Birds and Water

The package looked smaller once it arrived than Mr. Shimabukuro had expected. He had expected it to tower above him, but it was not even up to his knees, and it was compacted into a space no larger than his welcome mat. One hundred fifty bottles of Suntory mineral water, shipped on order of his client, by plane from Osaka to the UPS delivery router in Pittsburgh, and then overland for a day and a half to Philadelphia, finally reaching its destination on his front stoop, where it sat now. It defied his perception to look at it.

The individual bottles shone like jewels in the midmorning sun. They perspired, still cold from the freezer truck, and the sweat that slid from them darkened the cardboard that encased the tops and bottoms of each bottle and fogged the shrink wrap around them.

Mr. Shimabukuro opened his front door and carried the small case inside, setting it down on his kitchen floor. He opened his kitchen drawer and found a scissors, then cut away the plastic and carefully lifted away the cardboard. Mr. Shimabukuro clasped his hands together with delight. Perched atop each bottle was a bird, a whole aviary of tiny plastic figurines, each one of a different species. A toucan. A lark. A sparrow. A cormorant. A loon. An emperor penguin. A Haast’s eagle. And one that drew his sight from the rest, a strange and whimsical creature, not quite bird, not quite elephant, which Mr. Shimabukuro found gaudy and wrong.

He plucked each bird from the top of its bottle, careful not to break the base as it pulled away from the adhesive keeping it in place. He set the birds on his kitchen table, arranging each by type—the birds of prey, the winter birds, the seed eaters, the aquatics. The elephant bird sat on its own at the far end of the table, where it could not taint, nor perplex the other birds.

When each bottle was birdless, Mr. Shimabukuro stood before them, bowed deeply, and said, “Hello, fine birds. Your journey has been long and fraught with peril. No doubt you are tired, no doubt hungry. I apologize that I am not a king, nor a man of great means as would befit your august body; however, I can provide you each with a perch, either with those of your kind or apart. Whichever suits your desires best, let me know. In writing would be best, as I frequently forget what is said to me. I have some business to attend to for the afternoon, but for now, please feel free to mingle amongst yourselves, or not, as you wish.”

When he was confident all the magnificent birds of the earth felt welcome in his home, Mr. Shimabukuro picked the elephant bird up from the table and, holding it in his palm, close to his face, reprimanded it.

“What in the name of god do you think you are doing, Mr. Elephant Bird?” said Mr. Shimabukuro, “You do not belong here, among the many great birds of nature. You are an abomination. I invite you to think upon your shame as you make your way to the trash heap that is your rightful home.”

With that, Mr. Shimabukuro threw the elephant bird into the trash and then shoved it down deep among the coffee grounds, the eggshells, the wads of used paper towel.

Mr. Shimabukuro replaced the cardboard over the icy-cold bottles and masked the broken shrinkwrap with Saran. He carried the package out to his car, where he laid it in his trunk, and climbed into the driver’s seat. He sat for a moment, the sunlight pouring onto him through the windshield, and felt, for the moment, expansive. He breathed in deep, thinking of the birds in his kitchen, the abomination he had disposed of, the bottles in his trunk, still cold as ice, still sweating through their cardboard and fogging their shrinkwrap. He had done well, Mr. Shimabukuro thought. This venture would lead to another, which would lead to another, and so forth. Soon he would have success, after all these years, soon he would be a man to reckon with.

He turned the key in the ignition and drove across town to the home of his client, a factory worker named Edgar, who ordered the bottles through his friend Isao, who, in turn, was engaged in an on-again off-again relationship with Daina, the daughter of Mr. Shimabukuro. Mr. Shimabukuro had not asked Isao why Edgar wanted so much water. Such questions were bad for business. He had only called the bottling plant, where he had friends, and asked them what they could sell him wholesale.

Edgar answered his door, and Mr. Shimabukuro held out the case of water to him. The package was smaller than Edgar had expected. He thought it would be delivered on a dolly, pushed around by a large man with large muscles and a bad odor. It had not occurred to him it might be presented to him by hand by an elderly Japanese man. For a moment, he was thrown.

Finally, Edgar said, “Come in, Mr. Shimabukuro,” and stepped aside to let the old man through. Edgar told Mr. Shimabukuro to set the box down anywhere he pleased, and then ran to the kitchen for a scissors.

“Would you care for some water?” Edgar joked, as he slid the scissors down along the side of the case.

Mr. Shimabukuro laughed politely and shook his head. He waited while Edgar pulled the plastic wrap free and removed the cardboard top. Edgar looked up at Mr. Shimabukuro and frowned.

“Where are the birds?” Edgar asked.

Mr. Shimabukuro started and shuffled in place for a moment.

“Birds?” he finally asked.

“Each bottle comes with a little plastic bird,” Edgar said, “It’s a promotional thing the company’s doing. They’re collectible.”

“There were no birds,” said Mr. Shimabukuro. “Only bottles of water.”

“Well, shit,” said Edgar, “I wish I’d known that before you came all the way out here. I only wanted them for the birds. My wife’s a collector.”

“No birds,” said Mr. Shimabukuro again, “just water.”

“Yeah,” said Edgar. “Well, what did we agree on?”

“Three hundred,” said Mr. Shimabukuro.

Edgar winced and ran his hand through his hair.

“Tell you what,” he said, “since there aren’t any birds, how about I give you one eighty and we call it even.”

“We agreed on three hundred,” Mr. Shimabukuro said.

“Well yeah,” said Edgar, “but I thought I was getting a bunch of birds with this. I can’t pay you three hundred bucks for a few bottles of water. I’ll give you one eighty for your effort and the shipping and everything, but that’s the highest I can go.”

Mr. Shimabukuro frowned. After shipping costs, one eighty was just barely a profit. He would have enough from this deal to replace the gas in his car, but not much more. Finally, he nodded and took Edgar’s money. He left Edgar’s home and drove across the city feeling deeply insulted.

That night, Edgar lay in bed with his wife, staring at the ceiling. The neon sign of a bar buzzed on and off in the street below. Edgar climbed out of bed and walked naked to the kitchen. The bottles still sat on their kitchen floor, ice cold refreshing, still sweating in the humid summer air. Edgar examined them briefly and considered sending them back to Osaka. The fact was, his wife had only wanted them for the birds. She collected them, the figurines, and was just shy of the complete collection. She had the toucan. The lark. The sparrow. The cormorant. The loon. The emperor penguin. The Haast’s eagle. But the one she really wanted, the one she was missing, was the Zo-Chou, a whimsical little creature that was not quite bird, not quite elephant, but was beloved and very much desired among collectors. Three hundred would have been nothing to pay, had the case come with one of them. Without, it was just a case of very expensive mineral water. Perhaps if they stretched it out, thought Edgar, it would make up for the costs.

Edgar poured himself a glass of tap water, which was tepid and full of minerals. Edgar could hear his wife, one room away, grinding her teeth, which she did when she was angry. Or upset. Or sleeping soundly. He sipped his water and stood before the window, when he heard a sound from outside. Something like a moth caught between the window pane and the blinds. Edgar reached between the Venetian slats for the latch that held the window closed and pulled it open.

Later, after the sun had risen, Edgar would try his best to explain the situation to his wife. To help her understand the tiny beak marks all over his body, the many puncture wounds leaking blood all over their kitchen floor, the hundreds of bottles of water—still cold, still sweating against their cardboard container and their shrinkwrap. For now, there was only the cool, damp rush of night air, and the sound of fluttering wings—hundreds of them, he thought—so light and distant.