what if i had slept 12 hours too long and it's not 7:52am... it's 7:52pm?
i adjusted my frame of reference and decided yes, it was possible. it was cloudy and the sun was obscured. then i began noticing little details. the boys were already out in front of the tattoo shop. the homeless man who is usually still sleeping in the doorway of the gypsy ballroom was alert and standing by the 7-11. countless other bums had already claimed spots on the red metal chairs on the island across from Bark Park Central.
then i noticed how cool the air was and thought:
what if i hadn't just slept 12 hours too long... what if i slept 12 hours and 3 months too long?
i was going to need a jacket.
when driving in texas in the winter, the pollution isn't quite as angry and the once soft, moist surface of alveoli becomes less prone to choking it's way to a brown, crusty memory of its youthful glory days. i shut off the a/c and opened the vents, welcoming the bursts of black smoke into the interior and into my lungs. 8pm on a winter's eve isn't so bad.
then i pulled into the lot at work, exited my automobile and quickly noticed a silly little pigeon basking in the remains of a sprinkler's puddle next to the curb. only, he wasn't frolicking about as he should have been. he remained still and huddled against the perpendicularity of the concrete with his head turning and his eyes searching. i felt my need to help and my need to flee collide as i watched waiting for him to relieve my quandary in a burst of pigeon flight. but he didn't.
okay. maybe he's stunned and just needs some time to recuperate. i went upstairs, but visited the window several times to see if he had recovered. he was still there. and still there again. my adrenaline was getting the best of me as i fashioned thoughts of cardboard boxes with nest-like crinkled paper in the back seat of my car. maybe the pigeon would become a happy new member of the family darting about with the cats, sitting on the a/c duct by the ceiling, crapping all over everything with his devil-may-care craptastical attitude. i would finally have someone to name scooter.
then my fear of picking up an angry bird with a possibly busted up underside came back into play and i decided to notify the building management instead. the receptionist seemed to find sympathy in my plight, but as i watched her attempt to get little adolfo's attention to put him to task, i began to feel my confidence level drop. i continued to visit the window as he sat by the curb for another 30 minutes. then he was gone.
after begging our receptionist to phone downstairs, i learned my little feathered friend had been retrieved by animal control where he has surely met his demise (hopefully a humane one) and is likely undergoing a barrage of tests for west nile virus, the results of which just might land him on the news as a representative of the 76022 zipcode.
edit: i simply cannot resist including the following words of comfort from your friend and mine, denverbettie...
That bird is dead Beth. I'm not kidding. They fucking die if you wink at them. Birds are crazy like chinchillas. I tried to adopt these two chinchillas and name them Bonnie and Clyde. I wanted to see them take dust baths. But apparently if they get around other animals, they freak out and die. A guy here at work adopted them instead. They ate through a wall in his bathroom.