Even on the Ground

From the 50’s through the 2000’s-era, predictive descriptions of the future included the invention of “flying cars”. It was a pervasive bit of nonsense which revolved around the assumption that the giants of the automotive industry would produce the airborne vehicles that are now ubiquitous. Although this irritating misnomer cum cultural phenomena spanned decades, it’s now just a footnote, a “fun fact” for those of us who exist in a present which was, to the population of said footnote, the future. So when our teachers, the ones not quite drained of their will to attempt humor in their virtual lessons, share this factoid with a knowing shake of the head, we also allow ourselves a small smirk. For we, as citizens of the future, are in on the joke: Did the existence of planes just not register?

Jets, as we call them (for there was no reason to invent a new word when a fitting one was in use hitherto), are designed and manufactured with the branding of the same corporations which designed and manufactured aircrafts in 2000. Unlike 2000, the skies are now filled with millions of jets, which has created the most modern problem we face. An unnatural evolution has been set into motion, and our iron birds have begun to eradicate the ones which used to own the belt of blue above us. A politician, in the hopes of providing a sound bite that would entice the media, lucked out when he embarrassed the incumbent with a simple question: “What’s the plan for the dead birds?” This was an actual headline for an exhausting month, ended with a volta when the largest corporation of all time made an unrelated, controversial move. The initial, brief overlap of these two events is perhaps what tied them to each other in the coming months.

In a world of jets, cars are less useful for most trips, but not at all obsolete. Jets are for leisure time spent vacationing and shopping global markets in person. Jets cut down on the new inter and multi-national commute of the business class. Jets help those of us privileged enough to own safe-houses escape the lethal waves of polluted air (so-called kūkinamis) in massive migrations to the few natural areas left outside of cities. However, when delivering packages between short distances, a street-level vehicle still makes the most sense, and delivering packages was 90% of what less fortunate souls did for a period. All of us in the shipping-and-receiving tax bracket earned our keep through the CALVUS CORP.

CALVUS CORP’s signature slate-blue vehicles were the backbone of civilization. So the announcement that the conglomerate was transitioning their services to automated drone fleets provoked a widespread, violent sense of outrage. The human counterparts, it was implied, were out-of-work with a wave of capitalism’s impressive claws; insignificant casualties of fiscal progress. Before the inevitable riots, the economic powers-that-be came together and set about negotiating some measures of mitigation. It was determined that CALVUS CORP drivers would not be laid off. Instead, their duties would shift to a new assignment. Finding their motivation in the form of a government stipend, CALVUS CORP reassured the public that the muted-blue vans would drive on for a noble cause. When the faster, cheaper drone deliveries were implemented as planned, the drivers became street cleaners. Their job description was straight-forward and specific: Dispose of the dead birds.

A decade later, the term “birding” has taken on a new, morbid meaning. No longer associated with the cheerful activities of enthusiasts with binoculars, the CALVUS CORP birders are equipped with a scoop shovel and paid per “whole bird recovered”. “These policies,” an upbeat woman in a suit jacket explained to trainees, “will encourage a more thorough sweep of areas in which the carcass is no longer... intact.” For most, it is gruesome, thankless work. For one man, it provided purpose that surpassed the meager compensation.

Sutton was a heart with legs. He was big, but soft looking. He made slow movements and blinked with intention. His parents, verifiable half-wits with a penchant for cold cuts, had named him for their favorite brand of pre-packaged deli meats. It sounded sophisticated, the couple had decided. “Like the sausages?” The question rang in his ears whenever he introduced himself, so he tensed in these situations. Driving up to the curbside, Sutton reached for a pair of work gloves and sat for a moment before killing the engine. Across the street and a block down from where he had parked, another birder was scooping up small bodies and flinging them into plastic storage bins stacked at the back of their van. Sutton exited the car with a small breath out. Gazing down at the bird at his feet, he withdrew a little black notebook from his breast pocket and flipped to a fresh page. Turning out the nib of his pen, he began to write.

Nestled in the crook of the pavement

Where the road meets the sidewalk

Wings spread wide

Though no longer tethered together

You were still soaring

Even on the ground

So I know

That this is not a final resting place

It was a short ode, perhaps straining for poetic depth, but nonetheless earnest. He read it back to himself in a whisper then pocketed the notebook. Pulling on his gloves, he bent down. With gentle movements, he cradled what was left of the poor creature in his gloved hands. He felt the weight of this crumpled bundle of feathers and held it with ritualistic seriousness. He looked at it with the love of a longtime caretaker or friend. Sutton felt all living things deserved respect in death. Just then, a glint of something stuck below the miniature ribcage caught his attention. Parting the feathers, a lapel pin tucked inside the stomach of the bird was revealed. Sutton stood staring, his vision adjusting to the aberration. The pin was shaped like a pair of wings.

One week prior, a man in his mid-30’s wore a half-buttoned dress shirt and stumbled from a bar. His hair was wet with product, and he struggled to move as though he was just rising from a deep sleep. The gold backing of a pin, secured to the blazer that was slipping from under his arm, dropped with an almost inaudible clink. Shuffling the blazer to sling it over his shoulder, the pin itself hit the concrete, where a curious bird would later find it. Jetting off from the bar, the man slurred in the direction of his chauffeur. “Oh, god” he said in a drawn-out, grunting whine. He fumbled around his seat, raising the lights up to search the narrow strip of carpet beside and below him. “No! It’s not here!” There was no follow-up for a minute or two, so the pilot felt he owed no response. Still shifting around, the man leaned his head on the window, transferring beads of sweat to the cool plastic. “I don’t even care. It’s insured for at least twenty grand. Dad can screw right off with his judgemental bullshit.” In another short silence, the pilot hoped the man had dozed off. “I am responsible,” the man insisted to no one in particular. His head slipped from the window and smacked into the screen on the wall in front of him, and the pilot asked, “You alright back there?”

Back at his flat, Sutton affixed the pin to his jacket with a bit of eraser at the back. “This was meant for me,” Sutton thought, “I believe this was meant for me.” The universe, the gods of nature, or whatever was out there, had seen his love, he was certain of it. He looked out the window, then turned back again to take in the room. The apartment was bursting with piles of little black notebooks. Stacks and stacks and stacks. It was a testament of compassion that crept from the corners and along the walls to fill the floor space with little towers of pages. Thousands of odes to thousands of birds. Birds that were unforgotten.