Chapter Three Freak Accidents #2
Finch shuffles across the concrete floor, returning to me quicker than before, with a smile deepening the wrinkled lines beside his mouth. I smile back. You can tell he and my grandfather spent most of their careers together. They have the same mischievous smile, like two kids who never grew up.
Finch picks up the tablet and blinks a couple of times.
“Let’s see, let’s see…ah! ‘Birds on the Block is why I know my ABC’s.
It’s time America gets a refresher, if you ask me.
’ ‘Some of you didn’t learn how to share from Bernie Bird, and it shows.
’ ” He chuckles to himself. “ ‘Bernie Bird is the hero we need but don’t deserve right now.’ ”
I force my smile. “They do sound excited, huh?”
He punches the air between us. “C’mon, Bevvy. Let’s pitch some more.”
I cock my head to the side with a lamenting sigh. “You’re too energetic for being seventy. Don’t you want to watch Jeopardy!? Wheel of Fortune? Get an old dog that looks too much like you and take it on slow walks?”
“Stay in LA,” he says. “Let’s give it another whirl.”
“My savings are cleaned out.”
“Stay in my guest room.”
“I’m leaving to go home tomorrow. I’ve sold everything already. My suitcases are packed. Nana would be devastated if I didn’t show up.” I turn back to my felt project, grabbing the needle and thread to start stitching. “It’s good I’m getting out of town. Maybe it’ll help me figure out what’s next.”
“What’s next is Birds. It’s always been Birds. Alice would want you to stay.”
“Well, Nana doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” I counter. “And y’know, I’m almost excited to move back. It’ll be just like the old days when I was a kid.”
I used to lie on my nana’s crocheted oval rug in front of her big brown mammoth-sized box television, doing homework on the floor.
There was always a coffee maker gurgling in the kitchenette, sunshine beaming through the blinds, and blue jays outside chirping their early-afternoon song.
Well, maybe there won’t be the singing birds right now.
It’s winter. Birds know better than me not to stick around.
“It’ll be fun,” I say. I’m lying through my teeth, but Finch doesn’t need to know that.
I need him to enjoy retirement and not worry about me or Birds on the Block.
He deserves peace after all these years.
Plus, it can’t be too terrible moving home, can it?
Mountain breeze. Shops that open at eight and close at three. The slow life will be…good, right?
Then I remember…it’s January.
Elk Grove closes from November to April. It’s a big tourist town, but it’s also high up a mountain. People don’t swing by when the winding roads have the potential to be treacherous, so it’s not worth it to keep retail stores open.
Okay, so it’ll be a very slow life when I get back.
My restless leg twitches at the thought.
Yep, I’m gonna pass out.
I whirl around. “We should go out to eat before I leave. Where do you want to go?”
Finch’s mouth turns down. “Eat?”
“Yeah. Maybe that ramen place you love?”
“Bev.”
“What?”
He flicks his eyes to my busy worktable.
It’s filled with unfinished puppets, scattered unopened mail, and an old crocheted sweater.
The space looks like I live here because most of the time I do.
I need to put all this in a suitcase, but packing up my side of the workshop feels more definitive than packing up my apartment.
Finch sighs. “You take up so much space here. Why not everywhere else? Why not pitch again? Why not try?”
My heart sinks.
“I do. I am,” I insist. “We pitched…we tried. It’s over.”
“This video might have changed things.”
“I doubt it.”
“I don’t. Check the Workshop email. I dare you.”
His disappointment has shifted to determination.
There’s no stopping him now.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll look at the emails, okay? There won’t be anything new. Probably just the usual scammers wanting to sell us marketing advice.”
Finch grins, scooting a stool closer as I prop open my laptop. “I had a call with one of those the other day. Wanted me to wire him one thousand dollars.”
“Only one thousand? He should increase his scam cost.”
“He deserves a raise. He put up with me on the phone.”
“Oh no, what’d you do?”
“I think he was confused when Penny Pigeon started responding.”
I’ll miss this. I’ll miss Finch. I’ll miss my life in LA, with late-night writing sessions and creating new, goofy character voices.
Sure, I never made a lot of friends here, because I worked too much.
But I had Birds. I had Finch. I had the last piece of my grandpa, baked into every corner of this workshop.
Albert Starling was a puppeteering legend, and now all his life’s work is fading away.
I finish logging in to the Flock Workshop email. “See? There’s…”
But I instantly freeze.
Because sitting in the inbox…is not spam.
My fingers hover over the keys, unmoving. I think I’m in shock. Medically.
Finch pats my shoulder with a grin. “Told you.”
Our inbox is jam-packed with emails from viewers wanting more of Bernie Bird, more of Birds on the Block, and more of Griffin Harvey. But, most importantly, two streaming platforms have expressed interest in that more.
“What the—”
“Open it!”
We click on Starlet’s email first. They’re a platform filled mostly with shows for adults and only occasional children’s programming. They’re known for being a little shaky when it comes to renewing shows, but their budget is likely massive.
Then we see an email from Connection.
“Connection!” squeezes from my throat at the same time Finch shoves my elbow.
Working with Connection would be a dream. They’re the leader in short educational documentaries, and they maintain a massive children’s catalog. We’d slide in perfectly, but they’re notably picky with their content. They passed on us ten years ago, and Finch wore funeral black for a week.
“Connection wants a meeting,” I say breathlessly. “They want…oh…”
“They want a meeting in March,” Finch completes for me. “So does Starlet.”
“Finch, I can’t be ready by March. It’s January. That’s not enough time…they want…jeez, Connection wants five new episodes written and a bunch of new research in childhood development, new music…”
Finch hums to himself. I know he wants to say more. The wrinkles and creases on his face are always deeper when he’s thinking.
“You can make this work,” he says. “I know you can.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “Sure, if I had a year to scout people. But less than two months? Not when it’s only me.”
“Let’s breathe and look at what resources we have. Scripts and the like, okay? Then we’ll decide.”
Yes. He’s right. Inhale. Exhale. Try not to burst into tears at an impossible task for a dream opportunity.
I snag our company tablet to pull up some of our files, but when I unlock it, the screenshot from my viral video stares back.
Griffin and Bernie Bird.
Griffin Harvey probably has no clue this video exists.
I bet he partied after the show last night. He’s probably drinking a Bloody Mary to counteract his massive hangover, with one arm slung around a model and the other clutching his guitar.
I bet I’m not even a one-word footnote on his Saturday night.
I bet he doesn’t care about this video one bit.