All We Want Is Everything by Andrew F. Sullivan Read Free Book Online Page A

surgical masks when they go outside. I tie a bandana around my face and wear a hat to keep their constant droppings out of my hair. Jimmy wears his Dad’s motorcycle helmet and has to keep Windexing the visor.
    We are told by parks officials and some short fat man from the government this all will pass, but the birds don’t seem to agree. They gather in large patches in our front yards and observe us through the glass. They rattle our windows in the morning and sing songs to one another when we try to sleep. They almost never blink and all their eyes look like spilled change. They steal tinfoil and barrettes and old batteries from our garages. They eat our garbage and they do not look away. Sometimes they rise and fall like a tide through the air, blocking out the sun and swallowing the rain. You can hear their wings beat in unison. They have no rhythm though—just a buzzing noise like grinding teeth. No matter where you go, the birds are always watching.
    “What you two want gas for?” Orlando says. He carries an umbrella over his head outside the gas station booth. It is already spotted with droppings. Orlando runs the station and owns two others down by the highway. He sometimes details Jimmy’s Mom’s car to keep the shit from ruining her paint job. The three of us stand around the pump and try to fill the gas can. Jimmy and I found it after school in a janitor’s closet. The cleaning staff kind of gave up when the birds arrived and a lot of people decided to pull out of town. No one will notice that it’s gone.
    “We need it for the lawn mower. You know, to cut the grass,” Jimmy says.
    “What grass? Birds been shitting all of it to death. Too much fertilizer.”
    Orlando isn’t wrong. Most of the grass in town is already dead. Trees and plants are losing their leaves. My parents spend their weekends trapping the starlings in cages paid for by the government. They kill the birds by applying thoracic compression, according to my Dad. Basically, you squeeze them to death with your hands. You wear gloves and you wait until their hearts explode or their lungs collapse or whatever comes first, I guess. My parents are paid by the pound and are told to put the birds in plastic garbage bags. Every Monday two garbage trucks roll down the streets and collect whatever people could catch that week. All the bags are splattered with bird shit by the morning. The birds have begun to figure out the traps.
    “Well, we can still ride on the mower, can’t we?” Jimmy says and hands Orlando five bucks. Orlando shakes his head and starts to dart back toward his booth. The glass walls are covered with pictures of Jimmy Buffett and ocean views. Jimmy says Orlando only wishes he was from Florida. He is too pale. He would burn up if the birds ever left and the sun came back again. Sometimes we catch him trying to play guitar at night. He sings from inside the booth at the top of his lungs. You can’t hear anything over the birds though, so he just looks like a mime.
    We strap the gas can into the basket on the front of Jimmy’s bike. His Mom doesn’t know about our plan, but we stash a lot of our stuff at her place. My parents have taken over our garage with nets and cages and the stench of rotting feathers. Orlando tries to yell something after us about safety, but we are already gone, our legs pumping the pedals down the speckled streets. Small children watch us from the windows and above us the thrum of wings remains unending. We live permanently under a cloud and breathe filtered air. We are the only people outside and we would not have it any other way. We will not be cowed by all these fucking birds.
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    “This is not going to work. We need a longer hose or something. Maybe a bigger motor or like a water gun kind of thing. Air pressure? You’re supposed to be good at science, Tony.”
    The birds only killed one man since they arrived. I mean, they’re slowly killing us all, I’m sure, but this was almost