bird flu

sitting on a bench across the street from the convention center, he struggled with a sandwich too large and unwieldy for his small mouth and skinny fingers. he was embarrassed by the process of trying to eat it, pieces of mustard-covered lettuce and bits of cheese dropping defiantly from the two slices of bread. he shrugged apologetically to a passing car as a wet slice of tomato hit the sidewalk between his feet. the truth was that no one was looking at him and nobody cared much about his mess at all, but it felt better to pretend like he was noticed enough to need to explain himself.

he smiled knowingly at an old mexican woman passing by, all but oblivious to him. "sorry about the sidewalk" he offered, wiping crumbs from his cheek with a paper napkin. the old woman continued without response or interest.

the convention center was a "memorial sports arena", and that he had no idea who or what it was in memory of troubled him. anymore even the names and labels of things lacked a hint of proper meaning and the absence of care or explanation was beginning to get old. but he had reached the age (perhaps a little late) where he realized that not every story had a point or the satisfaction of an ending, and this included the account of his own life. the world around him swelled with cruel possibility constantly, always resolving itself at the end of each day as another series of suddenly obvious fabrications: the ghost of the abandoned carnival was simply the property owner dressed in white linen; the phantom howl of the haunted mines was of course only the chance sound of a breeze blowing over glass bottles, amplified through old machines. truthfully, the mysteries didn’t hold much hope anymore.

a transit bus rolled past, full of people all silent in their seats, staring out at the city around them. the sun was fully risen overhead and the cool air that the wind pushed through his hair did little to relieve him of the heat. he checked his watch and realized he had lost track of time again. he was already late for his return from lunch, and his stomach turned with the realization. he would have explaining to do, none of it useful or desired. he found it vaguely remarkable that one with so little to account for was able to let even the simplest tasks slip by.

grating with annoyance, he let the rest of the sandwich fall from between his fingers to the ground. he regretted purchasing it, sorry for rewarding himself for accomplishing so little. the remains of his lunch looked misplaced and pathetic immediately from its new home below. he sighed, and rubbed the palms of his hands against his closed eyes until he saw flashes of light. when his vision faded back in, several pigeons had gathered near his feet, shy and anxious lives moving towards the ruin of food he had created. one of the birds hopped closest to him awkwardly and he noticed it somehow only had one leg. it seemed brave only as a consequence of having little else to lose. the bird pecked at a piece of lettuce, almost tumbling over with the effort.

he suddenly felt like crying. another bird hopped up from the gutter, a broken wing hanging uselessly at its side. it picked up some food in its beak and looked up at him blankly. where had these awful things come from, he thought. how could they live like this? it seemed impossible that something merciful had not already come along to finish off what misfortune had begun. the birds cooed quietly without justification before him and shuffled amongst themselves. unable to help, unable to return in time to his job, he sat instead. he sat and watched the lame birds peck at his latest mistake and it was a long time before he had the strength to stand up from the bench again. he shut his eyes and tried to envision new shapes unbound by the hard weight of experience, spirits untouched by rough hands out in the world.

-blh 2008
los angeles memorial sports arena