THE POOL PARTY
The pool was infinity-edged, overlooking Sydney Harbour, and
had been described by Cath as “a celebration of friendship, healing, and the unblocking of funnels.” It had been described by Barry as “a mistake” and by Travis as “actually pretty nice, is that a heated pool?”
Barry stood at the edge of the patio in swim trunks he had bought specifically for this occasion and would never wear again, holding a paper plate with a single muffin on it, and wondering how he had ended up here. Again. The muffin was poppyseed. He did not intend to eat it.
“I hate this,” he said.
“You’ve said that eleven times,” Rihanna observed, gliding past in a flowing white cover-up, carrying a tray of muffins arranged by colour. “Have a muffin.”
“I have a muffin.”
“You’re not holding it right. Hold it like you mean it.”
Barry adjusted his grip. He did not mean it.
Travis, meanwhile, was already in the pool, floating on his back like a man who had never known shame. He was wearing a polo shirt. In the pool. It had his face on it.
“This is great!” Travis called out. “Barry! Get in! The water’s perfect!”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re standing there like a man who’s afraid of water.”
“I’m not afraid of water. I’m afraid of you.”
“Get in the pool, Barry.”
“No.”
[Menu]
THE ARRIVALS
Margot Robbie arrived first, carrying a beach bag and wearing a sunhat the size of a small umbrella. “Hello, everyone! Sorry I’m late—I was reading the book again. Backwards this time.”
Cath emerged from the house in a caftan the colour of a sunset, holding a pitcher of something pink. “Margot! Darling! You made it! Have a muffin. Don’t eat it.”
“I know the rules, Cath.”
Gaga was last to arrive, which was normal, and she arrived with an entourage, which was also normal. The entourage consisted of Nigel the king parrot, Trevor II the coughing cockatoo, Susan the opinionated sulphur-crested cockatoo, and two new birds—one cockatoo and one king parrot—who sat on her shoulders like living epaulettes.
https://australianbirdguide.com/cockatoo/
“Everyone,” Gaga announced, sweeping onto the patio in a dress made of what appeared to be recycled pool noodles, “I’d like you to meet my new companions.”
The party went quiet. Even Travis stopped floating.
“This,” Gaga said, gesturing to the cockatoo on her left shoulder, “is Bandito.”
Bandito the cockatoo screeched.
“And this,” she continued, gesturing to the king parrot on her right shoulder, “is Taylor.”
Taylor the king parrot blinked.
There was a pause.
“Why Bandito?” Cath asked.
“Because he’s a bandit. He steals things. He stole my car keys this morning.”
“And why Taylor?” Rihanna asked.
“Because she’s a king parrot. King. Taylor. It’s a joke.”
No one laughed. Gaga’s eye twitched.
https://australianbirdguide.com/king-parrot/
THE QUESTIONS
The questions began innocently enough. Margot, ever polite, leaned in to examine Bandito. “He’s beautiful. How old is he?”
Gaga stared at her. “I don’t know that information.”
“You don’t know how old he is?”
“I’m too busy writing hit songs.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Okay,” Margot said. “Where did you get him?”
“I don’t know that information. I’m too busy writing hit songs.”
“You don’t know where you got your bird?”
“It was a gift.”
“From who?”
“I don’t know that information.”
“Gaga—”
“I’m too busy writing hit songs.”
Cath stepped in, sensing danger. “What about Taylor? How long have you had Taylor?”
Gaga turned to her, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know that information.”
https://australianbirdguide.com/
“Gaga, you must know how long—”
“I’m too busy writing hit songs.”
Travis, still in the pool, raised a hand. “What does Bandito eat?”
“I don’t know that information.”
“Does he eat seeds? Fruit? Little bits of bread?”
“I don’t know that information. I’m too busy writing hit songs.”
“Does he have a favourite food?”
“I don’t know that information.”
“Does he—”
“Travis.”
“What?”
“Stop asking me questions.”
Travis held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. Sorry. Just curious.”
Barry, from his position at the edge of the patio, muttered, “I hate this.”
Rihanna, beside him, nodded. “I know. Here. Have another muffin.”
“I have a muffin.”
“Have another muffin.”
THE INTERROGATION
It did not stop. If anything, it got worse.
Susan the opinionated sulphur-crested cockatoo, perhaps sensing her owner’s distress, began screeching at the guests. This prompted more questions.
“Is Susan okay?” Margot asked.
“I don’t know that information.”
“Is she always like this?”
“I don’t know that information.”
“Does she need a vet?”
“I don’t know that information. I’m too busy writing hit songs.”
Cath, who had been watching this unfold with increasing concern, tried a different approach. “Gaga. Darling. We’re not trying to interrogate you. We just want to know about your birds.”
“Then ask me about my music.”
“Okay. What’s your new album about?”
“I don’t know that information. I’m too busy writing hit songs.”
“Gaga—”
“What do you want from me, Catherine?“
THE BREAKDOWN
Gaga sat down on a pool lounger, her pool-noodle dress crinkling, Bandito and Taylor and Nigel and Trevor II and Susan all perched around her like a very confused aviary. She looked exhausted. She looked, for the first time in anyone’s memory, like a woman who did not want to be asked any more questions.
“I don’t know anything about birds,” she admitted.
There was a collective gasp.
“What?” Cath said.
“I don’t know anything about birds. I just like them. I like how they look. I like how they sit on my shoulder. I like how they make me feel like a very important person. But I don’t know how old they are, or what they eat, or where they came from. I just… have them.”
“But you wrote a whole song about birds,” Rihanna said. “For the movie. It’s called ‘Birds Don’t Need Funnels.’”
“That song is nonsense. I wrote it in twenty minutes. I don’t know anything about birds.”
“Gaga.”
“I’m sorry.”
THE RESOLUTION
Barry, still holding his muffin, still hating the pool party, stepped forward. He did not know why. He did not know what he was going to say. But something about the situation—the birds, the questions, the absurdity of it all—felt familiar.
“I don’t know anything either,” he said.
Everyone turned to look at him.
“I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know why I have a book deal. I don’t know why there’s a movie. I don’t know why I’m at a pool party with a man who once told me my pipe-wrench technique was emotionally unresolved. I don’t know anything.”
Gaga looked up at him.
“But I know that it’s okay,” Barry continued. “To not know things. To just… have them. To like them. To keep them. To let them sit on your shoulder and screech at people.”
“That’s beautiful,” Gaga said.
“It’s not beautiful. It’s just true.”
“Can I put it in a song?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
Gaga nodded, accepting this. She stood up, brushing off her pool-noodle dress. “Fine. I don’t know anything about birds. But I do know that this party needs more music. And more muffins. And possibly more birds.”
“We have plenty of birds,” Cath said.
“Not enough.”
And somewhere in the distance—beyond the infinity pool, beyond the harbour, beyond the absurdity of it all—a kookaburra laughed.
Or maybe it was Bandito.
Or maybe it was Taylor.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was Barry himself, still holding his muffin, still hating the pool party, but somehow—against all odds—having a good time.