Joaninha pulled her 1982 Honda Accord up to the high curb in front of the Boonville Mercantile and killed the engine. The weary mid-size sedan, however, had its own ideas and continued to diesel as if it was having an epileptic fit as the young woman gathered up the items that had rattled out of her purse on the bumpy drive over from Ukiah.

She was glad that she was almost done having to make the daily trip over to the college, but wasn’t looking forward to sinking money that she didn’t have into the aging car to ensure that she could achieve escape velocity from her hometown. Graduation was coming up fast and Joaninha was hoping that the Accord and her journalism degree would get her at least as far away as the East Bay, maybe Humboldt County.

“Just a moment!” A cheerful voice from the Mercantile’s backroom called out as she triggered the tiny bronze Tibetan bells hanging on the shop’s front door.

“It’s just me,” Joaninha called back. “I can take over if you want, Mom.” The familiar earthy smell of Nag Champa incense filled her senses as the stress of upcoming finals melted away, at least for the moment.

“Sera, thank goodness,” a lively gray-haired woman in her early 50s bustled out from the stockroom, wrestling herself into a wool sweater as she walked. “Where is Kiḍa today?” Joaninha’s mother asked, using her native Marathi translation of a name she found, frankly, ridiculous.

“He drove over the mountain today, mom. He is finally starting the interviews for his project.”

“I don’t know why your boyfriend wants to talk to those idiots,” an old-timer shopping with a female eclectus parrot on his shoulder chimed unbidden into the conversation.

“I don’t remember asking your opinion, Floyd,” Joaninha’s mother snapped, long having had enough of the local’s morning commentary on everything from the weather to Bill Clinton’s recent remarks on the Oklahoma City bombing.

“Hey, I’m just saying… ,” the man replied. The bright red and purple parrot, uncharacteristically, was silent on the matter.

“That’s your problem, Floyd,” the woman pointed out, “you are always ‘just saying!’ Why don’t you keep your trap shut for a change.”

“Keep your trap shut! Keep your trap shut!” The tie-dyed-colored bird joyfully joined in the dialogue.

“You should follow the advice of your feathered friend, Floyd,” Mrs. Joaninha advised as she grabbed her keys to leave. “Between the two of you, she’s the only one with any sense.”

This last parry finally brought a moment of quiet to the Mercantile as the parrot bobbed up and down on Floyd’s shoulder in silent agreement.

“Where are you running off to, Mom?” Joaninha asked as she punched the No Sale key on the ancient cash register. “It looks like we have enough change in the till to take care of the afternoon rush.” She raised one eyebrow toward the store’s one customer that her Mom was finally done berating.

“I need to go drive your father to the clinic,” the woman explained, speaking back over her overtly parrotless shoulder as the bronze bells tinkled again. “He was in the wood shop and chopped off a finger or something, I don’t know. You know your father.”

“Mom! How long ago did he call you?”

“Don’t worry, mulagī,” the woman dismissed her daughter’s fears out of hand. “Your father is such a drama king. I’ll probably be right back.”

“Shut your trap!” The parrot called out in farewell.

“What can I do you for, Mr. Anderson?” Joaninha made the decision to not worry that her father might be bleeding out on the floor of his shop.

“Just the usual,” the man sighed as he hefted a ten-pound bag of Roudybush bird pellets onto the counter. “I’m serious, you know. I don’t think your man should be out there kicking over rocks that are better left undisturbed.”

“Well, for starters, he’s not ‘my man’, Mr. Anderson, but I’m sure that he would appreciate your concern. That’ll be four dollars.” Joaninha took the fiver proffered from her customer and hit the till, handing him back his change. “TK’s a big boy, he can take care of himself. I think it’s important that he works through his abandonment issues while he’s still relatively young.”

“Is that what he’s up to?” Anderson asked, the parrot leaning in to hear the response. “Those cultists didn’t abandon your man, the State had to go in and take him away before those dummies killed him!”

“TK says Girrasol was a commune, not a cult,” Joaninha said, now thinking back to her own misgivings about the project. “I’m sure that everything will be fine.”

“Commune, my ass!” Anderson snorted. “You just tell that boy to watch his six.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Anderson. You have a good day, now.”

“Commune, my ass! Commune, my ass!” The parrot repeated as the pair retreated. “Commune, my ass!”

Follow the story:
Kingdoms of the Radio: Serafina’s Gift
Kingdoms of the Radio: Charlie Perigo 1
Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Kumalo 1
Kingdoms of the Radio: Karoline Rosenda 1
Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Meets The Stick
Kingdoms of the Radio: Ride a Painted Pony
Kingdoms of the Radio: Fadeout (Rock Hound Magazine, 1970)