Maynard and the Mynah

The mynah bird started talking at around noon on a Saturday. It was perched like a crow on the koa dining room chair, watching Maynard wash the dishes. "Maynard," it said. It's voice was a squawk, but it sounded strangely human — as if someone were talking through a walky talky — it's voice frayed with static around the edges. "Maynard... Maynard, you slut."

Maynard set a wet silver rimmed plate into the dish rack and turned down the water. He peered out of his window. The lawn was a radioactive green, baking under the sun's zenith. A red toyota hatchback drove by. The ti leaves rustled next to the window and Maynard ran out of the house to see if there was anyone there.

"Maaynard. Come in my face," said the mynah bird.

His wife, Sandy was out on a trip. She had flown out to Chicago to promote a fashion event. As an event promoter, she traveled frequently, sometimes spending only a few weeks at home in Kailua then flying back out for months. She had brought in the mynah when it was still an infant. "Found it out back," she said. "Must have fallen out of it's nest, or something."

Maynard had always liked mynah birds. As a photographer, he took many portraits of different birds on Hawaii, but the mynah bird was his favorite. Their dark plumage and their bright beaks and yellow rimmed eyes made them look like bandits. Regardless of their comical walk, they always seemed smarter and less flightier than the other birds. They were schemers. He would see them waddling around parking lots, stealing bits of food from the other doves and finches. He would often see them staring at him with indifference through intelligent, conspiring eyes. Smart, yes. But could they talk?

"Put in in my mouth," said the mynah. It's name was Keo, and lately, it had been spending more time outside of it's cage than within. It had figured out how to lift the cage door and let itself out. At first, this was a nuisance to Maynard and Sandy, but eventually, they had warmed up to the idea of a roaming mynah, exploring the home like a kitten. After all, aside from the occasional droppings, it did very little damage to its surroundings. It was a novelty after all, to have such an obedient little bird.

"Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Ohhhh!" screamed the mynah. "Harder Maynard!"

This was not good. How many times had the mynah let himself out of the cage, waddled out to the bedroom, and stood in the doorway? The first time he let Allison come over, they were having sex in the bedroom when Allison let her head hang upside down over the edge of the bed and exclaimed "There's a bird in the doorway. He's just watching us."

"Keo! Scat!" yelled Maynard, and the mynah skulked off.

"Keo! Scat!" said the mynah, now. "Oh yeah. Fuck me."

Allison was always a performer. That's what he liked about her. But now he had a problem.

Maynard sat on the chair next to the mynah, and it hopped down to the seat, jumped onto his lap, and started pecking at his zipper. "Mynahs don't talk, do they? Do you?" he asked, half expecting an answer.

"Oh, oh, oh... uh, uh, uh..." said the mynah, looking up at him. "Maynard, oh Maynard. Oh, Allison. Allison, I love yoooo."

Shit. This was a problem.

* * *

There were two friends he could call. There was Josh, who he was closer to. But there was also Alan. Josh, the more sensible of the two, would talk to him about his feelings of guilt, and would attempt to counsel him on his attitude toward his relationship with Sandy. Alan, on the other hand, would help him figure out how to avoid being discovered.

He called Alan.

"Yo," answered Alan. "May-nawd, what's up. What you been up to." It wasn't a question so much as a greeting.

"Alan. I'm in the shit here." Maynard explained the entire situation and Alan was cracking up on the other end of the line. "If I don't figure something out, Sandy's gonna find out all about me and Allison."

"No way. This is too rich. Okay. Buy the beers. I know what to do." said Alan. "I'll come over in ten minutes."

Maynard hung up and sat in front of the television. The mynah bird was perched on the arm rest, watching him curiously. The screen was off, and he could see his own reflection silhouetted against the picture window as the curtains billowed in and out like lungs. The bird began to speak. "Yo. I'm at May-nawd's house now. Yeah, he's gone at work. He's got a lap top and a camera, about 7 grand worth of stuff."

"Woah, woah. Play that last part again," said Maynard to the mynah.

The mynah bird bobbed its head up and down.

"Once more. Play it back," said Maynard.

"I'm at May-nawd's. How much you give me for a tool set?" said the mynah.

It was unmistakably Alan's voice. He was the only person who pronounced Maynard, May-nawd. When the house got robbed, there was very little sign of a break in. Aside from the broken lock, the house hadn't been ransacked. It was as if the burglar had known where to look all along.

* * *

When Alan showed up, he was carrying a crowbar and a pair of black gloves. "You got any beer?" he asked as he walked up the gravel driveway.

Maynard blocked the doorway, and Alan stepped back. He knit his bulbous brow and frowned for a split second before resuming his usual hyenna-like grin. "No worries!" said Alan. "You wanted to push the button on the bird right?"

Maynard folded his arms. "You spoke when you were going through my house, right?"

"What do you mean?" asked Alan, almost convincingly puzzled.

"When you took my laptop and my camera. You were talking on the phone," said Maynard, stepping forward. "You think the mynah bird recorded only my exploits?"

Alan let his head drop. He removed his gloves, "Oh shit," he said. "You gonna call the cops? I can pay you back for all that stuff. It was a tough period for me, remember?"

Maynard pointed to Alan's new Acura. "Yeah, hard times. Get the hell outta here. Don't ever call me again."

"What about the bird? We gotta destroy the evidence. No one is clean here," he said.

"Get off my lawn," shouted Maynard. "Before I push the button on you."

Alan turned and walked off.

* * *

When Maynard went back in, he saw that the mynah bird was perched high up on the bookshelf next to the television. Somehow, it had come to know that he had the goods on all of them, and took his perch elevated high above the living room. Perhaps it had already suspected that his life was in danger.

Maynard laid down on the sofa and began looking through his schedule. There was a shoot for at Ko'olina on Wednesday. And on Thursday, there was a shoot for Foodland. Other than that, his schedule was wide open.

He was about to fall alseep when the mynah began speaking again.

"Maynard's not coming home until late," it began. This time, it was Sandy's voice along with another woman's whom he didn't recognize. "Just, bare with me. Here are the first two account numbers. 40 in this one, and 9 grand in this one. Correct? I got three socials for these cards."

Maynard sat up and listened as the mynah bird recited the entire conversation verbatim. There were bank accounts, credit card numbers, social security numbers, names and addresses. When the mynah had stopped speaking, Maynard had it all put together. It was some sort of identity theft ring, and Sandy was one of the top members of the circle.

No one was clean.

* * *

When Sandy returned home the next Sunday morning, she dropped her bags to the floor, and sat down in the dining room chair. "Whew,"she said. "Mayn, you home?"

Maynard walked out from the bedroom with a cup of coffee. He folded up the Star Advertiser and dropped it onto the table. "How was the trip," he asked.

"Busy busy," she said. "The event was a success. We made a lot, I mean, a lot of good contacts. I think there might be something for me in New York, but we'll see. How was your week? What did you do?"

"Oh. A couple of shoots here and there," said Maynard. He sat down and propped both elbows onto the table, slowly turning the coffee mug in his hand. "Did you know," he said. "That mynah birds could talk?"

"Yeah, sure." Said Sandy. "They repeat words and stuff, but you need to be really patient and train them. I don't think Keo would be able to learn anything at this point. He's too old. You need to train them before they hit six months or so. Speaking of Keo, did you remember to feed him the apple cores?"

Maynard leaned back in his chair and set the coffee mug down. "He can speak. And I mean, really speak."

"Yeah?" asked Sandy, mildy surprised. "Let's hear it!" She looked around the living room. "Where is he?"

"I'm talking long monologues and soliloquys."

Sandy grew silent and waited for Maynard to continue.

"Long, really long telephone conversations were recited. Hour long conversations. All in pitch perfect imitation. There was never really any question of who he was imitating."

"Really," said Sandy. Her eyes were gleaming like cold stones. She stared icily at Maynard. "So, what did he say?"

"Oh, a lot. A whole lot. For example, my conversations with you. Two hours of it was repeated to me verbatim. Smart bird."

"Uh huh," Sandy strained to read him. Her eyes narrowed. "Where is he?"

"Oh, he was just. Too. Much." said Maynard. They stared at each other over the table like a pair of poker players. "I let him go," he explained. "Couldn't take another moment of his, constant. Meaningless. Babble."

"Well," whispered Sandy. "I'm sorry to hear that."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Trust me," said Maynard, finally, letting his hand rest on hers. "It was for the best."

"Yeah. No. I believe you. You're such a sound sleeper. You can sleep through anything. If he bothered you, then well. He really would have gotten under my skin."

* * *

When Maynard let the mynah bird go, it took flight immediately. It circled high overhead then returned to the lawn where it perched on the fence. It turned its head to regard the home with his left eye, then with the right, taking in one last look. In the sunlight, it's dark, oily slick plumage took on a new iridescence of blues and purples. Without sentiment, it stretched out its wings, let out a final squawk — "5441 4112 8458 7551!" — and flickered up over the rooftop, high into the blue sky.

Out in the world now, riding tradewinds over Oahu, sailing over the Pali, over rivers and reservoirs, over parking lots and forests, the mynah bird is at long last part of a flock.

Occasionally, mistaking a household as the home of his youth, it would land outside of a window and start speaking. And if the home owner were lucky, he would hear the bird recite love poems, strings of credit card numbers as well as some of the filthiest sexual commands anyone would ever want hear coming out of such a bird. Then the mynah would flit upward into the ether again, it's wings soaring so cleanly above it all you would have never known it was once mired in the dirt below.