And A Bald Eagle in a Plum Tree

Thursday, December 14

Dearest Harold:

How very thoughtful of you! The fruit tree is marvelous! I've put it in the bay window behind the couch, on the white shag rug. The pot goes perfectly with the bricks in the bookcase. As soon as you're back, we can cuddle beneath the leaves and--well, I bet you can guess!

Harold, about the bird. Is it a quail? I stuck him in the shower stall, but he keeps flapping around, and the shower curtain's been pecked to shreds. The thought was lovely, Harold.

Love you loads, miss you heaps.

Melissa

P. S.: We've been rehearsing like crazy and Solly says we should be able to open in a few days. It's just a little-theater group, but next year--Broadway!

Friday, December 15

Harold, you lovable fool:

I can't wait to find out what you're up to! Two more birds arrived today--a couple of strung-out pigeons, they look like, very fond of each other. You're sweet.

Also, by mistake, the deliveryman brought another plum tree and another quail (or is it a pheasant?). I'll call Neiman-Marcus tomorrow and straighten this out. In the meantime, I've got both trees squeezed into the bay and all four birds are squawking away in the shower. The curtain, the bath mat and that terrycloth bathrobe of mine are in tatters and the drain's clogged. You silly thing, what next?

Miss you.

Love, Melissa

(continued overleaf)

Saturday, December 16

Dear Harold:

I'm having trouble with Neiman-Mar-cus. A computer in their shipping department must have blown a gasket, or a transmission or something. Today they brought three scrawny chickens--as well as another order of everything they brought yesterday and the day before! Two more pigeons, another quail and another peach tree. The deliveryman won't take it back. He insists it's all paid for and that the order is correct. I tried calling Neiman-Marcus, but I got a recorded voice and hung up.

There's some mistake here and I wish you were around to help. As it is now, the trees take up half the living room and I've had to move the lamps and armchair into the hall closet. The birds--all ten of them--are cooped up in the bathroom, which I keep shut because the three quail (or are they baby turkeys?) have begun to swoop around the room, looking for a way out. Today I went in to clean up the droppings on my make-up mirror and the birds flew out into the living room and hid in the trees. The racket the birds make drives me up the wall when I'm reading Solly's script--it's a tender, romantic type of story and it takes all the concentration I can muster.

Affectionately, Melissa

Sunday, December 17

Harold:

This is too much! Today they delivered four of the most foulmouthed parrots I've ever encountered (I think they're obscene--one bird called out something about nice jugs, and I'm pretty sure he was talking about me) and--can you believe it?--another load of everything else. The deliverymen wouldn't take anything back, because of a no-return policy on plants and pets. I've been wanting to get the apartment ready for Christmas, but now that I've moved the sofa into the bedroom to make room for the fourth mango tree, I don't know what to do. There are so many birds in the bathroom I'm afraid to go in there--at least until I can remember how Alfred Hitchcock solved his problem. I've put the parrot cages in the dining room and I no longer bother turning on the sound when I watch TV. Needless to say, the neighbors are complaining about the racket.

I called Neiman-Marcus again and the voice told me to record my message when I heard a beep. Well, I was ready to leave some message, believe me, but then I heard the beep and--I froze! Do you believe it, Harold? Me, the second lead in Our Town, with stage fright? What's happening to me, Harold?

Yours, Melissa

Monday, December 18

Dearest Harold:

This has been absolutely the worst day of my life. What is wrong with that company? Yesterday I missed the special Sunday rehearsal to stay home and telephone them. I dialed, and for the first time, I didn't get a recorded voice. I started to say that I had a problem, but the cleaning lady at the other end broke in and said if I thought I had a problem, what about her? We talked about her gallstones for a while, but then one of those garbage-beaked parrots announced what I should bite and what I should sit on, and the cleaning lady hung up on me.

Today Neiman-Marcus struck again! Yes, the wedding rings are lovely, and yes, I will marry you--though I must say you have a strange way of popping the question! Frankly, though, I think marriage is about the only thing that could compensate for what I've been through.

Let me start at the beginning: I hardly slept at all last night because of the parrot limericks. At about five this morning, I got out of bed to tinkle--and walked right into the papaya tree. I knocked it over, of course--four bushels of dirt on my white shag rug!

After breakfast, I went out to get some birdseed and while I was gone, the deliverymen from Neiman-Marcus came. The super must have let them in. Besides the wedding rings (and I do appreciate them), those bastards brought another tree and ten more birds (four more parrots, three chickens, a pair of pigeons and another quail--or is it a bantam rooster?).

Worse, the deliverymen must have opened the bathroom door. When I walked into the apartment, there were birds and bird muck everywhere. Also dirt. The birds had been scratching in the tree pots--looking for worms, I guess. All the furniture is covered with droppings. The velvet couch is ruined and the TV set looks like a wedding cake. The whole apartment smells like the back entrance of a zoo, there are feathers everywhere and the neighbors have complained to the super about a group of filthy-mouthed sailors they claim are carousing around here. I finally lured the birds back into the bathroom by filling the tub with birdseed and whistling through my front teeth. (Solly says my teeth make my smile distinctive and that I'll wow 'em on Broadway!)

Please hurry back--I really need you.

Love, Melissa

P. S. Don't you think five rings are a bit much? Also, I hate to say this, but they're all too large for my fingers (and toes, for that matter) and too small for my wrist. What do they fit, Harold? P. P. S. Solly's invited me to the country for a day or two to go over some weak points in the play--it's strictly kosher, Harold: His mother will be there--and I must admit I could use the rest. I've asked Susan, my girlfriend next door, not to accept anything from Neiman-Marcus--unless it's something small, of course.

Wednesday, December 20

Dear Harold:

I'm going to go absolutely bonkers if this doesn't stop. I mean it. I've just finished half a (continued on page 262)Bald Eagle in a Plum Tree(continued from page 128) bottle of my special-occasion Gallo rosé, and I'm still not sure I can control myself.

I got home late this evening and there was a note on the door from Susan that was really nasty, saying she was breaking her lease and that I could have her apartment, since it was already fully occupied anyway. She also suggested something about a giant bird barbecue. I walked in and you won't believe this, Harold, but disaster! Her apartment is even smaller than mine, but somehow they had jammed in two more of those damned kumquat trees, something like 20 birds (including eight more foul parrots), plus 12 geese and seven nervous swans swimming around in little plastic wading pools.

Well, I certainly don't blame her for splitting. I hate geese, Harold. Geese are noisy, filthy and mean. They go around honking and crapping and laying eggs in the rug and pecking at the other birds. As for my own apartment, Harold, I haven't the heart to describe it. Harold, there are 30 birds in my bathroom! The quail (or are they baby penguins?) broke my Eau de Love on the sink and took a bath in it. The droppings are so thick I can hardly push the door open to feed them. They've eaten 20 pounds of birdseed, a box of Ivory soap and two rolls of toilet paper in just three days.

As far as Neiman-Marcus goes, I've decided to give up. I got the recording again and the beeper, and just as I prepared to give them a short, terse message, I looked around the apartment and broke down. I don't know what's happened to my stage presence, but I haven't the heart to call back and admit that I was the one who left the message--30 seconds of muffled sobs and a Lenny Bruce routine from the parrots in the background.

Incidentally, 1 found ten rings--just like mine--on the dressing table in Susan's bedroom. I didn't even know you two were friends.

Melissa

P. S. Solly fibbed--just a little. His mother wasn't there at all. The poor dear died a month ago, leaving him her entire estate. I did my very, very best to console him. I told him about the birds and he thinks he can use them in the play--background and all of that.

Thursday, December 21

Dear Harold:

Returning from rehearsal this afternoon, I came out of the elevator and you'd be surprised what I slipped on. I mean, there are some things you don't expect to squish through your sandals on the 18th floor of what used to be the finest apartment hotel in town. I recognized the odor, Harold--I was raised in the country--but when I rounded the corner and saw them, I just couldn't believe it.

I hope you won't think I'm an ingrate, Harold, but since the apartment lease says no pets allowed, I'm sure it means cows as well. There were eight--count them, eight--Guernsey cows, each of them being milked like crazy by a young girl dressed in gingham and sitting on a stool. The hallway was lined with big aluminum milk cans. I asked one of the girls where they came from, but her brogue was so thick I could hardly understand her. Is there another potato famine on? The super, who's been wandering around with a glazed look in his eye, said something about stabling the cows in the basement and then went off to lean against a wall. It wasn't difficult to find rooms for the girls--you'd be surprised how many people have left the building on my floor alone.

Of course, the cows weren't all that the men delivered. Seven more neurotic swans (who splash so furiously that the water from their pools has seeped through to the floor below) and six more geese, plus all the rest--rings, parrots, chickens, pigeons, quail (or is it a weird bald eagle?) and another of those damn avocado trees. I think there's a pattern developing.

Sincerely, Melissa

P. S. It could be worse. Solly thinks there may be roles for the birds and the cows.

Saturday, December 23

Dear Harold:

I didn't write yesterday because things were too hectic. Solly was here when the Neiman-Marcus truck pulled up. Eight more cows and eight more cowgirls with accents that would warm Mayor Daley's heart, parading down the lobby, splattering the carpet. Plus all the rest.

Then, just when we'd caught our breath (I'm not being funny), up drove the bus with the dancing girls. Bless Solly! He immediately decided to add a chorus line to the show, working them into a June Taylor routine. As for the farm girls, Solly mentioned that they do have rather nice figures and they could sit next to their cows in the background, not wearing too much. (Solly joked that we could call it the Tri-Tit Follies and, strangely enough, for girls fresh off the farm, they seemed rather excited about it--I get the impression they've been around.)

And, incidentally, the script has gone through some changes--Solly's original idea was fine until those guttermouthed parrots opened up and Solly discovered, after wading around with his pants rolled up, that cows are hard to house-break. We'll probably retitle it Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm Revisited, with-- guess who?--in the lead role. We'll need some more actors and animals and maybe another guava tree or two (you'd be surprised what Solly suggested should be going on in the orchard!). I told Solly we could count on you.

Meanwhile, it's really crowded in my apartment. You have to slush your way through bird shit and egg yolk and sunflower seeds and panty hose, but the girls are simply loves, taking care of the cows and helping me clean the droppings off the dining-room table. We've now got three apartments stuffed to the transoms with trees and chickens and hung-up swans. That nice hairdresser a couple of doors down was out in the hallway naked--a spat with his roommate, I guess--and started giggling when one of the chickens started pecking at his you-know-what. But then three geese cornered him and he ran shrieking out the building.

Have to run--the super's in a coma and I've got to feed him.

In haste, Melissa

Christmas Morning, December 25

Harold:

I've just lost a day--a complete, entire day has disappeared and I have no idea what I did with it. I mean, I do have an idea, but I'm trying not to remember it.

Those far-out acrobats showed up Saturday afternoon, just after I wrote you. They're very aristocratic-looking, and at first I thought they might be--you know--sissies, the way they minced around. But when I saw how and where they balanced their bowler hats and how they leaped over the girls, I knew they were normal. They were followed by another load of lady dancers, plus the cows and the birds and everything, and I knew Solly would be thrilled. The acrobats are perfect gentlemen and I just adore their British accents. They're from Burke's Peerage, wherever that is.

But it was the piccolo players who really started everything. They arrived late yesterday, decked out in bell-bottoms and long hair. After we got the new cast members squared away (the cows, swans, etc.), these hippies stuffed their piccolos with some strange green stuff and passed them around for us to puff on. Everybody went out of their gourd--I'm still floating and I'm one of the few who are awake. We must have smoked for two or three hours and everybody really hit it off!

I woke up an hour ago totally wiped out. And, in a way, I'm glad I can't remember much. The apartment looks like something that might have shattered Fellini. Somebody booted the swans out of their pools and the girls are still sleeping in them--not alone. (I was right about the farm girls; they really have been around.) I vaguely remember one of the acrobats trying to milk one of the cowgirls. I think we played a game called Leda and I dimly recollect some scenes between the musicians and the chickens that I wish I could forget. I'm sure I was hallucinating.

As far as the show goes, Solly's delighted. He now thinks we have enough cast members for a resident and a touring troupe. Got to go--I must still be high from last night, 'cause I keep imagining I hear the sound of drums.

Write me, Melissa

Christmas Night, December 25

Dear, sweet, wonderful Harold:

I finished writing you this morning just as those cute little drummer boys came rat-a-tat-tatting up the hall. And, of course, following them were more musicians, cows, dancing girls and pools and birds and rings, just as I'd promised Solly there would be! Now we have enough for two road shows. And, listen: Solly has booked the Astrodome for a telecast of the play on New Year's Eve (eat your heart out, Guy Lombardo)! The Astrodome is where they filmed Brewster McCloud, so they can handle birds.

I can't wait to tell you where I come in: In the finale, while the piccolo players and drummer boys are playing God Bless America, the dancing ladies form a high-kicking cancan line, and on stage right and left, the cowgirls (devastating in their Dale Evans see-through chaps) squirt milk while they sing the Hallelujah Chorus. The British acrobats go through their leaping routine while reciting the Magna Charta. Then the spotlight focuses stage front--on me! I emerge from this enormous vat of milk with the quail (or are they teeny ostriches?) perched on my shoulders. The geese honk past overhead in V formation, the cows moo in syncopated rhythm, with their tails wagging in unison, and stage rear, the birds cluck and chirp their way through a gay refrain. (We'll gag the goddamn parrots.) When the drum roll begins, the birds cluster around me and then fly off--with my costume. It'll be the real me, Harold, coast to coast, in living color! My big chance!

Love you forever, Harold. Solly and I will always think of you as the one who gave us our first big break. Sorry about this writing paper. The glob in the middle is either goose or pigeon.

Melissa

Tuesday, December 26

You Indian Giver:

I can't believe you would stoop so low. It's midnight now and--nothing. Not only did the new cast people fail to show up (we were counting on them!) but the old ones all left. They said their contract ran only 12 days.

All that's left are empty wading pools, a few cans of curdled milk, an odd egg or three, a broken piccolo, feathers everywhere and, God, Harold, just tons of manure. Also the rings. Solly finally found out what they were supposed to fit, but they turned his you-know-what green. I should have known.

We're leaving for Solly's farm tomorrow, and we plan to shoot every animal on it. I don't think anyone has ever raised my hopes so high, only to dash them so cruelly. I was going to write a poem, maybe a song, about all this, but dear Solly says it may already have been done. It will take me a long time to forget you, Harold, but I intend to devote the rest of my life to trying.

Melissa (Mrs. Solly) Greenburg