By Mike Bongarzone Venice
About 12 years ago I came across an “apparently” homeless person in Santa Monica. Someone, I’m not sure who, told me he was the bird man. He always had a bike, a beach cruiser of sort, with bags of cans and recyclables on it. I several times tested him, yelled out “bird man!” to which he always whole heartedly replied with an excellent rendition of a bird call. Something about the guy, but I knew my asking him to perform brightened his day.
About seven or eight years ago when my niece and nephew were visiting with my mother I happened upon the bird man in Santa Monica. I told them, as we drove up near him, the stories. We rolled down the windows and I gave the obligatory yell, he responded in kind, very kind. He made me look like a local to my relatives, and gave them a story to remember. The bird man represents the eclectic nature brought on by Santa Monica and Southern California in general. It’s what I have clung to in my 13 years here.
As I write this, I look down at the date on my computer — 13 years today, Aug. 28. I arrived in California. Today as I drove down Wilshire towards my home in Venice, as I approached Ocean Avenue, I saw the bird man. Oddly enough he was perched on a city box next to the light on the opposite corner. I was ready to yell “bird man.” As I inched closer to the intersection I put down my window, I was ready to verbalize something, but realized he was already in a conversation which was directed at me.
It took me a few minutes to grasp, jump in, and understand where he was coming from. He told me his bike had been stolen and that he now had a new bike — not as nice, only three sprockets in the back. I told him that I thought this bike was really cool, but saw the sense of loss in his eyes. He appreciated me listening for the 15 to 20 seconds before the light changed and I had to move. I was trying to think quickly and make a last statement that might encourage him a bit.
Probably not the best but I said, “that’s a sorta cool bike but I’m sorry about your other bike.”
He replied, “Thanks,” with a smile. I felt good and felt a sense of kindness rolling off this guy. He was OK. He was happy.
Light changed, I pulled away. What I forgot to mention, is that when I first pulled up and heard his “conversation” he precluded it with a rooster call.
My nephew Jesse who passed away two years ago, at the age of 17, heard the bird man and he laughed.
Laughter is cool.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on September 7, 2004. Read the original PDF.