I walk out of my office building at 11:17 to get a wrap at my favorite deli. It’s sunny and hot out. Lots of people on the sidewalk. I walk past a young girl waiting for the bus wearing a tight little sundress. She’s looking at me. I smile and keep walking. At her age, she has no business looking like that, no business looking at me like that.
Kids laugh in the streets, no school for the summer. People wait. The crazy man who’s always sitting on the same bench talks out loud to himself, as usual, as if giving a lecture, in a thick Jamaican accent. Or maybe he’s talking to God. One day I’ll sit down and ask him about what and to whom he’s speaking. Maybe it’ll turn out that I’m the crazy one.
Lunch in hand, my usual turkey on a wheat wrap, lettuce tomato swiss and spicy mustard, I walk to the park benches and see one that’s shaded and vacant. Past the bench with the old person who has either dementia or drunkenness. Short of the bench with an attractive couple who is really enjoying their conversation. I try in vain not to eavesdrop as I thank Mr. Turkey for his life and try to separate and savor each flavor of each bite.
Across the little pond is a chubby kid, around thirteen years old, alone, with a sleeve of crackers. He’s feeding the pigeons and the sparrows, one cracker at a time. The pigeons, bigger and stronger than the sparrows, are getting all the food so he distracts them with one cracker then immediately throws another one beyond them so the sparrows can eat as well. He spends a full fifteen minutes feeding the birds, then feeds the fish when he determines the birds have had enough. He doesn’t want them to become chubby like he is. He wants to be a better parent to them than his are to him.
I name him Lord of the Pigeons. He wears sandals with socks, camouflage shorts and an ugly gray t-shirt. Either he has no fashion sense or he just doesn’t care. I hope it’s the latter, but since he’s the Lord of the Pigeons, he can do what he wants and no one can question him. Not today.
He empties the last contents from the sleeve into the water, shaking it well beyond the point at which anything at all is coming out, hesitates, then turns and walks away. The pigeons follow him still. He doesn’t want to leave yet, but he’s out of crackers, so what can he do? Strange how we always need to be doing something. He walks past a homeless man who asks him for money, and the Lord of the Pigeons gives him the change in his pocket. What a benevolent lord. I want to go talk to him but can think of nothing to say that wouldn’t be weird. “You like feeding pigeons huh? Me too.” And I do, but I can’t get the nerve.
A pregnant woman walks past me and smiles. I wonder if she has a husband, or if she doesn’t know who the father is. Maybe both. Or neither. I don’t know.
My morning coffee has long since worn off and I need something before heading back to my flourescently-lit cubicle, my cell, to finish another day’s work. I recaffeinate. $2.22 for a medium. It probably cost them fifteen cents to make that coffee, and they sell it for $2.22. And I pay it, enough to feed a starving African kid for a week, just enough to keep me alert for another hour.
I want to spend the rest of the day outside. It’s beautiful out. I turn a corner and am revitalized by the strong breeze whipping between those two buildings. It dries the sweat on my forehead and cools me, doing more good than any $2.22 iced coffee could do even on its best day. I look up at the tree in the distance and notice that a few leaves at its very apex are waving to me. How lucky they are to be the highest leaves on their tree. What a view it must be!
Inside again, suited men rushing around. So serious. I stop to chat with the girl who works at the coffee shop in my building and ask about her weekend. She jokes that I’m cheating on her and points at my iced coffee from the other place. “Well, you know, since you can’t give me what I want, I have to get it elsewhere. I have needs that have to be met.” They don’t serve iced coffee in my building, and drinking hot coffee on a hot day is like running a marathon with diarrhea. Not really, but both are masochistic endeavors.
One day when I’m self-employed and it’s a beautiful, sunny Monday, I’ll take my dogs for a hike in the morning then eat brunch at my favorite diner. Hash & cheese omelette, American cheese, dry wheat toast, and fruit instead of potatoes. The fruit is almost never fresh but the corned beef hash is the best I’ve ever had. I’ll put salt and pepper and Tabasco on it and have my coffee with milk only, and an ice water to wash it all down. I’ll drink the coffee for the taste, not the effect. At lunchtime I’ll drive into downtown and feed the pigeons, sparrows and fish an entire loaf of bread, maybe two, and hopefully the Lord of the Pigeons will be there too and we can talk about how fantastic it is to be outside on a beautiful day with nowhere to be, feeding the wildlife in the park. Maybe I can give him some advice. Or maybe he’ll have advice for me.
If only I could spend my days feeding pigeons, sparrows, and fish, and in return they’d pay my bills. But, alas, they have no money.