Bread and Beaks

Early this morning I was on my way to work. I'd scrambled out of the house from the comfort of the warm blankets that had kept me in past my alarm - and several snoozes - and just barely caught the bus in time. It arrived as I did; not a second to spare. I was walking down Divisadero, through the still unlit streets as the sun - pink and blushing - peaked out over old roofs, stealing surreptitious glances at the falling moon. I noticed a gang of pigeons in a parking lot pecking at a stale looking loaf of bread. They'd surrounded it, maddeningly tearing chunks from it at hurried and uneven intervals, like a venue of vultures descending on poor Prometheus' liver. I watched as it was helplessly devoured by attrition - pinched to pieces by sharp keratin beaks. I looked away and proceeded to the shuttle.

Once I boarded, it only took two stops for someone to come and sit beside me. Normally I have no issue with someone sitting next to me - seats are for sitting, after all - but over the last two weeks everyone at work has been stricken with something deserving quarantine. Now any person who comes near me is likely a harbinger of an infectious malady. It was no surprise then when I was greeted by the sound of congested coughing and pained wheezing; the repellent sound of bubbling mucous in his respiratory tract. What was a surprise though, was my reaction to it - bitter outrage. My body responded viscerally. A fiery flash of hot acrimony warmed my marrow as his coughing continued. I felt my face gradually contorting into a snarl, an outward display of repugnance and rancor. Pangs of vindictiveness pealed in my stomach as he blew gobs of snot into a discolored and crusty tissue. It was wet yet somehow flaky. I imagined the powdery particles from his tissue trespassing all over my nostrils, burgling my nasal passage. The airborne bacteria from his throat buzzed around my head like swarming bees. A cyclone of violence tore through my mind, whipping up frenzied fantasies as I indulged myself in grizzly depictions of his extermination. Whoa. What the fuck are you thinking, I asked myself. I'd allowed strange impulses to take hold - self preservation.

Weird what watching the news will do to you; repeated stories documenting the dozens dead from influenza. Scaremongering; a confluence of fear.

I remembered being in my father's pigeon coop when I was a kid. He was shaking a metal coffee-tin full of birdseed, letting the birds know it was feeding time. It rattled like a maraca, but a bit bassier. Behind the screened doors the birds began dancing to the beat, stirring and jockeying for the best position at the feed troughs. He poured the seed in and they fell on it like rain. In the back, a latecomer - sick and wheezing - came limping toward the troughs. The other birds fanned out their wings as he approached, preventing his entry, slapping him and knocking him backward. Some flared their wings at him threateningly while others delivered quick blows and jabs. He ambled around the perimeter, looking for an opening but never finding one.

"What are they doing, that bird is sick. He needs to eat." I said.

"If they let him eat, they'll get sick too," my dad said.

"That's messed up. How will he get better?"

"If he eats, his germs will get in the food. The other birds will eat it and then feed it to the babies. The babies aren't strong enough to fight off infection; they're protecting the kit," he'd said.

"So they're just going to let him die? What if he can't get better because he can't eat?" I asked.

"It's better for one to die than ten."