In my next life, I want to be a bird, specifically a New York City based pigeon. Some might scoff, “Why in the world would you want to come back as a rat with wings?” Please note that “rat with wings” is a name for our feathered nemeses Woody Allen coined in 1980 in Stardust Memories when perchance, actually per script, a pigeon flew into his apartment via an open window. Just another typical bit of forgotten WA-style urban neurosis, but that phrase has deservedly entered the lexicon.
I want to return as a pigeon in the Big Apple because there’s always plenty to eat lying around, there are millions of other birds so I’ll never be without a date, I can roost rent-free in the toniest neighborhoods, flying beats riding public transportation, and best of all, I can crap wherever and whenever I want, including on annoying New Yorkers like the short, fleshy young woman in her early to mid twenties that I noticed on my way home from work Monday evening as I walked up Broadway in the West 70s.
The street was crowded with rush hour pedestrian traffic, as well as vendors selling their wares lining one side and the jazz musician I see every weeknight playing his saxophone on the other. A tall, slender bun-head, fresh from ballet class, wearing iPod headphones, who was about the same age as the short squat woman – a woman that bore a distinct resemblance to the fruit of an illicit romance between a fire hydrant and a table leg, brushed against each other. Fireworks exploded.
Short Squat One: You bumped into my bag! Don’t you know how to say ‘excuse me’?
Bun-head (removing headphones): Huh? What?
Short Squat One: You’re so retarded! Forget it!
Short Squat One furiously stomps on as Bun-head stands bewildered asking, “What’s her problem?” If I were Lame Adventures Pigeon, I would have dive-bombed SSQ’s head with my Mickey D-bagel-pizza-Dunkin’ Donuts lunch. Pigeons have the power.