Waiting For Tom: Birdwalk To Malibu Canyon

Tom Coughlin from the Conejo Valley Audubon society called me the other day. “J-1, you want to see a Vermillion Flycatcher?”
This caught me off guard because I didn’t even remember giving him my phone number or last name. Tom was the guide on the walk to the Saticoy ponds that ended badly with him ruining his knee. Tom was not a friend of mine and I had no idea what would motivate him to call me. I was nervous because Tom scared me. He was a scary guy. It’s just who he was.
“Who is this?” I asked even though I instantly recognized that low, gruff, quasi-macho voice.
“Tom Coughlin. We went on a bird walk excursion to Saticoy Ponds coupla months ago. You gave me your business card.”
“Your knee? Wasn’t it thrashed?”
“Yeah. It’s better now, I put this Tiger Balm stuff on it and keeps it kinda numb so I get around.”
“Are you talking about a birdwalk? Is that why you called?”
“Private quest. This is a rare bird. Very illusive. Very illusive.”
“Is this local?”
“Malibu Canyon. We’ll meet at Burger King at seven thirty. Drive out to the spot. I got a few other people on my list but I thought of you because you and your son are good people.”
My first thought was, he was trying to scam me and sell me something. My second thought was, he was going to assassinate me for having a son who called him a “douche” and an “effin idiot” loud enough for him to hear at the Saticoy ponds bird walk.
“This is a rare deal, man. Vermillion Flycatcher’s a ghost. You see this bird maybe once in your life. It’s a lifebird, definitely.”
This was a Sunday morning and my soccer game would be sacrificed.
“I don’t know, Tom. Sunday’s a tricky day.”
“This will be mythical status, J-1. That’s what we’re talking. People megatick on this bird more than any other because you simply do not see him around. Ever. He’s gotta lay low because of his plumage. You know, kestrals and falcons.”
“Um, yeah, that’s cool but, I actually have plans Sunday morning.”
“No you don’t.” There was a tense pause then he chuckled. “That’s a joke. No sweat, man. You were just at the top of my list. I’ll call somebody else, J-1. Peace.”
He didn’t hang up right away and there was another tense pause for a few seconds. In those few seconds my mind scrambled back to opportunities in my past for growth, renewal, new discoveries that pop up every so often that we either choose to take, or choose to pass. Most of the time we choose to pass because we like to play it safe. I took a chance.
“How long do you think we’ll be there?”
“No longer than a hour, hour and a half, max.”
I parked at Burger King at Los Virgenes Canyon and waited twenty minutes for Tom, as expected. I was there at seven thirty sharp. He was there at ten to eight. I rode in the back seat of his truck. Seated with him was Art, a heavy-set Native American with thick glasses who breathed really loudly. I figured if I was going to get whacked, Art was the shovel man.
“Art’s one quarter Pawnee. His great grandpa fought with Geronimo.”
“I thought Geronimo was Apache?”
“That’s correct but his grandpa joined up with him. Isn’t that right, Art?” Art just grunted. He didn’t say much and when he did, it was in a monotone, gruff voice that seemed rarely used.
“You sure this bird’s gonna be there? The Flycatcher?”
“Vermillion Flycatcher. He’ll be there. Art’s got a good eye for ‘em. You tell him any bird and he’ll take you right to it. Spot ‘em a mile away.” I looked at Art’s reflection in the sun visor mirror. His glasses were thick as Coke bottles. I wasn’t sure if he could spot the end of his nose. Art shakily lit a cigarette and rolled the window down. The wooded canyons and open grasslands of Malibu Canyon flowed by. Curious, ornate white towers of the Hindu Temple loomed through the trees. We parked in the lot.
“Why are we at the Hindu Temple?”
“This is it.”
I was just here a few months back with my guru so it was familiar territory. I hadn’t remembered any Vermillion Flycatchers on my previous visit though.
Tom parked his truck beside an older Toyota with an angry-looking, frumpish woman leaning against her hood. A young girl balanced on the curb nearby.
“Thank you,” the plain woman said testily and jumped in her car, tires shrilling.
The little girl was left blinking with uncertainty toward us.
“Sosh, you bring another pair of shoes?” She shook her head. “All you got are sandals?”
The girl nodded, glancing at the rubber sandals on her feet. “I’m gonna kill your mother. I told her six god damn times. I had her repeat it back to me. HEY JENNIFER! JENNIFER!” Tom bellowed at the top of his lungs while the banged up Toyota cruised to the bottom of the lot, waiting to pull onto the side street. His voice echoed across the grounds of the temple. I noticed shocked devotees, turn abruptly, startled by his voice, as if it was the disembodied voice of a wrathful God.
The Toyota shrilled into the street and was gone.
“She heard me. You see that? She even looked back. Classic,” Tom laughed scornfully, shaking his head. The little girl sat on the curb examining a Happy Meal robot. Tom gathered his things from the back of the truck, binoculars, scope, backpack, bottled water. He gave a pair of binoculars to the little girl who just stared at them looking bored and puzzled.
“Sasha, you remember Art and this is J-1,” Tom said.
I wanted to say, “Sasha, run, as fast as you can. Into the woods and live with the wolves. You’ll be much better off.” I offered my hand for her to high-five. She didn’t understand.
“I hope the big priest isn’t here,” Art groaned.
“Doesn’t matter. This is zoned for the public which means he has to let us in there. This isn’t Pakistan.”
“He got real mad last time, Tom.” Art said in a high-pitched voice that seemed to get higher and higher, his cheeks patchy red with fear.
“I’ll handle it. Relax and move on.”
Famous last words. Art groaned again, taking a sip of water from a canteen. He didn’t bring any equipment, no scope, no binoculars, no field guide, nothing. He wore Kung Fu slippers, the kind Asians wear in martial arts movies.
“Maybe we should look someplace else?” I said wishing mightily I had gone to my Sunday morning soccer game.
“What kind of bird are you looking for, dad?” Sasha asked.
“Vermillion Flycatcher. It’s a life bird,” Tom answered.
“What’s a life bird?”
“A bird you only see once or twice in your life.”
We started up the flight of stairs to the upper level of the temple. Tom led the way. An old Indian woman in a red sari took Tom by the sleeve and pointed to his shoes.
“We’re not really here to pray, we’re looking for a bird.”
The old woman pointed a stern finger to rows of shoes lining the sidewalk.
“Alright, alright,” Tom growled and kicked off his tennis shoes. Sasha and I followed suit. Tom wore no socks with his tennis shoes and the odor wafted up spoiling the morning air. “Dang, that’s a stink bomb right there. That’ll chase off evil spirits.” Sasha giggled and held her nose.
At each corner of the square were alters to different deities within the Hindu pantheon along with a central sanctuary housing the statue of the creator God, Krishna. Tom explained that the Vermillion Flycatcher nested in a crack under the eves of the central sanctuary. One time the bird had flown inside the sanctuary and some of the priests deemed it sacred and brought it seeds and sugar water. I kept my head down feeling like we were violating the sanctity of this holy place. My other feeling was that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, we would not be seeing the illusive Vermillion Flycatcher today and this would end being a colossal waste of time. You could just look at Tom and know this to be the case. I knew it wasn’t going to happen as we were driving here. I knew it wasn’t going to happen the second he called me. I glanced at my cell phone and realized, if I rushed home right now, I could probably catch the second half of my soccer game.
Art’s pudgy, unclipped toes poked out of the holes in his socks.
“Shoulda remembered to wear the socks with no holes,” he grumbled.
We tracked Tom as he ambled in clockwise circles around each deity stationed in the corners of the square.
“Make it look like we’re here to worship then they’ll leave us alone,” Tom said confidingly.
“This place is cool. Can we go here instead of your normal boring church?” said Sasha.
“These are heathen gods. You believe in your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Sash.”
“I do?”
“Of course you do.”
“Isn’t it all the same though?” asked Sasha.
“No. Hindus believe in lots of gods and we believe in just one.”
“Isn’t Jesus a god and then there’s the Virgin Mary, she’s a god. And what about God the Father? He’s a god too…” Sasha was getting confused and so was I.
“Yeah. You’re right but these people believe there’s a lot more gods. Like ten or something.”
“Ten gods?”
“Something like that.”
Sasha stopped and counted them out. “I only see seven.”
“That’s more than three.”
“Look, it doesn’t matter. They have a whole bunch of gods. We have a few. End of story.”
Tom led us into the main altar that housed the great statue of Krishna. As we entered furtively, we noticed a shirtless, muscular priest talking loudly on a phone in Hindi at a desk only a few meters from the altar. No one else was in the sanctuary.
“Which god is this, dad?”
“That’s like their main god. You know, the head honcho god. Kinda like the Jesus for Indians.”
“The sanctuary is closed for renovations. I am sorry,” the heavily accented priest said, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece.
“Oh, actually we just came to see the flycatcher.”
“I don’t know about that but you can’t be in here. The lower Vishnu sanctuary is open. Thank you.”
“Listen,” Tom took the priest aside, “I brought these people to see the bird that was nesting here. These are ‘special needs people’,” Tom said trying to feign discreetness with the priest but he wasn’t buying. My stomach clenched at thought of me being implicated in this deception which was compounded by the fact that we stood on holy ground.
“That bird went away.”
“You didn’t kill it, did you?”
“No. It flew out. Please excuse me.”
“Prajeet said he was cool with us being in here.”
“I don’t know Prajeet. There is no Prajeet here.”
“Yeah, he was a little priest, a little Indian priest, black hair, dark skin. Prajeet. That’s his name.”
“Prajeet isn’t here. Can you please leave now or I will call security.”
Outside we waited on the steps as Tom disappeared in the lower temple looking for a supervisor. Tom was gone for a long time.
Art finally sat down on the steps and slipped on his shoes, lighting another cigarette. Sasha danced around the steps, singing to herself then growing bored and sitting down beside Art. I watched them for a moment and wondered what the hell I was doing with these two complete strangers at a Hindu temple on a Sunday morning away from my friends and family. I glanced at my cell phone. There was no way to make the game now. I grew very angry and impatient. I was also angry at Art and Sasha for letting themselves get suckered into this wild goose chase but more than anything I was angry at Tom for wasting all of our precious time. I paced. I kicked the stairs. I threw a rock into the woods. I sat down beside Art, Sasha on the other side.
No one knew what to say. There was an awkward silence. I looked at Sasha who picked at a hang nail on her big toe. I looked at Art who stared vacuously into the woods, the smoke from his cigarette stinging my throat.
“This is b.s., man,” I finally blurted.
“Yep.”
“I gotta get goin’. I got stuff to do today,” I said.
“Yep.”
“What am I doing here on a Sunday morning? What are any of us doing here? Where the heck is he?”
“Don’t know.”
“He’s been gone for like fifteen minutes. What’s he doing?”
“Don’t know.”
“Jeez, man.”
I stood up and pulled out my cell phone and dialed my wife’s number to come and pick me up. She would be angry because I forfeited church and family for a Sunday birdwalk with strangers in Malibu.
“I went and I returned. It was nothing special,” Art said languidly and I wasn’t sure he was talking to me or Sasha. I looked at him and realized he was directing the question toward me.
“What?”
“You wanted excitement but it was nothing special.”
“Uh, okay. I’m actually gonna call my wife and have her pick me up.”
“I went to Yosemite to see El Capitan and the Merced River.”
“Cool,” I said hitting “send” on my cell phone and waiting for my wife’s phone to ring.
“But it was just a mountain and a river.”
Art ground out his cigarette on the steps and dug some sunflower seeds out of his pocket.
“Sunflower seed?”
I shook my head. They didn’t look very appetizing, mixed with dust and pocket lint. He began peeling one with his teeth.
“You wanted excitement and something special but it wasn’t.”
Now he was stating the obvious. I listened as my wife’s cell phone went straight to voice mail and remembered they were probably in mass by now.
“And your point is?” I wasn’t trying to be mean but really didn’t care about affability any longer.
Sasha took a handful of sunflower seeds. They were both peeling them with their teeth now.
“Don’t really need to do anything or be anything or say anything,” he explained in monotone, spitting a sunflower shell on the steps.
“I don’t get it. Sorry, I’m slow.”
“You don’t have to be president of America or win an academy award to feel like you’re accomplishing something.”
“But in terms of enriching my life or learning something or feeling like I spent my time well…”
“When you’re hungry, eat. When you’re sleepy, sleep. And when you need to go to the bathroom…”
“Just go?” said Sasha with a squinty smile.
“Bingo,” he said and tried to spit a shell but it got caught on the end of his tongue.
“Well, I’d kinda like to be home with my family Sunday morning as opposed to sitting on the steps of a Hindu Temple in Malibu waiting for someone I barely know to lead me to something that doesn’t exist,” I said testily.
“Why?”
“That’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, ‘why’?”
“Because you don’t see that this is really you. There is no place you really should be but on the steps of this Hindu Temple, waiting for Tom,” he said picking another shell off his tongue and flicking it on the stairs.
“But I’d definitely rather be home or doing something for myself.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I just would.”
“Well, that makes sense then.”
Sasha spit a shell that landed on Art’s Kung Fu slipper. She giggled and kicked it off. He didn’t seem to notice.
There was another long pause.
“Why birds?” I said. “Why do we look at birds? Are we retarded or something?”
“Why not?” he said dully, chewing the seed.
“I thought I was looking for something profound, or maybe I was trying to make some kind of connection, you know with nature, the soul, new people…” I said, softening.
“Sure.”
“But I didn’t.”
“It’s all right in here.” He tapped his forehead with his pudgy index finger.
“I was getting caught up in what I was striving for that might bring relief, inner peace…shit, I don’t know.”
“No suffering required,” he said pointing to the back of a Mazda with a bumper sticker that read, No Suffering Required.
“Why do you watch birds?”
“I don’t. I just came with Tom.”
I did a triple take.
“But he said you were like the bird master. You could locate any bird. Anywhere.”
“He just said that to make you more interested. I don’t care too much for birds, personally.”
I felt my face flush with anger. At that moment Sasha leaped up and ran to Tom who was marching angrily across the plaza. She hugged him and he kept coming toward us, clearly unhappy.
“Change of plans. We’re going to Malibu lagoon.”
“What about the Vermillion Flycatcher?” I said taken aback.
Tom quickly slapped on his Air Jordans.
“Not here. I found Prajeet who’s like the janitor not a priest. He said the Flycatcher flew off like eight months ago which is a total lie but what the heck.”
“So no Vermillion Flycatcher?”
“Cerulean Warbler.”
“What?” I asked, feeling the sudden urge to hurl myself down a long flight of stairs.
“Cerulean Warbler. Very rare. It’ll be extinct in ten years. Numbers are down because their habitat is shrinking...old growth forests.”
“That’s great but I need…”
“Saw one up in Big Sur. It was a vagrant but definitely a life bird.”
“What’s a life bird?” Sasha asked again.
“I told you already.”
Sasha repeated her father’s words mockingly. He didn’t notice or pretended not to.
“Um, yeah, how long do you think it’s going to take because I have to get back home?” I asked.
“Another fifteen, twenty minutes. Thirty, tops.”
“Uh, where’s the old growth forest?”
“Not far.”
“How do we know we’re even going to see a Cerulean Warbler?”
“It’s guaranteed.”
Art glanced at me with a cocked eyebrow that translated, “Don’t hold your breath.”
I sat on the steps for a moment and watched Art lumber behind Tom who draped an arm over Sasha’s shoulder, still clinging to him. They got to the truck and Tom began packing his gear. Sasha danced and Art lit a cigarette.
I went and I returned. It was nothing special.