“Trust me, kiddo, you’ll remember your first Hinkley Buzzard Day for the rest of your life.” Weird Uncle Hank elbowed Geordie in the ribs and added, “It’s a rite of passage.”
Geordie refused to dignify that remark with a comment. Unfortunately, though, he knew that by saying so, Hank had imprinted that moment in his memory, so he couldn’t forget it if he wanted to, which he did, desperately. He slapped his palm against his brow and thought, Kill me now.
When he was little, Geordie sort of enjoyed these excursions with Weird Uncle Hank. He was unmarried and childless, and desperate for a boy with whom to do redneck things, like going to the monster truck rally or roller derby. Now that Geordie was thirteen, though, he realized to his chagrin that Hank was a kind of a loser, so he wanted nothing further to do with him.
“The return of turkey vultures to Hinkley is a sign of spring, rebirth.”
Freakin’ zombie birds, that’s what they were. They were buzz-ugly and feasted on the flesh and guts of dead things. No wonder every year they returned to a dying, shithole town like Hinkley. They fit right in.
“Buzzards are downright majestic in flight,” Hank exalted. “Just wait — you’ll see.”
If my eyelids aren’t frozen together, Geordie thought. An overcast dawn leaked through the leaden sky. Erratic snowflakes flitted around Georgie’s face like gnats made of ice. With every breath, he felt frost penetrate deeper into his sinuses, all the way to the backs of his eyes and the bottom of his brain. He wondered if breathing frigid air could induce a cold stroke.
Ma had insisted that Geordie wear his winter coat, so naturally he refused rather than give her the satisfaction of thinking she could tell him what to do. He left wearing a sweatshirt, ripped jeans, and sneakers without socks. Now, he blamed her for freezing because if she hadn’t made an issue out of it, he would worn the damn coat without being told. It would serve her right if he got hypothermia.
Hank tugged on Geordie’s sleeve and said, “Follow me.”
They entered an area called the Buzzard Roost, where a lineup of bird dweebs jostled for position along a rail fence and gazed across a snowy field at distant bluffs. Conspicuous among the group, a stupidly grinning, frizzy haired woman who looked like a clown without makeup was wearing a buzzard head hat and with a hooked beak drooping between her eyes. Dressed in dumpy layers, her figure was worthy of a fun house mirror. The binoculars hanging from her neck reminded Geordie of twin bazookas. She flapped her arms by her side while squawking, “Here buzzy, buzzy, buzzy.”
What planet is she from? Geordie wondered. Weird Uncle Hank noticed him ogling her. “That’s my pal, Lucinda. She’s the official spotter,” he said. “The buzzards haven’t formally returned until she says so.”
Geordie grunted to indicate that he heard him but could not care less. On the other side of the parking lot, next to the porta potties, somebody had started a trash can fire. Geordie was thinking that if he told Hank that he really had to piss, he could sneak away long enough to warm up next to the pyre. It might just save him from losing the tip of his nose to frostbite. OMG, he flashed a mental image of himself without a nose, and he looked repulsive.
“Let’s go wish her Happy Buzzard Day,” Weird Uncle Hank suggested, and started walking in Lucinda’s direction before Geordie had a chance to object that he wanted — er, needed — needed to go take a leak. Now, he thought that maybe he really did. Or was that wishful thinking?
Before accosting Lucinda, Hank unzipped his coat to reveal that beneath it he was wearing a Hinkley Buzzard Day t-shirt, complete with black feathers around the collar. He looked back over his shoulder and swept his head in a ‘come here’ gesture. Geordie trudged forward with all the enthusiasm of being summoned to the principal’s office.
“Howdy, Lucinda,” Hank hooted. “Today’s a grand day for buzzard-ing, ain’t it?”
Lucinda stood on tiptoes to kiss Hank on the cheek, then deadpanned, “It’s positively raptor-ous.”
They laughed as if that was the funniest thing that either of them had ever heard in their lives.
Gross, Geordie thought. Who is this bird brain, Lucinda, and why is she kissing Weird Uncle Hank?
Upon composing herself, Lucinda asked, “Who is your handsome young friend?”
“This here is my nephew, Geordie. Today is his first Buzzard Day.”
“Well, then, we’re so glad you came,” Lucinda said. “Every year on March 15th, the buzzards return to Hinkley, Ohio after a long winter of working on their tans down in sunny Florida.”
Hank slapped his knee and laughed. Geordie guessed that was supposed to be a joke, but even if he wanted to, his face was so frozen that he couldn’t have forced a smile, much less laughter.
“It’s a spiritual renewal,” Lucinda continued. “Look at the crowd. People come from all over the world to witness this event. I was just chatting with an older couple, a pair of birders from England who said that being here to see the buzzards return to Hinkley crosses off an item on their bucket list.”
Why, Geordie wondered. Don’t they have vultures in England?
When Lucinda spoke, the beak on her buzzard hat fell over her eyebrows. Geordie wasn’t sure which was worse — that she looked so dorky or that she took herself so seriously. Either way, Geordie was grateful when she he returned her attention to Hank, and together they scanned the sky above and across the field, along with hundreds of other buzzard lovers, all looking for the season’s first avian scavenger.
Embarrassed by association, Geordie’s instinct was to look in the opposite direction of everybody else. He was staring at the garbage can fire, watching smoke rise, when he allowed his eyes to drift upwards. Then he saw it. Circling high above the porta potties, perhaps mistaking their stench for the scent of death.
Geordie pointed and screamed, “Look!”
Every head turned at Geordie’s decree. Oohs and aahs arose from the throng. “That’s it!” Lucinda confirmed. “The year’s first buzzard.”
A robust hooray and thunderous applause followed. Geordie felt Hank’s hand fall on his shoulder. “Congratulations, kiddo” he said. “You’ve earned your beak.”
Lucinda bowed to Geordie and presented him with a plastic buzzard beak with a rubber band to secure it behind the head. Somebody yelled, “All hail the buzzard king,” and it caught on, so that Geordie was surrounded by hails and hosannas. Maybe being a buzzard king wasn’t so bad, after all. He placed the rubber buzzard beak over his nose and raised his arms in triumph. So, this is what a rite of passage felt like – getting over the things that embarrass you most.
INSTANT NOODLES 