On Wednesday I stepped outside to grab my mail, and a bird pooped
on my head. I managed to scare the crap out of a loitering rooftop
pigeon. If I had a beak and feathers, I would fly south for the
winter. I’d mingle with an outbound V—maybe join a bird posse in the
Keys for a couple months while I contemplate the advantages of an earlybird retirement. I’d never lurk around on a rooftop during a snowstorm. I
wasn’t aware of the sneaky bird bomb until I was in front of a mirror,
washing my hands. The smeary white patch caught my eye. It looked like a
bleach stain in my auburn mane. Gross.
What are the odds of that happening twice in one week? Should I find
my hat just in case? No, I’ll spill my coffee. Forget the head armor. I feel a
yawn coming and choke it down. Nah, it won’t happen again—forget about
the stinky bird.
I raise my smoldering mug of fresh brew up to my face and let the
steam seep through my pores. The gentle mist soothes my dry skin. I close
my eyes and inhale the traces of rich caramel and roasted hazelnut that
exude from the foamy creamer. Just another minute until I sample this bold
columbian brew.
The wood floors creak as I step toward the front door. Each footstep
sounds like an old man rocking in a homemade chair. I can’t help it; I stomp
when I walk. Patches from the fuzzy morning light nudge through the
blinds of the surrounding windows. I reach for the mail key, slide it in my
pocket, and press my forehead against the front-door window.
The winter air tickles my face as it bleeds through the defective cracks
of the old wooden door. I stare out the window. There’re two lopsided
circles of fog lingering on the glass from my nostrils. It’s another frostbitefriendly morning here in the Windy City.
Inching away from the glass, I lift my coffee to my nose and smell the
aroma once more. My sense of smell wants to selfishly strip the reigns from
other sensory leaders. Go ahead, smell the potent coffee. I feel my salivary
glands tap-dancing. The marks on the window from my breath vanish in the
glass, revealing the clear reality of a gloomy morning. Naked trees aligning
the sidewalk enhance the depressing still-shot picture through my window.
I stare across the street at the neighbor’s front yard. Someone chopped
the head off the neighbor kid’s snowman. The head is smashed on the
ground next to its beheaded trunk. Both eyeballs were removed and
replaced as “snowman boobs” before the decapitation.
Without looking down, I stick my tongue into the coffee. Crap. Still hot.
The frigid air will turn it down a notch. Making sure I have my phone, I
grab the mail key and step outside. Grasping my coffee tight,
I lunge out to the top of the stairs. My body jolts and shifts off balance. My
stomach drops as I snap backward. I land on my back. Everything’s going.
Everything—gone.
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