pigeons

In early September, a homeless man sprawls out across the still green grass of Newtowne park. Sunlight glinted through green leaves and cast him - propped up with one arm all his weight pinned on his side - in kaleidoscope shadow. A few feet away, I heard his deep, wobbling voice as he addressed a set of two dirty, gray city pigeons. He laughed and told them jokes, he smiled exposing his teeth. He talked to these vermin as if they were people.

And then, kids ran through and spooked them.

"Hey," said the man, addressing the birds as they frantically strutted further and further away from his place on the lawn. "Hey, you come back here." He shifted his weight, lifted his hand and hooked his finger into a suggestive "Come hither" entreatment. "You all," he said loudly, "get back!"

Other people were staring now, rolling their eyes and talking low as this man in tattered denim playfully pleaded after pigeons. He seemed so supremely happy spread out across the grass speaking in coded coos. I found myself jumping to this man's defense. I actually found myself moved by the image, I felt the way I feel watching any other human being love something.

He reminded me of all of the strange things I have done, would do, will do from a place of blind, ceaseless, stupid love. He had pigeons. I had frantically looking for silver cars. Nights without sleep. Burnt red fingers that stung after touching hot springform pans. In reality, the man was drunk and rambling, his mind hazy from exhaust fumes, too much sunlight and bottom shelf hooch. Though, it looked like love and that seemed to be enough. 

chris hansen and reductive thinking

A few blocks from my apartment, two men lie down in the middle of the street. (I live in a residential area uncluttered by late night traffic and the quiet, black asphalt is admittedly serene.) They are drunk. I knew this a block ago when I heard them howl into the air. Two stumbling and inefficient night dogs in flannel shirts.

When I was still a girl, Chris Hansen taught me that the world is not safe. TV journalism raised me to believe that people - particularly men - want to hurt me. This is sexist and a gross generalization. However, walking home alone after midnight, I hear my mother’s voice in my head. You are not safe. I am a short girl in stockings and lipstick. I am slow and tripping beneath too many groceries. 

I approach them. I make my big cow eyes hard and roll my shoulders back. I force this posture whenever I want people to believe I am strong.  

“Bystander effect!” Calls one of the men as I pass by his resting place in the road. “You wouldn’t call for help! You’d let us die here!”

I break my locked gaze and remove the ice from my eyes. I look away from the geometry of a stop sign marking the end of the block. I am surprised.

“I most certainly wouldn’t let you die,” I say. “Are you dying?”

“No.”

“Do you need help? I didn’t think you needed help.”

“You’re right. That’s true. We don’t need help. You’re a nice person.”

“Okay.” I say. “Don’t stay in the street. It’s dangerous. You two have a lovely evening.”

“You have a lovelier one. You have fun.”

I leave them where they are.

“Dude,” I hear the other man exclaim, “that cloud looks like a dick!”

Up the road I hear more voices and see the small, red-orange glow of cigarette tips. These are the friends of the street men, lagging behind, tired and swaying after a long night. This group will find the missing two and prod them to come along, to get up, to go home and go to bed. Tonight, we’ll all be plenty safe.