The man shambled up the street like a giant unhappy duck, which, given the nature of his mission, was somehow appropriate.
He held a cage in his hand. Inside the cage was a bird. The bird had gray feathers and red cheeks. It sported a comb that looked like a peroxided topknot, although I was later to learn it was a natural blond.
“Do you wanna buy a bird?” the man asked. “He’s a nice bird.”
I have been offered many things for sale on the streets of Denver: drugs, baseball tickets, knockoff Rolexes, burritos and certain acts of leisure for which the going rate was 40 bucks, which, for the record, was cheaper than the fake Rolex.
This was the first time I’d been offered a bird.
The salesman was a burly guy named Dale Peterson, and the bird was giving him fits in the domestic tranquility department.
“Like I said, it’s a nice bird,” Peterson said. “He’s a cockatiel. But he needs a lot of attention. My girlfriend and I both work during the day, and the only attention he gets is from the cat.”
I guessed — correctly as it turned out — that this was not the sort of attention the bird wanted.
“Oh yeah,” Peterson said. “I come home sometimes, and the bird is just screaming. It’ll make your hair stand on end.”
It occurred to me that he might need to hone his sales pitch. Then again, retail was never my strong suit.
Peterson placed the cage on the sidewalk and sat down on a brick fence for a breather. We were at East 16th Avenue and Pearl Street. Peterson looked deflated. I asked how long he’d owned the bird.
“I won him two years ago in a card game,” he said. “His name’s Ernie. Things were fine when I had my own place, but then I had to move in with my friend. She has the cat. It’s not working out.”
It turns out Peterson was forced from his home when his landlord was hit with foreclosure. “One of those bad loan deals,” Peterson said. “He had his house and two rentals, and he lost the rentals. This was a couple of months ago.”
In two weeks, Denver will be flooded with delegates to the Democratic National Convention.
There will be much speechifying about our economy, which is in a sorry state, a fact that should not be lost on even the folks who only feel the pinch because it’s costing more to fuel the Learjet for a jaunt to their second home in Aspen.
“I’ll be honest with you,” Peterson said. “This bird’s been causing problems at home and everything, but I could also just use the money. Things are tight.”
I needed a high-strung cockatiel like I needed another mortgage payment, but I asked Peterson how much he wanted for Ernie. He brightened. “Bird like this, I was thinking about $120,” he said.
I don’t know who he expected to meet on the street carrying that much cash, but it wasn’t me.
“I’m not really in the market for a bird,” I said. “And we’ve got two cats of our own.”
I felt bad for the bird, and I felt bad for Peterson. I stuck my finger inside the cage and gave it a friendly wiggle. The bird cocked a jet-black eye up at me and let out a shriek that echoed off the apartment building across the street.
“Good luck,” I said, to both Peterson and Ernie.
Peterson hoisted himself to his feet and picked up the cage. He looked down the street. Neither one of us saw a buyer in sight.
William Porter writes Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Reach him at wporter@denverpost.com or 303-954-1977.
