Birdhouses By David Obuchowski The A&P let my old man take their broken wooden pallets. Back when I was a kid, I figured they were being generous. Now I realize my father was probably doing them a favor since it kept their dumpster from getting filled up with all that old wood. Anyways, that’s where we’d just come from, the A&P. So my old man could pick up some pallets for his birdhouses. We were waiting at a red light, when this big old convertible pulled up next to us. The man behind the wheel was dressed a bit like a cowboy with his pressed denim shirt and a bolo tie. He pointed and winked at me like we were old buddies, or something. Hell if I didn’t almost return the gesture, but then I thought maybe this old cowboy is makin’ fun of me. And then I thought how my old man would react if he saw me acting all friendly to some stranger. Or anyone, for that matter. So, instead, I did my thing where I sort of furrowed my eyebrows and gave him a mean stare. The cowboy’s grin didn’t leave his face, but his eyes changed. They got real serious, if you know what I mean. He looked right into my own stare, and it took all my strength to not just look away, so I blinked instead---the world’s fastest loss in a staring contest. "Think half as hard as the looks you're giving, son, and you might just be alright." Didn't know what he meant. Hardly heard what he said on account of how low he was talking. But a man like that didn’t have to speak up. That was plain to see. I felt about two inches tall, but I mustered everything in me. Dangled my arm out of the passenger side window, and leaned over so my head was out of the cab. "What's that, mister? What’d you say?" "I said you best be careful who you givin' them hard stares to," the man in the Bonneville said a little louder. Figure his must have been the '68 model. Goddamn, that Bonneville was bigger than
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