There’s an old man in the park. He’s wearing a tweed suit, a black fedora, and circle-rimmed, red-shaded glasses. He’s leaning against a fence, talking to the pigeons, and throwing bread closer and closer to his body, saying, “That’s right, sweetheart. Just a little closer. I won’t hurt you.”
One pigeon begins to trust him. He leans down with a big, yellow smile and holds out a corner of crust. The pigeon walks up and pecks at the bread between his fingers. While the bird eats, he gently lifts it by the belly and sets it on his shoulder. He continues to feed the bird so it won’t flee. The rest of the pigeons begin perching on his body. He’s covered in pigeons, smiling, waving, and taking pictures with people passing by.
I’m sitting on a bench across the way, eating a sandwich filled with the thin-sliced flesh of a bird not entirely unlike a pigeon. A few pigeons are pecking at my feet, waiting for a bite of my sandwich. I kick at them when they get too close. “Look, your god is over there, you idiots,” I say.
The other day, I was trying to explain the phrase, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” to a co-worker. But my co-worker kept saying, “Why would someone have a bird in their hand?” And I kept saying, “That’s not the damn point. It’s an old saying. It means that one of what you’ve got is better than more of what you don’t got, or some shit like that.”
I chew on my bird sandwich and wish these three pigeons would leave me the hell alone. I look again at the pigeon man across the way. I decide the man is a pervert, a real sicko. If he can do that to a pigeon, who knows what else he’s coaxed onto his body. My co-worker might have had a point. Why in the tit-tickling world does someone need a bird in their hand?
The old man brushes the birds off of him. He smiles a sad smile and flicks a couple feathers from his sleeve. I wonder where he’s going and if he will still be smiling by the time he arrives. Even his shadow looks lonely.
I watch the birds, who have already forgotten him. They are pecking at the leftover crumbs he left by the fence. The crumbs are mostly gone, and the idiot pigeons fight over the last little bit. A fat, one-legged pigeon, too tattered for the tussle, spots me and hops over. The rest follow.
Two dozen pigeons stand around me, waiting for a crumb to drop. One gets brave and hops up on the bench next to me. I swat at it, thinking it will move. It does not. I touch the pigeon. Gross. I stand up and say, “Is this what you want, you sick freaks?” and throw my sandwich into the trash can. Now it’s me talking to the damn pigeons.
I can’t decide if the pigeon man is a monster or a hero. Half of me thinks he’s a monster because he taught all these damn pigeons that it’s okay to get up on top of people. Half of me wonders if he gathers up all the pigeons he can hold so that the people in the park can enjoy their bagels, sandwiches, and croissants without so many of those pea-brained, top-heavy birds pecking at their toes. Half of me thinks he is really, really lonely.
That’s three halves, which is bad math. That’s all loneliness is—bad math. A bird in the hand ain’t worth a damn.
Hello, world.
Masterful contradictions, Daisy. From something we've all seen in our lives. A man feeding the pidgeons (not sure why I spelled it like that but this is probably the Elizabethan....)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xf0poQI8wSo