"Yeah, Verdi's my buddy," Oliver said. "He likes you, too."
"Birds can be your friends," Arlen said. "People don't realize." He
looked out the window. "I had a parakeet once. His name was Tootsie."
"Tootsie," Oliver repeated, sipping whiskey.
"An ordinary parakeet, green and yellow--but Tootsie could sing! A
wonderful singer." Arlen looked back at Oliver. "Parakeets are tough,
you know. They are little parrots, actually, strong birds."
"Really? Parrots? I didn't know that."
"Yes," Arlen said. "Tootsie belonged to William." His voice lingered on
the name, and he looked out the window again. "I was just getting to
know William. He asked me to keep Tootsie for him while he was away one
summer . . . I suppose he was testing me."
"Ah," Oliver said, vaguely.
"Tootsie and I got along very well. I tried to teach him to say
'William,' but he preferred to sing." Arlen paused to drink.
"I moved in with William that fall." He uncrossed his legs and crossed
them again, waving the other boot in the air. "To make a long story
short, I moved out three years later. William was away for the night. I
was feeling shitty, and I explained the situation to Tootsie.
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