Today was a beautiful day. One of those days that’s close enough to the last major snowfall that there’s still some visual evidence of winter on the ground but the blocks of ice that you tried to kick a few days ago only to hurt your toes are pleasingly soft and ever so scrunchable as you walk to the subway but somehow far enough away from the last bone-chilling day that you can almost just believe, just almost, that spring is here (and maybe has always been here).
A year and a half of experience of living in this apartment has taught me that the combination of my south facing windows and a binary, uncontrollable, and laggard (and therefore pumping despite the extremely pleasant weather) radiator was going to make my apartment scorching by the time I got home in the evening. So, I opened one of my two windows, as I have many times before, and left without a care in the world.
This is when the story gets hazy. Not my story, mind you. My story was filled with normal work things like tapping on a keyboard and drinking more coffee than is probably good for me and having meetings and chatting and shaking hands and other normal workaday things. My story is known. Known and boring.
The story of what happened in my apartment, though — that’s more circumstantial. And the circumstances are thus:
Bird poop. Everywhere. And feathers.
There was either one extremely inquisitive yet bowel distressed pigeon in my apartment or there was a seemingly low key yet well-attended pigeon party that centered around my desk and the middle of the floor. Either way, birds found their way into my apartment. Poop found its way onto many spots on the floor, on my bed, in my cast iron skillet (literally in it, like the saddest and worst omelette), next to my coffee maker, the middle of my desk (disturbingly centered and almost elegantly smeared), on top of my dresser (this one had a fading trail of birds footprints leading away from it) and undoubtedly other places that I haven’t found yet.
Luckily, and impressively, there were no birds to be found when I unlocked my door and stepped into the apartment. I like to think that they had a spotter looking for me as I walked up to the building and he hustled over to the still bustling yet winding down aviary party happening in my apartment and let everyone know that it was time to leave.
“Take a final dump! Gary, goddammit you stepped in your own mess. Ok, let’s go everyone!”
Anyway, like I said. It’s all circumstantial at this point.
All I know is that I somehow feel a lot less secure about sleeping with my window open tonight. And a little bit ashamed that the first party held in this apartment wasn’t thrown by me (nor did I even get invited to). Better luck next time, maybe?
I’m not the most sociable guy in the world but I guarantee I wouldn’t have shit on the floor.
This article is part of my sometimes daily series of articles where I challenge myself to write something in 30 minutes or less everyday. It’s 10:54 now and I just want to go to bed so I’m not even re-reading this one. Let’s hope it’s at least semi-coherent. If not, blame the birds.