Chapter One The Professional Bird #2
I hear his grin through the phone. “Albert was the same way.”
“If Grandpa died because of too much coffee, then I’m convinced he died happy.”
Finch chuckles. “Well, that and the burgers and smoking.”
“So what I’m hearing is that coffee wasn’t the true problem.”
“Bev.”
“I need it.”
“Bev.”
“I’m joking.” Not a joke.
“You’ve got this,” he reassures me.
“I do,” I echo, just so he doesn’t worry. But I’m not so sure.
I refocus all my overcaffeinated attention on Bernie Bird in my arms.
I can logically say that I know what I’m doing.
I’ve practiced Bernie Bird’s mannerisms and voice almost my entire life.
My grandpa, Albert Starling, was his original puppeteer, and I’ve mastered the same squawk through mimicry and general childhood obsession.
But Finch is supposed to be my helping hand—literally the other hand needed to perform Bernie Bird—and that clearly isn’t happening, so we roll with the punches, don’t we?
“I’ll just pin Bernie’s hand to his stomach,” I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a safety pin. I hook it through Bernie’s right hand—the one Finch was supposed to operate with his own—and secure it to Bernie’s body. “Nobody will notice.”
“See? There you go. Problem solved,” Finch says. “And seriously, no more coffee.”
“Hmm? What? Did you say More coffee?”
He gives a raspy laugh. “Knock ’em dead, Bevvy.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
Finch’s chuckles continue until I hang up. Taking a deep inhale, I put my phone on silent and tuck it into my coveralls pocket. As if on cue, the kind production assistant pokes her head around the corner “You and Bernie ready?”
My heart pounds into my throat. My body buzzes. I tell myself it’s not nerves but excitement. That’s what Nana would say.
I plaster on my best beaming grin.
“Let’s do this, Tara.”
Tara smiles. People always do when you remember their name, and everyone deserves to feel seen. Especially if they’ve been ignored all day by celebrity musicians like Griffin Harvey.
I follow Tara from the narrow hallway that swaddled me and my nerves, all the way to the stage.
The overhead lights are dimmed. A countdown shows that we have one minute remaining in the commercial break.
The crowded audience shifts in their seats, chattering among themselves while I walk out with the feathery blue puppet on my arm.
I avert my eyes to the ground and pull in another deep inhale. My white sneakers squeak across the stage floor as I’m guided behind a low partition set up in front of a blank wall. It feels ridiculous now that I scrubbed my shoes clean last night. Nobody at home will see my feet anyway.
Once behind the partition, I lower myself to sit on a small apple box with a cushion and disappear from the audience. My held breath leaves on an exhale. This—being out of sight—already feels more comfortable, even if I am alone.
Puppeteering generally involves quite a few of us sardined together, smelling like sweat and minty gum.
Puppeteering is an intimate job; most people don’t realize that.
You learn quickly once your ass is shoved near the hips of your coworker as you both operate a puppet teaching children about manners.
No ass shoving tonight. Just me.
Tara pats against the wall. “We’ll count you down, all right?”
I nod vigorously, probably looking like a bobblehead.
I mutter to myself, “You’ve got this. You’re a professional.” A practice. A mantra.
The thing is, I can puppeteer in my sleep.
In fact, I might have that one year I worked double duty filming Birds on the Block while also moonlighting at a production of A Christmas Carol when they were short one puppeteer.
Despite the sleep puppeteering, it was fun.
Grandpa always said that things either get done or they don’t.
It’ll just take hard work, and I’ve never shied away from work.
But I’ve never performed on live television. If I miss a line or fall short with comedic timing, the world will see. It could go viral online. I need sponsors, not another scandal. People finally don’t recognize me on the street anymore. This is a chance for a new start.
I look up at the catwalk lined with studio lights. Maybe one will drop on my head Looney Tunes–style and corporations will partner with me out of pity. No, I’ve never been that lucky.
A small rectangular monitor at my feet displays what the audience will see on television.
It currently exhibits a blank space where Bernie Bird will be performed.
I place one hand against the headset strapped across my forehead, slide it side to side, and shift my bangs away from my eyes to give myself a clearer view.
Suddenly, the stage lights turn on. Hot. Bright.
The live band plays the show’s theme in a symphony of brass.
I shoot both arms into the air, one tucked inside Bernie’s beak and the other through a feathery hand. I lean my ear to my shoulder so that none of my head shows on-camera. The monitor below—what the viewers at home will see—shows only Bernie Bird, alert and ready.
Someone counts down, “Back in three. Two.”
One.
The set is dead quiet. My ears buzz.
“And now,” one of the cast members announces, “we have a very special appearance tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, returning to us after two years off-air, Birds on the Block’s very own Bernie Bird!”
The audience erupts with cheers and clapping.
My heart is thrumming in my chest. My arm is shaking inside Bernie’s feathery sleeve. I pull in a breath. Release it.
I can do this.
I’ve performed Bernie Bird a million times before.
I wait for the host to rush back behind the partition to perform the skit, just like we rehearsed.
Bernie Bird is ready.
I’m ready.
Instead, a pair of roughened black lace-up boots stumble into place next to me. The person attached almost knocks into Bernie suspended above my head.
I look up and let out an involuntary gasp that echoes into the mic. My knee-jerk, over-the-top expressions betray me again.
Griffin Harvey stands beside me, squinting into the stage lights with a scowl beneath his beard as he tucks his phone into his pocket.
What in the world is he doing here?
This isn’t what we practiced at all.
The studio goes silent.
I hold my breath. We all do.
For one second.
Two.
Three.
That’s too long.
Because we’re on live television, because it’s quiet on set to the point of someone in the audience awkwardly coughing, and because I’m a professional—I’m a professional; I’m a damn professional—I flex my hand and move Bernie’s beak.
I attune my voice to Bernie’s iconic nasal pitch, and then I ask into my headset, “Who are you?”