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When Ed Teach finds himself on Highway 30 just before it becomes NW Yeon, at 5:30pm on a sunny Thursday in September, he thinks: what the hell — might as well check out the swifts. It’s been years since he partook in this Portland tradition, and it’s not like he has anything better to do. He veers right onto NW St. Helens, makes his way past the warehouses that abut the shady hills of Forest Park. As he pulls into the neighborhood there is, miraculously, a spot big enough for his Veloster to slide into just two blocks away from Chapman Elementary.
(Yeah, yeah — he knows he’s supposed to go to the lot a half-mile away, leave the street parking for neighborhood residents not yet home from work. But, really, what are the chances that, if he ignores the spot, it’ll be taken by someone who lives here? Almost none! It would certainly be scooped up by some other birdwatcher in a matter of minutes, and if it’s going to go to a tourist from another quadrant of the city, it might as well be Ed.
Plus, his knee hurts, and everyone works from home now, anyway.)
Ed gets out of his car, pops his back, makes his way up to the hill where, every night this month, hundreds of people will gather to watch the swifts roost for the night. A few bird enthusiasts are starting to trickle in, but, two hours out from sunset, there’s still plenty of space with unobstructed views of the chimney. He claims a patch of summer-browned grass near the top of the hill, just as the grade begins to flatten out. People think the higher up the better, but way back towards the sidewalk, you’re basically level with the onlookers in front of you, and destined to spend the evening craning your neck, hoping to see something other than the backs of their heads.
There’s a group of school age kids a short distance away on cardboard “sleds,” careening down the hill with abandon. Ed watches them, remembering the youthful thrill of giving himself over entirely to the forces of nature, ceding control to gravity. He hasn’t felt anything like that in a very long time.
By 6:30, the hill is starting to fill up with families and couples, spreading out the ubiquitous Pendleton-branded Costco blankets or unfolding camp chairs. A surprising number of people are carrying pizza boxes from the place down the street; as one such person walks past him, the smell of hot cheese and yeasty crust makes his stomach growl. Did he forget to eat lunch? Damn.
Ed bundles up his cast-aside leather jacket and slides down onto his back, sticking the jacket under his head as a makeshift pillow. He stretches his limbs out a bit to subtly claim a little extra personal space. Not that it’s really necessary. Thanks, presumably, to the big fuck-off beard and heavily-tattooed skin, visible tummy above faded black jeans, and worn combat boots, he’s being given a pretty wide berth by the family-friendly crowd here, even as the good spots start to disappear.
Some benefits to being a bit scary, he supposes.
There aren’t many birds swooping around yet. He closes his eyes, lets the patter of conversation and the shrieks of children playing wash over him, the dull buzz of external meaningless noise managing to supplant the incessant buzzing in his brain, for now. It’s still light out, although from behind his closed eyelids, he can sense the subtle shift of the sun as it works its way west, soon to disappear behind the hills.
And then, abruptly, a shadow directly over him, and a tentative, “Er, excuse me?”
Ed opens one eye. There is a man peering down at him with an apologetic wrinkle between his eyes. Perfectly coiffed blond curls are an almost shocking contrast against the bright blue early-autumn sky. I want to paint this scene, Ed thinks. Ed doesn’t paint. He opens his other eye.
“Yeah?” he says. It comes out sounding like he’s a grumpy dickhead. Unfortunate.
And yet, the man above him smiles suddenly and broadly, as though receiving a response after directly addressing someone he’s looming over is an unexpected surprise. “Hello!” he says brightly. (Jesus, did he think Ed was dead?)
“Hello,” Ed echoes. He’s still lying on his back, soft underbelly exposed. He should probably fix that. He pushes up on his elbows, and quirks his neck so he can look at the other guy.
“Sorry to disturb,” chirps the man, with the tone of someone who is not at all sorry to disturb, apologetic wrinkle be damned. “I got done with work a bit late, and now it’s so crowded! It looks like there’s space to sit here, but I have a blanket that I’d like to spread out. Do you mind if I—?” He holds up a neatly-rolled bundle. “I’d be happy to share with you!”
Ed blinks. He did not have “blond stranger asking to share his blanket with me” on his bingo card for today, but what the hell. He didn’t have this activity planned at all, after all, and Ed can roll with the punches. Plus, as punches go — well, this one’s more of a light shoulder nudge. “Sure,” he shrugs, pushing himself up into standing to clear the ground for the blanket.
The blond guy grins. He sets down a wicker picnic basket — a wicker picnic basket? — and unclips the rolled up blanket. He shakes it out ostentatiously and lays it on the grass. It has a zigzag stripe pattern that looks vaguely Southwestern. It is also very large. The groups of people who have collected on either side of Ed have to shuffle away a bit to make space for it; more than one person casts a dirty glance at the man. He blithely carries on with his setup, either not noticing the glares or not giving a shit about them. Ed stifles a laugh.
“There!” the blond guy announces happily, with one final adjustment to a corner. “Perfect.” He plops down on the blanket without fanfare.
Ed lowers himself back down, wincing slightly as he moves through kneeling. He is too fuckin’ old to be sitting on the ground. “Hi, I’m Stede,” the blond guy says, once Ed’s ass is back on solid ground. His right hand is extended.
Ed takes it, says, “Ed.” Stede’s nails look manicured. His skin is very, very soft.. Ed has been holding his hand too long. He pulls back and then holds his own hand slightly aloft from the blanket. When did he forget what to do with his limbs?
Stede is, thankfully, not paying attention whatever the fuck it is Ed’s doing; he’s turned away and is digging through his picnic basket. His wicker picnic basket. His back stays to Ed for a long time; Ed hears clinking and something being unzipped. “Ah, there we are,” Stede eventually says, apparently to himself. When he turns around, he’s holding… a fucking charcuterie board.
Ed’s not entirely sure what’s happening with his face, but he’s grateful for the beard coverage because he’s pretty sure his expression is at least a little crazed. His brain is in full buzz mode again, his thoughts best summarized as: ?????????
“I hope you’ll share this with me, Ed,” Stede says, setting the board down between them. “I’ve brought quite a lot of a rather exquisite baked brie.”
He sure as fuck has. The brie in question is a very gooey round in the center of the board, covered in honey and sprinkled with walnuts. It’s the centerpiece, but everything around it is nearly as gorgeous: several other cheeses, crumbly and creamy and smooth, thinly-sliced cured meats, soft-looking baguette rounds. Apple slices (not at all brown, somehow), pre-pitted cherries, little dishes of dusty green olives and Marcona almonds, a tiny pot of what appears to be marmalade.
Ed’s mouth waters. He definitely did not eat lunch.
He’s startled from his food-induced reverie by the click of a bottle opening, and looks up from the board to see that Stede has twisted around so he’s sort of half-sprawled across the blanket. Stede is wearing very well-tailored tan trousers and has an extremely nice ass.
Ed’s mouth continues to water.
Stede twists back with a triumphant little “ha!”, holding an open bottle of pink, fizzy wine, and a slightly bent crown cap. “The fastener for when you roll this blanket doubles as a bottle opener, isn’t that fascinating?! Of course, I could have brought a corkscrew, but I just had to take advantage of —” he breaks off mid-sentence, apparently wildly misreading the expression on Ed’s face. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, Ed! I haven’t even given you a plate yet.”
He hands Ed an indestructible-seeming bright coral plate and a navy blue cloth napkin, along with a metal fork and knife. “All the cheeses and such have their serving utensils out, of course.”
Ed can initially manage only a faint, “Okay…” He clears his throat, says a bit louder, “Uh, thanks, man. This is… great.” That doesn’t begin to capture the absolute insanity of the past quarter hour, but it’s the best he’s got at the moment.
Stede smiles. “Well, of course! It’s the least I could do for allowing me to sit with you!”
This man is a lunatic. Ed is obsessed.
Ed’s also not about to pretend he’s not hungry as fuck, so he turns his attention to the charcuterie board, challenging himself to squeeze a sample of everything onto his plate. As he’s doing so, Stede hands him an insulated tumbler with a wink.
Through a large swig, Ed comments, “Thought alcohol was banned on school grounds.” The wine is very cold and the bubbles immediately fizz through his bloodstream.
Stede waves a hand dismissively, as he spreads brie over a baguette round. “Look at all these people, who would even notice? Plus, both my kids went to this school; do you know how much money I poured into all sorts of fundraising campaigns over the years? This is my due, if anything.” His tongue darts out of his mouth to lick a drop of honey off his index finger, and Ed dies a little.
“Ooh, look!” Stede continues, as though he has not just done something so erotic that it’s probably illegal in eleven or twelve states. “The swifts are starting to gather!”
Right. The birds. The whole reason Ed came here in the first place. He leans back, looks up into the sky. Hundreds of tiny birds swoop through the air, groups of them drawing together, then coming apart. Their overall trajectory is a large counterclockwise circle around the chimney on the school’s roof. None of them are entering yet, but every few seconds one darts down near the entry and then shoots back up, like the anodes of two batteries being pushed together.
Ed glances back over at Stede. He’s removed polished brown Chelsea boots and set them neatly at the edge of the blanket. His socks are light blue and have little rainbows and puffy white clouds all over them, and he’s wiggling his toes as he gazes up at the birds, a contented smile on his face. He must sense Ed’s gaze, because he turns to meet it and his smile widens, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. “This is one of my favorite things,” he says.
Ed is wonderfully, hopelessly fucked.
“I, uh. Haven’t been in years,” he says in response. “Just decided on a whim to come.”
“Well, I’m glad you picked today,” Stede remarks, and Ed is not sure which ancient god he pleased recently, but if this man is his reward, he is not complaining.
The sun has dipped below the hills now, and the sky is a warm orange in the west that fades almost to white before returning to a soft blue above them. A cool, light breeze is sweeping away the heat of the day. Above them, more birds gather, black shapes winging tighter and tighter circles around the chimney where they’ll nest for the night.
They’re so beautiful, their motions so fluid, somehow looking both spontaneous and perfectly choreographed. Ed knows that some nights, a Cooper’s hawk or an owl will join the party, make a meal of one of the swifts. He’s never seen it, but — depressing though it may be — he’d kind of like to. Circle of life and all that.
“I know it’s macabre,” Stede says, “but I always kind of hope I’ll be here on one of the falcon nights. Just another part of nature, you know?”
Ed laughs, because what the fuck else can he do? “Yeah, man. I know,” he answers.
A few more minutes pass. Stede tops up both their tumblers of wine. Ed eats some of the sharp cheddar on an apple slice, layers marmalade and brie on another round of bread. He watches the swifts. Very few of them are flying over the assembled crowd now, mostly staying close to the chimney. Sunset isn’t far away; they’ll start going in soon.
He notices a handful of people in matching dark green t-shirts emblazoned with “VOLUNTEER” on the back. “What are the volunteers for?” he asks Stede. “Just to answer questions about the birds?”
“Yes, and to count,” Stede tells him.
“Count?”
“Mmhmm.” Stede is peering at the sky intently, like he might miss the show if he doesn’t give the sky 100% of his attention.
“The people? The audience?”
Stede lowers his head, chuckling. “No, the birds, as they fly down to roost.”
“Stede, mate. Look at those birds. They’re moving so fast and they’re tiny and all look the same. How could anyone count them?”
Stede’s brow furrows. He looks up at the sky, where the swifts have taken on the appearance of a small, sparse cloud. He slides his eyes over the volunteers and then back to Ed, looking bewildered. There’s a pause, and then they both burst out laughing at the same moment. “I’ve always wondered,” Stede gasps through giggles, “why the count is different by thousands from night to night. I—”
He’s cut short by a collective gasp from the assembled crowd. Whatever invisible signal tells the birds it’s the right time has come, and they start to disappear into the chimney, first a few at a time, and then more and more, the cloud becoming a funnel as they converge to enter the narrow opening.
It’s incredible, how many of them fit: more and more birds disappear inside, but the swarm above doesn’t seem to get smaller. They’re all focused on one thing now, no more lazy circular swoops — just perfectly-aimed dives down into the chimney. Ed elbows Stede gently, mutters, “Ten, twenty, thirty… seventy-three, a hundred and twelve… six hundred fifty-five… three thousand two.” Stede giggles, elbows him back. Somehow, they’ve shifted closer together, their shoulders almost touching as they sit on the blanket looking up.
Eventually, the swifts do begin to thin out; Ed sees a small group veer away suddenly, heading west; he idly imagines a “no vacancy” sign lighting up just inside the chimney, and then it’s over. The assembled crowd, oddly, begins to clap. “Applause?” Ed asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, of course,” Stede says. “They might not come back if we don’t appreciate their performance enough.”
Ed considers him through narrowed eyes, not entirely certain Stede is joking. His face isn’t giving anything away. “Frankly, I think we’re on thin ice, not giving a standing ovation,” Stede finishes. He holds out another beat before his face cracks into a and he starts laughing again, and Ed is a half-second behind. They’re close enough now that they’re leaning on each other as they shake with laughter.
No one lingers with the swifts gone for the night — around them, everyone is already standing, packing up trash and folding blankets. The light is fading quickly, and Stede’s golden hair stands out in the increasing dark.
Ed does not want this encounter to end.
“Um,” he starts, but before he can figure out what’s going to come after that, Stede makes a noise somewhere between a gasp of horror and a giggle.
“Oh, no, Ed!” he says. “You — you’ve got — well, I think a swift pooped in your beard.”
Ed’s hand flies to his beard. The ancient deity has turned on him. He hates the swifts. He hates all birds.
“It’s up a little,” Stede says. “Down. To — to the left. Here, wait, what am I saying? Don’t touch it.”
The ancient deity has turned on Ed, and now he’s betraying himself even further. Digging in his beard for bird shit? What is he doing? Suddenly, he thinks he might need this encounter to end.
Stede is looking at him with an expression he can’t read, but which he has to assume is something along the lines of “I can’t believe this guy is turning out to be such a dork.”
“You could come back to my house with me,” Stede blurts out. “And — and – clean it out. So you, um, don’t have to drive home with, you know…” he trails off.
Oh.
“That sounds great,” he answers. “I, um, can’t drive with bird shit in my beard, I’d be too distracted thinking about it, drive off the road.”
Stede giggles. “Well, good,” he says. “Let me just pack this up — I’m only two blocks from here.”
Ed helps gather their dishes, which Stede puts at the bottom of the basket. The charcuterie board has a plastic lid that clips on top, encasing it. Once covered, it’s the exact size of the basket, and Stede nestles it on top, still fully made up. “Just have to carry it carefully,” he smiles.
Incredible.
They make their way down the hill. Ed feels aware of every molecule in his body, each one sparkling with wine and with the energy that’s building between him and Stede.
“Here we are,” Stede says a short time later. In a neighborhood of large Craftsman homes and occasional sleek, modern condos, Stede’s house is a small Cape Cod, painted vivid turquoise; a brilliant yellow Japanese maple sits in the middle of the front lawn. It’s just like Stede’s hair framed against the blue sky.
Ed looks at the street. His car is parked directly in front of the house.
“Coming?” Stede asks. He’s climbed the two steps to his front door, and is standing with the key in the lock and his hand on the doorknob, a slightly apprehensive look on his face.
Ed looks back at his car, and then back again at Stede. He thinks about sledding down a hill, about ceding control and letting the forces of nature take the reins for a bit.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m coming.”
