March 2008: 13th Pigeon

13th Pigeon

__Mr. Shifton's bird shop business began at the crest of his youth. A virile and aggressive man, he acquired all that he needed to run an efficient and flourishing business. A man as talented in managing and multi-tasking as Mr. Shifton has marvelous gears hidden beneath his charm and radiant smile. At this time an entire machine, unfelt by its possessor, was running at maximum capacity.

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Fiorinal

“It hurts, but it’s worth it.”
I’ll take her word for it. Ronnie never did me wrong before. That’s just her nickname. Veronica is her real name. I think. Ronnie makes her sound like a lesbian. Which she is.
I think.
Never could watch when the needle takes its deep plunge into my skin. Scared of those things, always was. I once took an allergy test when I was in the third grade. The nurse sat there and pricked at my arm forty five times.
I think.
Each prick was then padded with a little drip of a common allergy in liquid form. It would sink into the little hole that the nurse had just punctured my beautiful skin with. If that hole would turn green or something, that would mean that I’m allergic to that particular allergy. Each test was inconclusive.

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Solomon Says

This is how it will go. I will no longer, by omission, pretend to know things I do not know. Lana makes an obscure reference, I nod my head. I didn’t know she was breaking up with me. Lord knows, I probably had an inappropriate expression for the situation. Lana and I standing in a phone booth, waiting for the rain to ebb, her wondering why I’ve suddenly borrowed Ethan Hawke’s tick of smiling when his character is sad, or doesn’t understand something. Then, the rain subsided a bit, and she ran off to the steps of her apartment and I walked in the drizzle towards the covered bus stop.

This is a superfluous link to read the rest of this awesome story on another page because we couldn't post the whole story here and clutter up the blog. If you want to comment on this story, I don't know which site to do it on. Probably this one. Since it's more centralized. Or the other one. The author will receive the comment either way. Please comment, by the by. He loves comments.

Lucky to be alive

     It's dark and silent. This could be an almost peaceful place I'm in, minus the wet metallic taste in my mouth. I try to spit the liquid out but it falls back on to my face. I contemplate just staying here in the dark but my ears start ringing. 

     I open my eyes to see a man yelling at my face. I strain to hear him over the bells.

     "Son, do you know where you are," he asks?

     The urgency in his voice alarms me and awakens my pain. I scream, at least I think that is me screaming. I think of my dark, silent, peaceful place and I go there.

     I awake to the horrible smells of a hospital. Generic cleaners, antiseptic, a bit of blood and human waste, it's a horrible place for someone with a sensitive sense of smell. Everything is blurry from the medication I must be on. I hear my mom. She sounds concerned. She is screaming for the doctor. He arrives and my eyes are clear enough to see that this is the man who screamed at my face.

     "Son, we been waiting for you to get up. We...uh...need to talk," he says. This man is from the South. His drawl is annoying and I mistrust him because I associate Southern accents with a clear lack of education. I also can't figure out why he is patronizing me by calling me son, but I know he is.

     "Water...please," I manage to get out. It was an involuntary act on my part seeing as how I had no idea I was so dehydrated from the meds. My mom brought a taupe colored glass with a bendy-straw, I can see she is crying. She puts the straw to my mouth and I drink. 

     "You see son, you were in an accident," he begins, "You've been here at the hospital for 5 days. Can you remember what happened right before you got here?"

This man is an idiot. "Of, course I remember where I was. I was in the car on my way over to my girlfriend Cheryl's mom's house for St. Patty's Day. She was talking about how she hopes her dad doesn't get too drunk this year," I say. At this my mother starts sobbing. I'm confused by this because I'm sure it was funny, or at least cute and I'm trying to be rather charming. 

"Son, Cheryl and you were in a very bad car accident," he says, "Cheryl has passed on to another place, and you're lucky to be alive."

He describes the gruesome details of the event in an even slower drawl. I don't remember any of it. He tells me we were hit by a drunk driver who also did not survive the crash. That Cheryl was thrown from the car on impact and the car flipped at least six times before sliding on the passenger side of the car 250ft to a halt on the interstate. He repeats I am lucky to be alive. At this point my mom comes to my side to give me a hug. I cannot return the gesture. I realize why they have been repeating I am lucky to be alive, why I've been in the hospital for so many days, why I was in so much pain. I was in the passenger seat of that car, as it flipped and after as it began to slide. My arm had become wedged between the wrecked car and the road and as it slid for 250ft, my arm was crushed and shredded across the highway. My right arm was gone, but I was lucky to be alive.

Everyone said I was coping a lot better than they ever thought they could. I'm not sure if they are right.  I was discharged two days later and sent home. I had missed Cheryl's funeral but our apartment had saved all the memories I could only wish were buried with her. I asked to be left alone and I wandered the apartment for a few hours. I had fractured some ribs and was wheelchair-bound, for now. The joke of a one-armed man in a wheelchair did not escape me as I had to use my legs to keep me from circling.  I moved furniture to make space for my new ride and emptied my fridge. The work exhausted me, so I found my way to my bed, my pain killers and sleep. 

I awoke to cooing, Cheryl was saying something to me. Was it I love you? I couldn't quite make it out. I opened my eyes to an empty bed. In the window perched a pigeon mockingly singing its' song. I threw my clock at it and it flew away. I went to sleep and dreamed again of Cheryl saying something to me, her voice not truly formulating words.  Again I opened my eyes to not one, but two pigeons sitting in the window. Frustrated, I attempt to get out of bed and get dressed. I manage to make it to the living room couch and I am exhausted again. I put on the TV in hopes of drowning out all other noises and sleep for a bit. In my dreams I see Cheryl. I once again awake, now to five pigeons in my window loudly singing their songs. 

They won't shut up. I long to kill one of them. I imagine myself holding my gun in my hand as I used to. Right arm extended, one eye closed, I cock the gun, breathe in, steady and focused, finger on the trigger, pigeon in site. I breathe in again, slowly, pull back the trigger and I take the shot. Bang. The feathers outside my window fly. The pigeons have gone crazy now flying in every direction. I wheel myself to the window, open it and see a bird lying dead on my fire escape. What just happened? Confused, I stare at the bird. I look for a gun shot wound. There is none, not like I thought there would be. I must have taken too many painkillers and I am hallucinating, or its stress related from everything I've been through. I rationalize. I wheel myself away from the window and towards my bedroom. This is crazy. I find a bottle of sleeping pills and take three. I just need to get some rest.

I'm dreaming I hear Cheryl again, incessantly calling to me. She is incoherent, babbling, singing tones instead of words. I'm awake now staring at my window eight pigeons are there, standing on the railings. Have they come to pay respects to their departed friend? I attempt to push my self up not realizing that my arm is no longer there to help. I use my left. The sensation of pins and needles chase the missing tissues of my right arm. I slept on the right side and my only guess is that my missing arm had fallen asleep. This absurd idea only maddens me. The pigeons seem to feel my anger and start twittering amongst themselves. Their volume is matched by my rising irritation in them. I sit and stare hoping for silence. I yell at them, tell them to shut up. This only makes them louder. Why won't they just go away? Their incessant singing. I think of my gun. Maybe they want to die. Maybe I am the reaper of pigeons who annoy people until they kill them. I sound crazy and I know it, I just can't handle their noise. 

In one swift move I close my eyes and think of myself picking up my gun, I point it at the birds and shoot. Bang. Bang. I swear I can feel the kick-back from the gun pulsing in my missing right hand. I open my eyes and the perch is empty. I hobble towards the window. Now three dead birds lie in the fire escape stairwell. I need help. I search for my pills and the doctors number. What the fuck is going on with me? I call, his secretary answers. She tells me the doctor will come over to see me and change my bandages instead of the appointed weekly nurse.  

I wait impatiently for him to show. He does about four hours later. I explain everything to him. He tells me that 50% - 80% of all patients who lose limbs can have these odd sensations where they feel as though the limb is still there and that it is commonly referred to as a phantom limb pain. I argue with him telling him that my phantom limb pain "arm" can pick up a fucking phantom limb gun and that I have shot and killed three pigeons already in my fire escape. The doctor goes to the window and sees the birds. In his "medical opinion" someone is probably poisoning these birds and they just happen to die here on my stairwell. I stare incredulously at him. Is he serious? The odds of that happening would be astronomical. I feel like I should shoot him instead of the birds. In that instance I can feel the gun in my hand and my arm pointing it towards the doctor. I don't want this to happen but I can't stop it. 

"Doctor," I ask, "Please move to the other side of the room." The doctor begins to question me and I frantically ask him to move. He does and at that moment I feel the trigger being pulled back. I close my eyes and beg with myself, to please not pull the trigger. Bang. Bang. I open my eyes fearful to see the doctor lying before me. Nothing happened. The doctor looks concerned for my well-being mixed with a twinge of pity. He offers to check me back into the hospital but I refuse. He tells me that he will contact an expert in the arena of phantom limbs to see if they can offer some advice, a Dr. Ramachandran. He describes him as one of the forerunners of research in behavioral neurology and psychophysics and he has pioneered techniques to help readjust ones' memory after losing limbs to reduce phantom limb discomfort. He doesn't believe me but he is trying to help. I thank him and show him to the door. On leaving he suggests I lay off some of the painkillers and he can provide different sedatives should I continue to have an abnormal reaction to the drugs I am on. It was a last ditch gesture to get me help. 

For a few hours I contemplate my sanity. I try to test the phantom gun, visualizing it, aiming at household objects and shooting them. Nothing happens. Thinking my sanity has returned I relax and fall asleep. My dream is great. I'm having hard-core porno-styled sex, slapping ass, smoking a cigarette, and wearing a cowboy hat. It's what I needed. Then I hear murmuring. I immediately awake to see the pigeons back on the perch. I decide to ignore them and masturbate instead. There must be over 10 birds now, watching me in my lame attempt at getting off. The mission was doomed to fail. I miss my right hand. I try to imagine it stroking me instead of my left but the only thing I can feel is the gun's hard, metallic surface. It knows I feel it lying there in my arm that no longer exists. It beckons to me to use it. Something tells me I am not really in control of this situation anymore. My arm begins to lift and point towards the window. I hadn't tried to point the gun this time, it's just pointing. It begins to go off. Bang. Bang. The bullets fly, an entire clip is unloaded towards the flock. The birds outside my window disperse but not before the gun has destroyed another 9 of their rank. The gun is quiet.  

Scared, I hobble to the window. I open it. I see them. They lie their on my fire escape, almost as if placed perfectly in rows. A few feathers still fly around, remnants of the life that was there a moment ago. I stare across the alleyway and see the last pigeon. The only survivor of my fury. I feel the gun again. It begins to point at the bird. I won't let this happen, I'll fight the sensation. I focus elsewhere. I try to move from the window, but my arm keeps pulling me back. I try to grab what is not there. I swing at the open air attempting to catch the arm. Nothing. I stumble to the floor and my arm pulls me up. The bird has flown back to my fire escape. It stares at me. Run bird, get away! Fly, shoo, begone! It stays, perched. I fight my unconscious, I fight the urge to kill the bird, I fight the gun. The bird finally flies off the perch and into the house. My gun follows it, aiming and firing as it swoops across my living room. It shoots my TV, my couch, my fan. I fall and I'm on the floor, the arm pointed in the air firing. I struggle to lean on my couch. I'm in so much pain. The right side of my body feels like it is being beaten, it throbs and burns. The pain killers must be wearing off. The bird is still swooping around the room, the gun still firing. This madness must end.

I stare where my arm should be, where the gun should be. I concentrate on it and I can feel the gun bending back to my whim. It stops firing for a moment. Then I feel it turn, feel my hand turn and my elbow bend. The gun is pointing at me I can feel it even if I cant see it. I try to hide my face but I am unable to move. I feel my finger on the trigger I know what is about to happen. I close my eyes and find that dark, quiet place. Cheryl is there this time. I can hear her now. Bang.