The parrot’s name is Steve the Parrot.
“True, the “the Parrot” bit at the end is a bit redundant,” he confided to me once while he was drunk and sprawled over my left shoulder, “but it helps when I don’t meet people face to face I guess, at least this way there’s no surprises…I feel like a souvlaki…”
Steve the Parrot doesn’t like surprises. He grew up with in a simpler time when being a parrot just meant you had to sit on a pirate’s shoulder and ramble on about gold.
“Now it’s all about the hedge funds and options and arbitrage this and that…back in the day your wealth was what you had in gold in a chest buried on some tropical island.”
Nowadays Steve the Parrot is a junior manager in a middle-tier accounting firm at the outskirts of the city. He slaves away in front of his laptop-cum-desktop feverishly pecking away on his keyboard.
“I’m pecking too much these days” he says sadly, “there’s so many zeros behind numbers now that my beak has been bent out of shape. I’m thinking of complaining to the OH&S department to be honest”.
But he never will. Steve the Parrot didn’t survive all these years by complaining to some second-rate amateur just out of university with a worthless degree and a full box of freshly printed business cards.
“You just have to suck it up you know?” he tells me at lunch, “I’ve been around long enough to know that everything comes full circle eventually, hey you gonna eat all those fries?”
And that’s why I’ll always respect Steve the Parrot. Because he likes to eat my fries.
And also, he’s a parrot.
No comments:
Post a Comment