My Life as a Pigeon - Days Three and Four

Seven Days of the Pigeon

I live in New York City and when my landlord doubled my rent I got evicted and had to sell all my stuff.  I used the money to get real drunk and in the middle of the drunk I dared God to change me into a pigeon for a week.  Which he did.    

Day Three

I fly above my old building and slash several wet white craps on top of the green canopy that covers the entrance.  The slum landlord looks up at me and shakes his fist.  I squeeze out another slithering line and the scumbag dives into a Starbucks.  For the first time in my life I feel real power. 

After nibbling some tater tots from a trash can and washing it down with puddle water, I flap through the window of Minnie’s apartment.  She is on the floor doing nude yoga.  I can only think of melting elephants.  After a shower, Minnie dresses and we limo downtown.  Minnie tells me she is organizing a fundraiser for all the abused pigeons in New York City.  I don’t care. 

We stop at Tiffany.  Minnie darts out and is only gone a few seconds before bounding back out with two blue bags.  She climbs in the limo and takes out a thin necklace and drapes it around my neck.  I feel like an idiot but bob my head sincerely. Minnie squeals, then claps and kisses me on the head.  

 

We make another stop at Trump Tower.  Minnie shows me around a triplex apartment that has been desecrated with white fur trim and gold furnishings.  The owner is a tall, rail-thin woman whose complexion is the color and texture of corned beef. 

Minnie makes a pitcher of apple martinis.  The corned beef faced lady tells me she once slept with Lou Reed and asks if I know who he is.  I bob my head enthusiastically and hum a few bars from Sally Can’t Dance.  For a few seconds, the two of us duet.  Then the woman passes out.  I walk on her face for no good reason.

Day Four

Over bagels, Minnie tells me that the benefit is not just for me but for several pigeons that have made a home at Trump Tower.  But I have never lived at Trump Tower.  Why me?  I realize I’m being sucked into Minnie’s vortex of fame.  

After breakfast, Minnie reads liposuction brochures.  I fly to the park and find Rick. I’ve never seen him so depressed.  I’ve also never seen him perched on a pile of horse manure.  Rick tells me he went back to see his wife.  She’s remarried and looks great.  Rick squawks in anguish and throws himself into a scrum of pigeons bobbing for oats among the horse carriages.  The Irish drivers threaten to eat Rick.

 Minnie complains of hemorrhoids the size of golf balls so we eat dinner at some raw food place.  We sit and the owner dances out with two glasses of some Muscat grape juice concoction that tastes like a 7-11 slushy.  I almost nod off as the guy drones on about harmony and not using ovens, gas, sugar, eggs and whatever.  So why are the guy’s prices so damn high if all he’s got is four walls and a Cuisinart?  Bastard. 

I peck at a cup of Brazil nuts until I notice Robert DeNiro staring at me.  He’s got that narrow-eyed squishy faced look, like he’s doing a scene with Meryl Streep and she’s just farted.   I spin my head in a complete circle and this flusters DeNiro who drops his chopsticks into a bowl of brackish flaxseed soup.  His gaunt publicist with the Beatles haircut yells for fresh sticks and another bowl of soup for DeNiro!  “Bob” gets up and intentionally bumps my chair on his way to the bathroom.  Bastard. 

Minnie takes me to a club in Brooklyn.  She hands me to some scary-looking DJ (“DJ ThirdBass”) who’s got sharp wooden plugs sticking out of his ears and nose.  I’m thinking ritual sacrifice, but the guy just places me on his keyboard.  A spotlight hits me.  I hop around the keyboard and it sounds like something Monk might play. 

Backstage, DJ Dom tells me he wants me on his next record. Cool!  Then he cuts me a line of nose powder and I kind of peck at it.  Whatever, after a minute I want to go back out and jump on that keyboard.  I’m also horny as a priest after church.