Fiction
2 min
I was cold and bitter
Karen Walker
On a January morning, while walking to my miserable job, I noticed a pigeon in the middle of the street.
The wind was strong and battered the bird. Gusts blew the feathers and I saw flashes of white skin. Like when a skirt twirls up or pants fall, I was embarrassed for the pigeon.
I stopped.
What could be wrong with the bird? What should I do?
Pigeons are wild things. If I had approached, it might have fled down the street into a busy intersection. I would have had to scream, "Come back. You will be killed."
I did not hear a car approach from behind. The pigeon in the street had distracted me.
The car was a salt-stained SUV. Possibly blue. A man, shorter than most, popped out and walked past me to the bird.
He did not speak. He did not ask me what had happened, if the bird was hurt or if I was. I could have been hurt. Wild things are capable of pecking and scratching.
How rude. I had seen the grey pigeon on the grey street on a grey morning. The man could not have seen it from inside his dirty car. It was alive for him to come upon because of me.
The bird watched the man. Slowly, its eyelids slid down over its black, beady eyes. Had he traumatized it? I had not.
The man turned to me. Finally, it was my moment. I smiled a cashier smile—I work at Grocery Giant—and began to tell him about finding the pigeon when he turned away.
In his puffy yellow parka and black toque with a rabbit fur pompom, he looked nice enough. Not like someone who would ignore me. If I had seen him at work, I might have laughed.
The man went to his car. He returned with a blanket, unfolded it, and crept towards the pigeon.
My chest tightened. Perhaps I needed help more than the bird.
The pigeon's eyes opened. It rose on orange twig legs and wobbled down the street towards the intersection.
The man followed. "Not gonna hurt you, buddy."
The man was looking for trouble, and who was about to get it? I was. I was about to witness death.
I gasped, breathed in the deep freeze. It helped me focus, helped me map a new route to my miserable job to avoid this intersection until the feathers and blood were gone. Buried under the next snowfall, carried away by the snowplow.
As I trudged this alternate route in my head—growing ever colder and more bitter—I heard a squawk.
The man had caught the pigeon. It looked perky and quite untroubled by my ordeal.
But I was troubled. "Man, why will you not speak to me? You spoke to the bird."
He said, "There's a cage in the backseat. Get it."
I like to ignore instructions, but, on this extraordinary occasion, I could not. His voice was quiet and purposeful, and I became a helpless creature. So warm it was under the blanket, calming to be held firmly yet gently. I uttered a cooing sound.
"Open the cage door. When I get the bird inside, close the door quickly."
I did. The man draped the blanket over the cage and stood up. He looked taller than before. The car's exhaust and the wind-whipped snow swirled around him and his yellow parka, unzipped, billowed like a superhero's cape. I forgave him for the rabbit pompom on his hat.
With numb fingers, I fumbled in my purse and found $10. It was all I had to offer. The bill fluttered in the wind, threatening to fly down the street towards the intersection.
I might need him to chase my money, to save it like he had saved the bird.
The man took my $10 without a word. It would probably cost cold hard cash to take the pigeon wherever he was taking it.
I will ask where he took it—and if I can go there too—when I meet the hero again. Since this day, I wait for him every morning in the middle of the street.
Explore the power of words...
Select a Story Collection