust and exuberant. There was hugging and kissing all around, and I couldn’t help but notice that a lot of the kissing involved spit sharing and tongue wrestling. The Harpoon House was a cool place. All types were welcomed. The more avant-garde, the better. All were accorded the same level of service and entertainment as anyone. Bonnie and I exchanged smiles; we were cool.

But the disturbance…

The new arrival and one of the seated guests started to escalate their conversation so that the whole restaurant and possibly half the city block could enjoy it.

It’s been so long, babe! I can’t wait to get you back to your place. Is your pussy wet yet?

My pussy’s so wet I could put out a fire!

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooow!

Yeah, you know it pretty-pretty! I’m gonna wipe your face with my pussy juice.

Well, I’m gonna wrap my thighs around your neck and let you eat whatever you find, eeeyow!

You’re gonna find my cunt, sweetie, and it’s all yours!

I was not impressed with the exchanges, but I was curious about the others’ reactions. It was not good. I realized that everyone was paralyzed for the same reason and not just at our table. As foul and obnoxious as this conversation might be, this was a cool PB establishment, and anyone who might be offended did not belong. Uncool!

The cunt, pussy, ass-licking, muff-diving, carpet-munching, taco-eating, and similar continued as we paid our tab and assembled to leave. Bonnie took the lead, as was our routine—with me following behind to make sure that we didn’t lose anybody. I was right behind Walter, who was actually as wide as he was tall. Sadly, some families seemed to think that a Down syndrome’s obesity was part of their cute factor. Damn, he was cute, but his weight would be his undoing. Fat was fat was fat—not phat. During lunch and especially the latter part, Walter worked his burger, his fries, and his ice cream. Oh, and three colas too.

So Walter marched on, snaking through the full tables of the Harpoon House. Halfway through, as we passed by the table of verbose lesbians, Walter stopped so abruptly that I almost tripped over his four five height. I thought it was time to remind him that we needed to keep walking, but he stood firm. He pointed his index finger at the gaggle of lesbians and said, Chame on oo! Chame on oo! Chame on oo! He was poking the finger in their direction, a ritual he probably learned in the Catholic orphanage. They didn’t respond.

It occurred to me that no one else could have chastised them the way Walter was doing. Not only was there no response from them, but all their heads collectively bowed, pretending to look at their collective shoes. Walter looked from the top of one head to the next. Then finally satisfied that they had learned their lesson, he meandered on to catch up with his gang. Not being able to help myself, I paused long enough for one of the lovers to lift her head so I could fix her with a stare and add, Yeah! What he said.

With me, she started to curl her lip to accommodate a biting response but darned if Walter hadn’t also hesitated and was exchanging her stare for his glare. She blinked first.

Bonnie, Bonnie, did you hear Walter? Did you hear this guy? I was rubbing the top of his head, as high as my waist, with a friendly noogie.

Oh, man, that was on. Walter, you’re the man!

Bab words, bab words.

Bab is right, buddy, real bab! Well, I guess depending on the context whatever we do now will be anticlimatic. Back to Brighton.

In the van, under my breath, I replayed the exchange between Walter and the offenders for Bonnie. Actually, it was not an exchange, simply Walter’s admonishment. I threw in my snide remark for effect. She cracked up.

Walter’s admonishment was rare, unique. His economy of words might have been due to his social, historical delay: Down syndrome, slight cerebral palsy, abandoned at birth, foster-homed into oblivion. But I thought he also chose to save his words—no small talk, speak when needed, wanted, not wasted. It was a trait I aspired to but fell short of, always.

If I could be paid a modest salary to work with Walter and Walter alone, I would never leave this employment. But I also had to harness, direct, redirect, control, handle, manipulate, twist, turn, coerce, recoerce, beg, plead, threaten, promise, lie, and usually give in to the unholy trio—Donna, Thomas, and Robert, the three antistooges. Alone or in league, these cognitively challenged monsters would connive and plot, scheme and design all sorts of seemingly nondestructive, prank-neutral events that led to my apologies and their extremely and buyable innocent reactions. Like the shoe salesman / bank teller at the rec center, I was the guilty party. They were the lambs, pure rubes.

It was a beauteous day when we parked in the Brighton driveway, so after we all used the toilet, we all agreed to walk the two blocks to the beach. Walking with our guys was a study in the science of patience and longevity. The three amigas could put some distance between us and the staff, and Angie and Tony could book but wouldn’t, needing to cling. Walter was the tortoise who would win the race only after the hare and the hare’s next three generations had passed away.

I was not supposed to have a favorite, but I did. I did allow Bonnie to volunteer to linger with Walter while I caught up with the amigas. I jogged past Angie and Tony, who became confused as to whom to cling to, chased me, then waited for Bonnie. They would always default to the slower member of the party. I jogged on.

I knew I was close. I could hear their exchange.

You a taco.

You a hamburger.

No, you a taco.

When I remembered being a preteen and engaging in that sort of verbal banter, I couldn’t remember using fast-food items as my barbs. But so much of what my guys did and understood and valued was food. It made sense, sort of. They referenced their meals while they were eating them. They planned their breakfasts, rallied about their lunches. Everyone at their day programs knew all about their dinners, real or wished.

Our day at the beach held little food, not like our Down syndrome tubbies needed any more.

But I caught them. That was my objective.

Remember our rule—the buddy system—and that includes one of the staff as being a buddy. You guys ran too far ahead of me. But I was speaking to pretty much empty ears.

Look! Another birdy head!

Oh, good grief. How far was this bird head shit going to go? This next victim was another nondescript man walking along the beach. But it was Donna’s booming, fucking voice that carried right to him. Like the others, he was not amused. At least I could now pantomime an apology like a Cirque du Soleil fill-in host.

I crested the hill and watched the three of them play some sort of ruleless tag—running in circles, kind of swatting one another, and pronouncing their insults, which included most of the food pyramid, a testimony to some sort of successful nutrition lessons.

I didn’t have to chase them; their inertia was grounded. I followed their circular exodus toward the kiddie playground, another violation of the bombastic age appropriate mantra of the misguided professional hierarchy. They all raced to the same set of swings that I competed for whenever I visited.

Two bird heads! Donna identified two poor saps trying to enjoy the afternoon sun and surf.

So I had to jog some more and try to get her to shut the hell up before these poor saps became irate.

Donna, Donna, stop! What did we talk about yesterday? Do we call people names? Is that how we make friends or keep friends?

I sawwy.

You say you’re sorry, but you keep doing this. What if people called you a bird head? Would you like that?

I’m nots a birdy head!

Well, those people you are rude to are not bird or birdy heads either.

Yeth, birdy heads.

Okay, I’d run out of wisdom for now, but I was real good at inventing analogies, fables. I could have been Aesop’s apprentice and Michelangelo’s apprentice and Da Vinci’s apprentice and Marconi’s apprentice and Edison’s apprentice and Warhol’s apprentice and Hugh Hefner’s apprentice and so on. For now, I would have to use whatever authority I might wield to control my hooligans and minimize the damage to our various communities.

As Donna retreated to find her co-conspirators, the two birdy heads walked very deliberately toward me. Not good.

Those people you are…escorting seem to be upset with my companion and myself. Have we offended them?

Oh gosh, no! Let me explain something. I work with these guys. They have some challenges, cognitive challenges. They’re developmentally disabled. Hey, no problem. I’m sorry. No disrespect intended. Their humor is, you know, distorted.

I thought I actually used the universal circular motion—index finger swirling toward the temple.

You mentioned that they had a defect, a deficiency that might affect their attitude.

I didn’t know these two characters, and I wanted to placate any potential offense, but I kinda railed at the defect, deficiency remark.

Hey, pal! I didn’t say defect or deficiency. That’s not what I’m talking about. I was trying to smooth any, uhh, misunderstanding that might have occurred.

They walked away.

My guys were retarded, but they were not stupid. They were not defects. They pissed me off, they provoked me, and they drove me to badgering; but they were just as important, had just as much value as those two, those two…birdy heads!

After Bonnie and I agreed that the clan had run themselves exhausted, we walked back to Brighton. I didn’t have to chase the unholy trio on the return trip.

While I was writing my notes for the day, trying to turn Walter’s admonishment of the loose-lipped lesbians into a ballad, I wondered about this birdy head phenomena. I was pretty picky about what movies or TV shows I encouraged, knowing that the crew would be affected in different ways, including nightmares and day fantasies. I also knew that the rest of the crap they were exposed to was rarely scrutinized for impact. Fridays at the day program was movie day. A couple of times, while picking up the gang, I found