Who is August Binwalter

Chapter One August pushed the big yellow beak of his crow mask, shifting it to the top of his head, and fl apped his feathered wings in an attempt at cooling himself. Th e costume was hot, being made entirely of faux feathers, and although he had asked for the endangered spotted owl, all the shop had left was the crow. Bird suits had enjoyed a healthy surge in demand due to the university’s announced intention to chop down the remaining oaks on its property and erect fi berglass kiosks in their stead. Righteously outraged students paraded the streets in animal costumes protesting the planned execution; the polar bear and camel might have seemed out of place, but everyone was willing to overlook minor details, and some braver souls, August included, perched high in the aged branches, creating brief interest that quickly faded as the story became old news His nest in the threatened oak had become cluttered, and he roosted among plastic water bottles, empty cans and jars, books, magazines, tissues, plastic bags (for bodily wastes) and a first aid kit. The worst trauma he’d suffered, other than jeers and ridicule from the frat clones, was the bump on his head from a falling limb, not the tree’s fault, as he had weakened it with his pulley line. Far below, his co-conspirator and erstwhile girlfriend, Claudette, ran supplies up as needed, and the constant pulling on the branch had brought the whole thing crashing down, beaning him and causing her to dodge quickly, avoiding a nasty accident. They had reestablished the lifeline on a sturdier limb, and the 2 Who is August Binwalter supply bucket rose and fell smoothly once again. He stood at the edge of his nest, flapping his impressive wings, looking much like a creature from a Japanese movie about to soar over the campus. Passers- by took note, standing far back from the tree, not wanting to be crushed should he, by some miracle or unfortunate circumstance, become airborne. By the thirteenth day of his nest-in, August was hallucinating. Although the vigil had achieved its purpose and the tree was still standing, he was in melt-down. The roost was constricting, and he felt panicky: fear and paranoia were settling in. Claudette had sensed something amiss when he stopped sending his bagged bowel movements down in the bucket. She warned him of the possible health hazards of hoarding the stuff up there; “You’re a craizoid, man. Send your stuff down like you’re supposed to, or I’m splittin,’….” to no avail. It seemed his selfimposed isolation had finally taken its toll, and August had snapped. Now he shrieked, “Cawwwww, Cawww, Cawwww,” and hurled his stored-up feces through the branches at pedestrians. Embarrassed by this turn of events, bored with the adventure, and disgusted by her friend, Claudette disappeared, leaving the giant crow to fend for himself. And fend he did when the police arrived, accompanied by an angry little old lady. “There he is officers. That’s the perpetrator,” she screeched, pointing her boney finger at the crow in the tree. “That’s the poop-thrower. As a taxpayer in good standing, I demand you bust the overgrown avian.” His wing flapping and beak pecking were of no consequence against the Berkeley police, who borrowed the fire department’s ladder truck and used its bucket to haul him from his perch. The crow man trod the floor of the community holding cell awaiting arraignment, eliciting terrified reactions from hung-over drunks and drowsy druggies who mistook him for one big hallucination—a consequence of imposed withdrawal –and mumbled promises to their higher powers never to touch another drop or snort another line. Fortunately, the judge, a member of long-standing in the Audubon Society and an avid birdwatcher, mistook August for a kindred spirit, and released him with a warning. “No more feces throwing, my boy,” he admonished, wagging his finger and shaking his head. “Can’t have this kind of incident soiling our city’s reputation now, can we?” August thought he detected a hint of a grin at the corner of the man’s mouth. Nellis Boyer 3 “Thank you, sir, of course not,” replied the crow, “I lost my head,” he stammered, the beaked mask in the crook of his arm staring directly up at Judge Herman. “Dismissed,” yelled the magistrate, banging his gavel on the desk. August fl opped his big yellow crow’s feet down the courthouse steps, thankful for the judge’s leniency and anxious to shed his cumbersome costume Plodding along the sidewalk on Ashby Avenue toward his mother’s house, he realized his zeal in protecting the tree had gotten the better of him. He was not cut out to guard trees, and he wouldn’t have undertaken the caper if he hadn’t been so angry at the university for kicking him out at the end of the semester. Th e tree sit-in had seemed a good way to get even; fl awed logic, he now realized. Yes, he had come to revere the giant oak, naming her Mathilde in a fi t of tenderness, but what could one lonely crow hope to gain against the mighty academia? True, his grades had fallen perilously low, but his professors weren’t aware of his day to day struggles, what he had to endure just to maintain; his mother’s deteriorating health, and his sister’s constant acting out. They should have given him a commendation, not simply discarded him like so much used soap. But perhaps it wasn’t too late. If he pled his case he could make them understand, and they would reinstate him. It was worth a try. He would focus, not let himself be distracted from his goal. And Claudette? She had certainly flown the coup--deserting him in the face of adversity, leaving him to fend off the fuzz alone. Some friend. He padded up Ashby, his feathers drooping, his tail between his knobby knees. Tired of carrying his mask, he pulled it back over his head and continued walking, indifferent to the stares of fellow pedestrians and bicycle- riding students, most of whom were accustomed to bizarre spectacles on the Berkeley streets. At least he was upright and moving, not propped against a building or passed out on someone’s cement lawn. At long-last, the family home appeared; a large, brown- shingle two story sitting high above the street, its overgrown grass encroaching into the bed of drooping Shasta daises beneath the living room window. Old and in obvious need of repair, the place stood out like