Something Comparable

"She's not for sale," the boy said.

He meant me.

I am the bird.

Brass, sixty-six years old, bolted to the wall.

Four bolts, put in by Gus Szabo in 1987.

Bernie tells every delivery man that Gus did it himself.

I hang above the register, between the cash drawer and a sign about returns.

I have three songs and a cord.

That is my whole résumé.

People give me a glance and say "cute."

The woman in the navy cap had stood under me for a full minute.

She did not say "cute."

She did not move at all.

I have been looked at for sixty-six years.

I know looking at from looking through.

She was looking at.

Then she asked how much.

Her assistant already had his phone up.

He held it at chest height, shifting his weight like a man waiting for a bus.

The two kids at the magic-trick bin stopped digging.

Bernie was at the bank.

The boy was alone with me.

His name is Teo.

He is twenty-three and apologizes to the register.

"Everything's for sale," she said.

She said it lightly, almost like a joke.

"Not her, ma'am. She's bolted to the wall."

Ma'am.

I watched the word land.

Her jaw tightened.

"I can pay."

"It's not that."

Teo fixed his cuff with one hand.

He does that when he's nervous.

The other stayed behind his back.

It had been there since she walked in.

"Let me find you something comparable."

The phone took one step closer.

"Comparable," the woman said.

Quietly. Every letter.

"To her."

She reached up and pulled my cord.

I sang the way I always sing, in the same order, with no say in it.

A thin tick came from somewhere behind Teo, like a toy being wound.

Nobody looked.

I couldn't.

My eyes only swivel so far.

"Daisy Bell."

Something moved in her face.

Then it didn't.

From up here I get a very good view of faces.

It is the one perk.

She walked out without another word.

"Ma'am, wait," Teo said.

He took one step after her.

The door had already shut.

Behind Teo's back, a small tin bird was still wound up, still humming.