Los Angeles Review 2023 Flash Fiction Award: J. Dominic Patacsil

Final Judge: John Weir

God Wears a Hard Hat by J. Dominic Patacsil

There comes a rare moment in life, when all else can and has failed, that you may find yourself like me, looking at a Dutch guide named Jan, who has accompanied me on this gobsmack of a hike through Bali’s Ubud Forest, saying, This parrot is shagging my head. And indeed it will be true, truer than the laughs Jan gives in reply, as he pulls a phone from his fanny pack to record a video. Very good, he says. You are bird sexy. 

I do my best to smile, though when I see the footage later, it more so resembles a grimace. Who can really blame me? Sixteen pounds of ruby-colored bird, wings raised like a priest, thrust awkwardly into the back of my neck. The parrot’s talons rip at the skin around my shoulders, so soft and pale and forgotten. 

And it would be better to laugh, wouldn’t it? That would make the whole of it digestible, the fact that I’ve come to Bali in the first place amidst the hell storm of small town politik back in Indiana. At the very least, laughing would remind my former wife, Christina, were she ever to see the footage, that although she seemed intent on sharing my every shortcoming as a husband and father to the world, I was getting along just fine with the parrots. Yes, laughing would be the appropriate retribution, all but making up for her latest comments, the ones to the Parent Teacher Organization, where my ex-wife described me as a fumbling turd in the sack, going so far as to say, He ought to return to high school anatomy class. You’d think the clitoris was the Holy Grail the way he struggled. 

I do not laugh. I weep fat tears and continue to grimace, wondering why I bother. Why put up with a world that allows parrots to perch on one’s shoulders and hump away to their content? Why live a life in which one’s mistakes are ammunition? Am I ever allowed to be weak? 

I cannot say. I run too much, place most of my faith in silence. Maybe this is what got me here, falling to my knees, with a great red bird making love to the back of my head while a Dutchman tapes it. Maybe it’s the silence that makes the breath hard to find. Maybe it’s just this muggy jungle. 

Or maybe it’s none of this. 

Maybe the world was built crooked from the start, a project mismanaged by god. And it’s this thought, the one where god wears a hard hat and studies the blueprint to this world, scratching at a temple, that brings me a little peace. This god who struggles with calculus and feels insecure about the appropriate amount of cookies to eat after dinner. It can’t be just one but is three too much? God thinks, depends on the size. 

I tear the parrot from its mount, and the bird seems surprised by my action. It squawks in a guttural sound of dismay, or maybe thrill, as I hold it in front of my face. The parrot’s wings flap wildly against my grip, the feathers cooling from red to blue. And though it reaches for my fingers and tries to break them in its beak, when I use my dad voice all of this ends. No bite! I command.

Everyone listens, and for a moment, I overcome the jungle. Its orchestra of green falls silent before Jan says, You can’t kill this bird in the open. The chirrups of insects, the howls of monkeys, the bird sounds—all of it returns. 

I look at Jan, stringy hair pushed back, face stricken with fear. The parrot’s heart sputters like an engine against my thumb. 

I try to see what he sees: a man so despairing, so sweaty, trodden by the earth’s beauties. A man ready to kill for trespasses. 

But I am not this man. Jan hardly knows me. And, in fact, he knows me even less when I kiss the parrot between its big black eyes and set it free. Its ruby-colored body lifts into the treetops, a sun against those leaves. I stare at that sun before I feel it, rising from the pit of my stomach. It pours from my lips, a whinny of laughter, that spins out into the sky. I watch it rise above my head until it disappears, along with everything else.

J. Dominic Patacsil (he/him) is a fiction writer hailing from Indiana. He is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of New Hampshire. His work can be found in various literary outlets, including issues of New Ohio Review and Third Coast. Find out more at www.jdpatacsil.com.

28 March 2024