This morning I went to Macy’s downtown to purchase my necessary lip gloss (Supernova. Worth every penny.) when I walked out the Smithfield Street exit door, headed to the Fifth Avenue corner and stopped dead in my tracks for two reasons.
First, the sign said “Don’t Walk” and unlike the dude pedestrian who earlier shook his head in dismay at me because I dared drive through a crosswalk when the traffic light was green forcing him to wait until I passed before crossing (asshole), I believe in doing what the signs say.
The second reason I stopped is because there in front of me, across the walkway, gathered in mass numbers on the sidewalk and the ledge of the old Lord and Taylor building were what I estimated via quick head count to be approximately 120 demon pigeons.
I swear on my two new tubes of Supernova that I am not making this shit up and if I’m lying I’ll eat some Casu Marzu, yo. I couldn’t take a picture because the PittGirl Cell Phone Camera of Suck was out of power.
While waiting for the sign to give me the go ahead to walk, I debated my options. Do I avoid the pigeons completely and cross to the other side of Smithfield, walk down one more block and then cross back, looking silly, or do I just cross the street and kind of hug the edge of the sidewalk as I tiptoe past the quiet flock of birds who were just milling about, shooting the breeze, smoking, and not doing much of anything?
Not wanting to let the pigeons force me to backtrack steps just because they’re THERE, I marched my cute little brave self across Fifth Avenue and people, again, I am NOT MAKING THIS SHIT UP …
The second my boot hit the sidewalk, every single pigeon took flight and circled over my head with a few of them raining down near misses of poop bombs. I stopped my brave walking, screamed a little sissy scream, put my hands over my hair, and kind of hunkered down a bit (so much for not wanting to look silly) for about six long seconds, after which the pigeon flock quit terrorizing me and headed with some speed down Smithfield.
I’m pretty sure I heard cackling.
I have no idea what just happened, what they were planning to do, how I managed to escape un-pooped on, why my purse-mounted robotic falcon didn’t faze them, and most importantly why they didn’t just snatch me right then and there.
Watching over 120 pigeons fly down Smithfield Street, I started walking again, not so bravely, not so purposefully, at which point a kind old man who had seen the whole nightmare unfold stopped me and said, “Wow. Pigeons don’t like you, do they?”
No, old man, they really really frickin’ don’t.