The bird likes me
January 20, 2010 § 5 Comments
This morning I faced a long day at work in heels. Clip-pity clop-pity, there I was, ready to tackle a day full of meetings and checklists. It was rather sunny for a January morning in this city, and I was trying not to be grumpy for no good reason at all. I am going to admit here, I always feel exposed, awkward, and highly unattractive when I wear heels before dusk. I am more of a feet on the ground type of gal. Heels in new daylight feels like I am walking home after a one-night stand.
I decided to treat myself to a large americano from this place slightly off my usual path; caffeine can help inspire energy when presenting to a sea of disinterested professionals. Although I wanted to dodge across the street – I risked being almost late – there is no dodging in a heeled shoe. One must clip and clop along. Seen by everyone, noticed by no one.
When I finally whooshed through the door, I heard a crisp, clear “looking good” whistle. I whipped my head around, not because I’m conceited and thought it was for me, but because it definitely couldn’t be for me and who the hell was this whistler anyway. It was not the man with the bird on his shoulder reading the newspaper; it was the bird on the shoulder of the man reading the newspaper. I have seen this man and bird a few times before. The man reads newspapers while sitting on the stool facing the window and street. The bird sits on the man’s left shoulder and makes white shit stains down his friend’s back. The man behaves as though he does not have a bird on his shoulder. The bird stares out the window at the people going by as though he does not have a man below his feet. The man does not look at anyone. The bird looks at everyone.
I smiled, embarrassed. There is a crimson, royal purple bird whistling at me. No. He’s not really whistling at me. Oh yes, I was right, he is, because now he has turned around on his perch to face me. He regards me with his beady bird eyes and whistles, “woo-a-woo”. What a tricky guy. I order my coffee and then try to ignore him while I pour cream into my perfectly rich drink. I am playing hard to get with a bird.
I saunter out the door, knowing Sassy Bird is watching me as I go. Take that Stupidly Long Day, I say to myself. Nothing could be so bad when a bird thinks you’re hot and his strange, shit-stained shoulder friend doesn’t even know you’re alive.