Birdy [antikvár]

A .w, come on, Birdy! This is A1 here, all the way from Dix. Stop it, huh! I lean back and poke my head out into the corridor. The queer looking guard-orderly type in the white coat's still at the other end. I peer through the cage door. Birdy's squatting in the middle of the floor, not even looking at me. He's squatting the same way he used to squat in the loft when he was sewing feathers on that creepy pigeon suit of his. If this doctor-major-psychiatrist here ever finds out about that pigeon suit, he'll sure as hell chain Birdy right to the floor. Sometimes it'd scare the crap out of me. I'd climb up to the loft expecting only pigeons and Birdy'd be hunched in the back, in the dark, sewing feathers on those long johns. Birdy could come up with the weirdest ideas. And now, here he is again, hunkering in the middle of this white room, ignoring me. I sneak another look along the corridor. —Come on, Birdy. Cut it out! I know you're not really a bird! This section eight crap doesn't make sense. The stupid war's over for Christ's sake! Hitler, Mussolini, Tojo, the whole shitload; kaput! Nothing. Maybe he is a loon. I wonder if this psychiatrist knows we call him Birdy? Birdy's old lady wouldn't tell; probably doesn't even know.