Frank and the Buzzard

Frank was in his mid twenties and he had a computer and he clicked on lots of houses for sale in the Phoenix metropolitan area when he was sleepy but he fought against the sleep. That’s when a buzzard walked in.

“Frank, I’m a buzzard.” The buzzard said, standing in the kitchen.

The sound of the bird-voice startled Frank. He spun his head around and looked at the buzzard.

“I came to tell you that you are the Chosen One,” and then the buzzard added, “No I’m just kidding.” Neither of them laughed.

The buzzard looked at Frank and Frank looked at the buzzard. They had an eyeball connection. Like a soul/karma thing.

Frank waited for the buzzard to speak again. It was a few seconds before he did.

“Frank, stop looking at me. And stop looking at those houses. Come out to the balcony with me.”

Funny, Frank never realized that he had a balcony before. But the buzzard walked Frank over to the balcony, and there it was- a balcony.

The buzzard put his wing around Frank and Frank began to feel more comfortable. It was a friendly buzzard.

“See this neighborhood?” The buzzard motioned with the wing that wasn’t around Frank’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Frank said.

“This is your neighborhood and I’m a buzzard.”

It sounded obvious, but the way that the buzzard said it, it was like it was profound, and true. “This is your neighborhood and I’m a buzzard.” It was so simple. Yeah. And it was true. Truer than… than a lot of things you think are true but really they’re just well intentioned things that are nice but not really true because they can’t be true because they’re just opinions, like “That sweater looks good on you.”

Then the buzzard was gone and Frank was back inside and the balcony was gone, too.