Fiction Friday #161

This week’s Fiction Friday prompt:
Include a telepathic parrot in your story.

I had loads of fun with this prompt. All of this story is true, drawing from a day spent on our vacation last week at the beach, except for the event at the very end. I enjoyed writing it; I hope you enjoy reading it.

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I was on vacation in Panama City Beach, Florida with my wife last week when something beyond the realm of reasonable explanations happened. She and I were touring the Pier Park area, just having seen The Karate Kid at the Grand Theater, perusing the myriad shops and boutiques that line the street. Although I had spent much time in the area as a child, this was a new shopping center – an outdoor mall, if you will – and we decided it was in our best interest to experience the fanfare for ourselves.

We made our way to Front Beach Road, intent on an early dinner at Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville.  At this particular intersection is the entrance to the City Pier, of which I have always been quite fond of walking and fishing from. I have many a fond memory of my father and I standing side by side on the pier, reeling in (what was to me at the time) massive fish. We would take them back to our house in Seagrove Beach, clean them, and feast like kings. Construction is currently being performed on the entrance to the pier and the parking lot on the east side is closed off, only accessible to construction vehicles.

As it was, we rounded the corner and happened upon the entrance to Margaritaville. I had driven by the one in Vegas many a time but I was impressed with this one. It has a deck outside overlooking Front Beach Road; beyond that, the pier’s west parking lot; beyond that, the pier itself; and beyond that, the majestic Gulf of Mexico. On this particular day the water was especially clear; a light aqua color that one would normally only see in photographs of beaches in the Caribbean. At the entrance to the restaurant, my wife and I decided to stop and give the menu (displayed in poster fashion on a stand to entice wanderers to come inside) a quick once-over. I settled on the obligatory Cheeseburger in Paradise, she the Triple Decker Club.

“Sir, would you like to have your picture taken with the parrots?” a pimply-faced teen asked me, politely ushering me to the small covered kiosk where two large parrots sat perched, one red and one green.  I looked at the parrots, admiring their beauty. I have always wanted a parrot – I’ve actually always wanted an African Grey – but have never had the wherewithal to shell out for one.

Move

“Did you say something, hon?” I asked my wife.

“What?”

Move

“Did you just tell me to move?”

“What? No.”

I dismissed it and continued admiring the parrots, the red one in particular. It had hints of green and white in its feathers that struck me as stunning. It looked at me, almost hypnotically, staring deep into my eyes.

Move!

Fear gripped me as I instinctively grabbed my wife by the arm and threw her forward – in the act I dislocated her shoulder – narrowly escaping death myself. At that precise moment, a concrete truck had pulled out of the east parking lot. A red Mustang swerved to miss it, lost control, and careened off the road straight into our path and crashed through the front door of the restaurant’s gift shop.

Tread marks tattooed the sidewalk where we had been standing.

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