This summer, I had a brief encounter with the face of Terror, brought on by a soaring pigeon’s decision to relieve himself on my right shoulder. Writing this, four months later, the stench is still suffocating.
The weather was similar to the hot days New Yorkers are accustomed to, made more frequent by global warming. The sun felt heavy on my skin, and the humidity left my arms and neck similar to the conditions of a slip and slide. I walked through Hell’s Kitchen with my friend, Jackie, prepared to embark on a day’s journey down the West Side Highway.
A cold and damp weight fell upon my shoulder, and for a brief moment, felt like a refreshing god-sent kiss. Seconds later came a twinge of fear. With trepidation, I cocked my head and peered at my shoulder, yet saw nothing. I didn’t need to see anything, for the smell held all of the answers. Like a landfill of used toilets or a chest of diapers, the hot scent of bird diarrhea climbed its way through my nostrils and hijacked my mind. I tried to scream, but no sound could be heard - I was paralyzed with fear. The pigeon laughed above, contemplating a round-two while circling overhead. He puffed out his chest in pride as he watched Jackie christen the feces with photos as I breathed through my mouth.
No cafe in sight, I marched hand-in-hand with Jackie for seven blocks, frantically looking for a safe haven with tissues. Jackie used her free hand to clamp her nostrils shut and ignored her suffering as she led me through the streets. The pigeon followed above, sending telepathic messages to the store-owners, forcing them with threats and blackmail to deny our entries. A nearby Chipotle was spotted, yet she turned us away with her locked doors and unsympathetic cashier. Smushed faces lubricated by sweat and tears slid down her glass windows as we rapidly lost hope and electrolytes. Subway claimed to be out of napkins, and, we believed her, despite the unlikely mid-morning napkin demand at the height of a pandemic. Just as we had begun to lose hope, a literal sign from heaven appeared in the form of half-lit neon lights, reading ‘Skyline Gourmet Deli’.
We dodged oncoming traffic as we sprinted across the street (witnesses describe a green cloud leaking from my shoulder). The bird dung swam through sweat streams towards the great North Neck and the bustling Southern Arm. The uncharitable deli refused to offer their napkins without a purchase. With that, I bought an extra-large bottle of hand sanitizer - my equivalent of holy water - and sage to burn, in hopes of cleansing my impure right shoulder.
In exchange for the few crumpled dollars I could scrounge up from the bottom of my decrepit bag, I received the ever-glorious napkin - three sheets worth. We stepped foot outside to commence the long-awaited ceremony. Etta James’ At Last played from a divine surround sound system and doves soared through the sky, scaring away my pigeon nemesis, and it began to rain flowers. Upon first wipe, dopamine flooded my system and sent my anterior lobe into overdrive. Jackie, my knight in shining armor, gently wiped the partially-crusted glob off my shoulder. She scrubbed me drown, trying to pick off the eggshell-like shards of dried pigeon stool, assessing the consequences of her martyrdom: at worst, asphyxiation by vomit; at best, anosmia. Before she had the chance to suffer further mental and physical damage, I offered my hand at eradicating the scent. Jackie documented me Steve Irwin style from a smell-proof distance as I marinated my napkin in sanitizer and power washed my arm.
Despite our noble attempts, no amount of hopes, prayers, hand sanitizers, and sage could erase the stench that wafted within a six foot radius of me for the rest of the day - and possibly the rest of my life. But, as Billy Joel once said (though in a less literal sense) “It’s fine with me ‘cause I’ve let it slide,” and slide it did. Out of sight and out of mind, I have compartmentalized this ordeal until now. Triggered by the sight of dog-owners cleaning up after their pets and any reference to a zoo, I am a shell of who I once was. Nevertheless, I have moved on for the best; Terror has introduced me to a new friend, Perfume.