Old Ladies and Pigeons

I don't know about my shoulder.

I had no problems with it this morning. None whatsoever. The bastid hurt like Hell the other day. I was seeing blue blazes, and I struggled out of the bed like a turtle on its back. But today, I was fucking Pop N Fresh, coming out of the bed.

The past two days have been nothing but introspection on the part of the Hobobob. I've been studying my kind, humankind that is, and I've been feeling despair. I've also been studying the bird species. I despair them too. Why do I say this? I don't know if it's a New York event, maybe living here has made people harder, more callous. But, I rode the train yesterday and you know, if you've ever been caught in the middle of rush hour, how it is on the trains. It's a love in, with people packed together so closely that we should all strip and start fucking. Ass to crotch, crotch to ass, and sometimes crotch to crotch. It's insane when one thinks about it. To be so intimate with a total stranger.

Well, the train stopped at one of the stations, Twenty Eight street to be exact. An elderly old woman, hunched over and gray and can barley stand, much less walk, turned into the fucking Tasmanian Devil. She started whirling in place like a Dervish, catching people in her spin, blender-like, and blasted her way through the crowds to the door. So sudden and so vicious was her move that it caught too many people off guard, collapsing them beneath her like fallen wheat, sucking them up under her funnel, up through her center and flung for miles.

I stood amazed. There wasn't a single 'excuse me' uttered from her mouth. Alright, I said to myself, she was a hateful aberration of what life can be like in the city if we let it get to us. But then, not shortly after that, when walking down the subway platform ANOTHER little old lady was playing college football linebacker, plowing into people like a runaway auto.

A growing phenomenom for a certainty. People ready for retirement commuting with the young, and taking all of their aging angst out on them.

And then, there was lunchtime.

On the days that I'm in the office, I like to treat myself to lunch. So, no Slim Jims for me on that day. I go to the corner deli and buy something hot and meaty. Yesterday it was fried chicken wings. Yes, I love fried chicken. So what? And, although it wasn't all that nice a day, I thought to eat it outside. There is a nice rock promenade not far away with chairs to sit in.

Upon reaching the promenade I find myself in for a rude awakening. All of the chairs are gone. Poof. And so are the people that are usually here eating. The place was a cold, deserted space. Sad. Very sad. Winter was approaching. All of the summer joy was bleeding out of the city, by drips and drops.

I find a stone bench and take a seat, and unwrap my lunch, and as I begin to eat a sparrow drops down just in front of me. He looks up expectantly and I face him off, chewing on my meal. Then two pigeons drop, walking about, as if pacing, around me with their characteristic head bobbing walk. Two land on the bench right across from me and approach cautiously, one eye always upon me as they drew nearer. My Styrofoam lunch box between them and me. As two more pigeons and two more sparrows joined the first three on the ground in front of me, I realized what was going on. I was about to get the hucklebuck!!

Yes, they were about to do the New York Twenty Three Skidoo on my ass. I jump up and stomp my foot, and can you imagine, true to New York form, these fuckers did not fly off, but instead walked away several bird paces, turned and walked back. Persistent little bastids. These fucks were so used to being hand fed that now they felt that they were entitled to it. It was at this time that I wished that I had a bb gun. I would cap the lot of them, boil off their feathers, butcher and fry them, then come back to this same place and eat THEM instead of this chicken in my box.

The best I could do with these grubby little winged beggars was to eat quickly and not to leave any crumbs about. They were no doubt used to staring food out of peoples hands, or at least quick enough to snatch up any scraps that had fallen. Intrepid little fowl. I finished, closed up my box and stood to leave, and they begrudgingly made room for me to walk through them to the garbage can. From there, I look back to see them launch up to the many ledges sounding the walls of the small promenade.

Little shits.

Those were just my hobo observations. All I can say to you is when visiting New York, watch out for the Old Ladies and Pigeons. They will fuck you up.

Hobobob