Page 27 - Issue 31

Meyer, a lonely widower, was walking home one
night when he passed a pet store and heard a
squawking voice shouting out in Yiddish,
“Quawwwwk … vus machst du … yeah, du …
outside, standing like a schmuck … eh?”

Meyer rubbed his eyes and ears. He couldn’t
believe it. The proprietor sprang out of the door
and grabbed Meyer by the sleeve. “Come in here,
fella, and check out this parrot.”

Meyer stood in front of an African Grey that
cocked his little head and said, “Vus? Ir kent
reddin Yiddish?”

Meyer turned excitedly to the store owner. “He
speaks Yiddish?”

In a matter of moments, Meyer had placed five
hundred dollars down on the counter and
carried the parrot in his cage away with him. All
night he talked with the parrot in Yiddish. He
told the parrot about his father’s adventures
coming to America, about how beautiful his
mother was when she was a young bride, about
his family, about his years of working in the
garment center, about Florida. The parrot
listened and commented. They shared some
walnuts. The parrot told him of living in the pet
store, how he hated the weekends. Finally, they
both went to sleep.