The men in jam-jars by Adam
Parry.
Jerry threw bread for the birds
from his doorstep, he did every day, small squashed together pellets of white
that take a while to find the seagulls sweeping in the sea of summer, crows
protest and try to scare the wee birds away, but they go anyway beaks full to
the safety of the garage roof, while the big birds search.
Reaching into the open kitchen
door he took a second slice of bread, feeling some kind wonder (what others’ might call happiness.)
I could stand here all day watch the shadows fall away as the sun arches
over the cottage slips to the garden side of the house burning on his face all
afternoon as he watches the antics of the blackbirds, the family of starlings
nesting beneath the overhang of his roof, a wood pigeon perched on the garage
disdaining the free for all fighting as Jerry fed the birds then imperiously
flew down the hill towards the river.
That was only a single slice of
bread left.
When that was done and the garden
became deserted he went inside. It was only ten o’clock in the morning still
the post would be soon, he sat in the front room, had his last cigarette, and
waited for the post as patiently as he had fed the birds. He’d stubbed out the
fag ten minutes ago and there’d been only silence from the letterbox. After
another five minutes he put on his long black coat and went out the front door taking
time to dead head the rosebush at the side of the brown door.
Chemist. Fags. Bread. As he
walked he couldn’t think of anything else he needed. He tried to remember how
much milk was left, or the coffee but it just confused him, but he consoled
himself instinct and memory would escort him round the shop and he usually got
what he wanted. Halfway there beside the freshly painted letterbox slowly being
hidden by the encroaching pine trees, a sun blanched stranger came up to him
his face in Jerry’s and said bluntly:
‘You don’t need that coat in this
weather.’
There was an anger in the man’s
voice as if he were personally offended by Jerry’s coat, scowling Jerry walked
on. Of course the fella was right by the time he got back he had the coat on
his arm and he was sweating like a pig because of the pills he was prescribed.
He dumped his bags on the kitchen floor put on the kettle hung up his coat,
inside that brief meeting made him angry I can wear whatever fucking coat I feel like
wearing and he was pissed with himself that he’d let some surly interloper even
dare to tell him what to do, in his mind he would wear the coat down the way
the morn and he could tell the guy to go fuck himself, then a scream built up
inside of him he ripped the cellophane from his fag packet, got the lighter to
work after the sixth time made coffee and sat in his spot in the front room
sunlight coming in from the half-closed curtains like temptation he felt the
warmth on his face as he knocked back his five pills with his first coffee of
the day.
After a while the mood faded away and the anger was if it had never
been, the guy was just trying to be helpful not questioning his fashion taste
and for the rest of the day he didn’t think of it again.
Maybe a month later and so soon high summer as Jerry in shirt sleeves
and a bag of shopping in both hands made it to the pedestrian crossing without
losing half his body weight in sweat, he was going over the road to the new
café, but then coming towards him on the far side of road was the same man from
earlier who liked to tell strangers what to do, over his shoulder he carried a
bag full of cans of lager. Oh, Jerry thought anxiously, he’s seen me. He turned
away, wanting to be invisible, from the crossing and walked along his side of
road away from the guy and his bag of lager then he was out of sight turning up
towards the hill and home. At first he thought it funny that he’d snubbed the
guy and his cans of hell, then he felt bad that he’d probably hurt the guys
feeling that he, Joey, tee total Joey hadn’t wasted the day getting
ridiculously pissed with this character he was growing to dislike, why the fuck
should I fuck up my week just because he’s lonely. It was better to forget
about it and he took his pills as he ever did and he forgets.
On the day Jerry always went to the library to take back a book, the
same man was holding court at the row of computer. His voice loud enough to
hear telling people how he once witnessed an autopsy and described it in gory
detail a few of the others wanting to work on the computers got up from their
chairs and fled Jerry annoyed he couldn’t concentrate reading the Evening
Express started to follow them and he escaped lager man and the swirling
morbidity and mental screaming that the guy had infected the hallowed library
with. Jerry’s day was ruined and he’d already taken his pills. He was hungry
and he didn’t want to go home where the harrowing events in the library would
churn menacingly in his head, they’ll be letting footballer players in next,
no, so instead he went into the Bank Bar he ordered sausage chips beans and two
eggs and pint of coke, across from him under the on TV a fellow in working man’s
attire scowled at him, Jerry idly wondered what disservice he had applied to
this little person and then didn’t care his food had arrived.
He occasionally looked nervously back fearing the autopsy guy was
following. He thought about going back
the pub to hide but he’d probably come in for his fourteen pints of lager, intimidating
Jerry into a round and fool Jerry into talking to him. He had to take money out
of the machine at the TSB to buy the vastly overpriced two-ton bag of cat food
his cat liked. There was on person at the ATM and while he waited two others
joined the queue. Ahead, suddenly panicked, of him was the autopsy guy checking
his balance, he turned and saw Jerry and once he’d finished stood by Jerry.
Once again he pushed his face violently into Jerry’s personal space and
said:
‘You don’t like me do you?’ Angry Jerry got out of the way of the other
two in the queue, took a step towards the guy who moved two back.
‘I don’t even know you.’ Jerry exclaimed.
He managed to get free of the guy and started for home, his head nippy
now he wasn’t able to get money because of the boy so now he was depriving my
poor little cat with his utter ill-mannered way of behaving. The following week
he didn’t take back his overdue book in case the boy was inside again.
Annoyed that his usual regime had be curtailed by George or Nathaniel
or whomever the fuck he is. George suits him best, Jerry thought and stood on
the back doorstep feeding the birds hot sun fell on his face he would sit in the
garden soon, and write a chapter or two of a book and tidy up the weeds and the
pea plant he cut off the green fans of the rhubarb plant , then cut the stalks
he was well proud of the bundle of his favourite fruit. Again at the doorway Jerry
fed the birds with renewed gusto and it seemed half the birds of the village
flocked to Jerry that day.
Further along the row of cottages, out of sight of Jerry, George fed
the birds with little pieces of white bread especially for the large
congregation of sparrows, he thought he could do this all day watch the sun go
down and the pink sunset surprise him and still on into the dark, all through
the night, all the while trying to make friends with birds.
