Stan Milgramhad begun the long trip to see his aunt in California, but he had only been driving for an hour before Gerard started to complain.

“It stinks,” Gerard said, perched in the backseat. “It stinks to high heaven.” He looked out the window. “What hellhole is this?”

“It’s Columbus, Ohio,” Stan said.

“Disgusting,” Gerard said.

“You know what they say,” Stan said. “Columbus is Cleveland without the glitter.”

The bird said nothing.

“You know what glitter is?”

“Yes. Shut up and drive.”

Gerard sounded cranky. And he shouldn’t be, Stan felt, considering how well the parrot had been treated the last couple of days. Stan had gone online to find out what greys ate, and had gotten Gerard some delicious apples and special greens. He had left the TV on in the pet shop at night, for Gerard to watch. And after a day, Gerard had stopped nipping at his fingers. He even allowed Stan to put him on his shoulder, without biting his ear.

“Are we almost there?” Gerard said.

“No. We’ve only been gone an hour.”

“How much farther is it?”

“We have to drive three days, Gerard.”

“Three days. That is twenty-four times three, that is seventy-two hours.”

Stan frowned. He had never heard of a bird that did math. “Where’d you learn that?”

“I am a man of many talents.”

“You’re not a man at all.” He laughed. “Was that from a movie?” Sometimes the bird repeated lines from movies, he was sure of it.

“Dave,” Gerard said, in a monotone, “this conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Good-bye.”

“Oh, wait, I know that one. It’sStar Wars. ”

“Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.” It was a woman’s voice.

Stan frowned. “Some airplane movie…”

“They seek him here, they seek him there, those Frenchies seek him everywhere-”

“I know, that’s not a movie, that’s poetry.”

“Sink me!” Now he sounded British.

“I give up,” Stan said.

“So do I,” Gerard said, with an elaborate sigh. “How much farther is it?”

“Three days,” Stan said.

The parrot stared out the window at the passing city. “Well, they’re saved from the blessings of civilization,” he said, in a cowboy drawl. And he began to make the sounds of a plunking banjo.

Later in the day, the parrot began to sing French songs, or maybe they were Arab songs, Stan couldn’t be sure. Anyway, some foreign language. It seemed he had gone to a live concert, or at least heard a recording of one, because he mimicked the crowd sounds, and the instruments tuning up, and the cheering as the performers came on, before he sang the song itself. It sounded like he was singing “Didi,” or something like that.

It was interesting for a while, kind of like hearing radio from a foreign country, but Gerard tended to repeat himself. On a narrow side road, they were stuck behind a woman driver. Stan tried to pass her once or twice, but never could.

After a while Gerard started to say,“Le soleil c’est beau,” and then make a loud sound like a gunshot.

“Is that French?” Stan asked.

More gunshots.“Le soleil c’est beau.” Bang! “Le soleil c’est beau.” Bang! “Le soleil c’est beau.” Bang!

“Gerard…”

The bird said,“Les femmes au volant c’est la lachet? personifi?.” He made a rumbling sound.“Pourquoi elle ne d?passe pas?…Oh, ou?, merde, des travaux.”

The lady driver finally turned off to the right, but she was slow making the turn, and Stan had to brake slightly as he went past her.

“Il ne faut jamais freiner…Comme disait le vieux p?re Bugatti, les voitures sont faites pour rouler, pas pour s’arr?ter.”

Stan sighed. “I don’t understand a word you are saying, Gerard.”

“Merde, les flics arrivent!”

He began to wail like a police siren.

“That’s enough,” Stan said. He turned on the radio. By now it was late afternoon. They’d passed Maryville and were heading toward St. Louis. Traffic was picking up.

“Are we almost there?” Gerard said.

Stan sighed. “Never mind.” It was going to be a long trip.