The Pigeon

He hovered in midair. The air current held up his portly body and, if only for a moment, he was suspended, exerting no force to keep himself in place. The sun beamed in his face and he closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. He was a strange figure, hovering in the air against the blue backdrop of the cloudless sky. Had any person looked at him, they would have been surprised to see a pigeon hovering so elegantly. Alas no one did see him, for he was hovering next to the Pulaski skyway. There were no slow moving pedestrians to turn their heads and enjoy his magnificence. There were only commuters, barreling past the speed limit without regard for human life, much less natural beauty.
He wished he could stay there forever, but the current was not strong enough and he was too fat for it to last. He fluttered down to the black railing of the bridge. Cars continued to whiz by. He looked out over the river and drowned out the pummeling sound of rolling rubber. He hated the cars, but he loved the bridge. It allowed him to see for miles, and gave him easy access to the best air stream he had ever found. It also gave him a chance to be alone.
None of the other pigeons ever came out on the bridge. They never found any food up there, so they didn’t bother with it. They couldn’t understand why he always went up there, but they figured that he must have discovered a secret food source that he wanted to keep to himself. They resented him for this and gave him smaller shares of food. It hadn’t hurt his figure. He was still plump and round, but he was malnourished.
The last couple days had been especially hard, and he hadn’t been out to the bridge in a week. Thinking that his secret food stash might have run out, the other pigeons had given him normal servings of food for the last two days. The moment he felt his strength return he had hurried out to the bridge. Being away from it for so long had sent him into depression and returning had filed him with ecstasy.
He had been so excited that he had over exerted himself, and was breathing heavily. While he tried to collect himself he looked out down the river at another bridge. The Pulaski skyway was very high and stretched far in both directions away from the river. The other bridge was only to cross the river, and the middle of it could rise to let the big tanker ships through. The Pulaski skyway was high enough that all the ships could fit under it, without it moving.
At this moment, the middle of the draw bridge was raised. The ship was not yet visible. A line of cars stretched far on both sides of the bridge, waiting, without a choice, for the coming ship.
The pigeon looked to his left and glanced at the park where he lived. He hated living there. The constant death sapped his spirit. Everyday at least one pigeon would get careless and get decimated by a car. The pigeon swore that a car would never crush him.
The pigeon looked at the area of the river between himself and the drawbridge. Two-dozen pleasure crafts lay in the water, evenly spaced, on the right side of the river. They were part of the Passaic River Yacht Club, located along the Hackensack River.
The pigeon had gone there the other day looking for food. When he got there he didn’t find any food, only angry seagulls. They didn’t appreciate his situation. The pigeon looked at his scars and shivered.
Despite his experience with the seagulls, the pigeon decided that he could never go back to the park. He had to find a new home. He puffed out his chest and ruffled his feathers, getting himself pumped up for his adventure.
The pigeon spread his wings and was smacked in the face with a rush of cold air. He was tossed through the air. He flapped his wings, unable to control his movement. Up, down, left and right all blurred together to form a limbo of nausea. Sound faded away. Time was funneled out; the blurry haze engulfed him for eternity.
The concrete divider was a breath of reality. Time came roaring back. The pigeon whacked into the divider and bounced over it, onto the other side of the skyway. Dazed, all he could taste was blood.
The world was red. The pigeon’s eyes were filled with blood and he could barely make out shapes. He gasped for breath, choking on the blood in his throat. His sides ached; his wings were twisted and broken. His legs worked hard, trying to bring him to his feet, but his head continued to lie on the warm asphalt.
To keep himself from panicking, the pigeon tried to focus on an object. It seemed to be steadily increasing in size. It seemed to be rectangular in shape. It seemed to be an 18-wheeler heading straight for his face.
The black tire cruised along the black asphalt. It was quite content doing what it was made for. It had fun spinning around and around, perfectly repeating the motion. It was quite annoyed when it found a tiny soft object in its path.
The tiny object went squish under the power of the tire. It put up very little fight. Its skeleton shattered into a fine powder. All the fluids and mush inside burst out of the tiny objects sides and back. The tire was now soaked in a sticky red fluid.
“Red? What the hell?” thought the tire.
The red tire cruised across the black asphalt and was depressed.
The road kill analyzed the situation. After much deliberation it decided that death was not that bad and gracefully accepted to never think again.
When Copernicus’s parents named him, they had high hopes for his future. These hopes went up in flames when Copernicus’s uncle, Chester, burned Copernicus’s parents to death with a flamethrower. Chester had also been Copernicus’s parent’s lawyer and had secretly changed their wills so that all of their possessions were left to Chester’s horse; who was also named Copernicus.
Chester was not convicted of murder because the evidence had mysteriously burned up. Being his nearest relative, Chester was given custody of Copernicus, the child. Copernicus, the child spent the first five years of his life in a cage in Chester’s basement. There he was fed a healthy diet of rat feces and vitamin pills.
Copernicus, the child was released when Chester was arrested for killing Copernicus, the horse, who had just been elected senator in Mississippi.
Chester was shouting, “You’re a sellout! A sellout!” when the police arrested him.
Chester was sentenced to hanging and Copernicus, the child was sent to live with his grandfather’s illegitimate son and daughter, who had married and had five retarded children. They raised Copernicus, the teen to become a truck driver, but he was a rebel and swore that he would never become a truck driver.
Copernicus, the man drove his truck along the Pulaski Skyway. He was in his forties, and weighed about 350 pounds. He had been driving trucks for so long that his legs were only good for pushing; they were no good for standing. He smelled like a man who hadn’t bathed in ten years, but really it had only been five. Empty McDonald’s packaging was strewn about his truck; it was all he ate. His beard was long, greasy, and full of crumbs; he had found an entire sandwich in there once. The top of his head was shiny and without a trace of hair.
“Big Smelly” was written in faded green ink across his forehead. His nephew had written that there seven years ago. Copernicus had then tied a cinder block to his nephew’s leg and thrown him off a bridge to drown. The child’s parents had thanked him for relieving them of a burden. He had never gone to a family reunion again. He had been too lazy to clean the ink off his forehead.
Copernicus had failed to hear the squish when his truck had crushed the pigeon. He was busy trying to teach himself to steer with his fat. He had taken a layer of flab and pulled it over the bottom of the steering wheel. The flab looked like an alien organism coming out from underneath his red plaid shirt. It was covered in hair and was bubbling. Copernicus had become quite skilled at manipulating his blubber over the years. He sent ripples through his fat from left to right. This caused more flab to cross over the left side of the bottom of the steering wheel. The added weight caused the wheel to turn to the left to equalize the total weight on both sides.
Pleased with his accomplishment, Copernicus, the man tilted his head back in triumph. This was all he could do, because there was too much fat on his shoulders for him to lift his arms. Copernicus, the man shed a tear. It trickled down his greasy face and paused at the edge of his beard. It was now 10% water 90% grease.
The teardrop was now yellow, and was disgusted with its existence. The water quickly evaporated from Copernicus’s burning face. The grease seeped into his already ripe beard.
Copernicus had never been so happy. The ability to steer with his fat had consumed him for the last 20 years. Now he could let his arms become withered and useless like his legs. He was one step closer to becoming a blob creature with no extremities whatsoever.
The red truck glistened in the morning light. It soared along the skyway, hauling gasoline. The silver tanker gracefully gleamed shimmering silver. Cars roared past, each one indistinguishable from the next. They all cruised past the truck, disregarding the speed limit, which Copernicus always followed exactly.
A red Jaguar weaved its way through the pack. Despite the handicap of an intoxicated driver, the car was handling well. Its speed was increasing with disregard to safety. Five… seven… thirty… it passed cars with ease. It hunted the future. Eager to reach the end.
The driver was temporarily stunned by a flash of light. The car drifted into the center of the road. The Jaguar tapped a car in the outer lane from behind. The driver quickly slammed back into the center lane. The car scraped against the divider; sparks and paint chips were strewn about.
The driver’s eyes adjusted to the light. He clearly saw the glimmering back of Copernicus’s truck an inch in front of his car.
Copernicus felt a jolt from behind. A shockwave went through his belly. The shockwave curled up the edges of his fat, relieving the steering wheel. Copernicus grunted. The truck was no longer under his control. He halfheartedly tried to lift his arms, but to no avail.
Copernicus’s truck was finally free. It was no longer constricted by the greasy flesh-bag. It sighed a breath of relief. The engine quieted to a soft purr. The busted headlight turned on. The truck was filled with new spirit and vitality.
The first decision the truck made with its new found freedom was to free itself from another constriction. The truck was fed up with the road, and decided to leave it. The truck sailed across the outer lane and plowed through the wall of the bridge, taking the Jaguar, lodged under its tail, with it.
Metal crumpled and gave way to the force of the truck. Nothing could stop its march to freedom.
The truck hovered in midair. If only for a moment, it was suspended, exerting no force to keep itself in place.
Splinters of black metal and concrete spun through the air. The truck plowed upward off the bridge, giving the illusion of freedom. Then the truck was lassoed by gravity, which pulled hard and slammed the truck into the street below.
The red truck crumpled against the black pavement. The truck balanced vertically. The Jaguar slipped out, and crashed to the ground. Its windshield was smattered red on the inside. Gravity finally got its fingers around the tanker, slamming it down upon the Jaguar.
Air contracted. Heat expanded. Copernicus felt his fat boiled away. The grease on his skin and beard sizzled.
“Finally.” Copernicus was blown off the planet.
The remains of the Jaguar driver were blasted into oblivion. No one liked him anyway.
The pigeon’s blood was singed of the truck tire, which promptly flew a hundred feet away, clean, undamaged and happy.
“Hello and welcome!”
“O… yeah… Hello.”
“Some day right?”
“Um, yeah. What do you mean by that?”
“Don‘t you know?”
“Know what?”
“A gas truck and another car fell off the Pulaski skyway.”
“What?”
“Yeah. They said that the truck got hit from behind by the car and the truck driver lost control.”
“Did they live?”
“I don’t think so; the truck exploded. It’s a real shame. They haven’t been able to identify the drivers yet, since their bodies were so badly burned.”
“Can I get a carton of cigarettes?”
“O sure… The car was really nice to. A Jaguar I think it was.”
“I just bought my son a Jaguar.”
“O, well I’m sure it wasn’t him.”
“Who said it could be?”
“O, well I um… It might not have even been a Jaguar. I can’t remember.”
“How much do I owe?”
“O, um… Twenty-seven dollars and eighty-one cents.”
“Here.”
“Thank you! Have a nice day!”
The pale-faced teen stared at the man walking out the door. The man wore a scarf around his entire neck, despite the warm weather. The sun reflected off his bald spot and the teen chuckled. The man climbed into his black hummer and drive off. The teen returned to staring at the mesmeric green tile of the gas station convenience store.
“Nice fellow,” the teen joked to himself. He started to laugh uncontrollably.
Copernicus’s uncle Chester had been hanged, but not to death. Chester had escaped the noose, by untying his hands and setting fire to the noose. Chester remembered the ring of fire around his neck. He remembered that the rope had been stronger than he had expected and he had almost suffocated. The incident had left the skin around his neck permanently charred.
Chester drove his Hummer knowing that his son was dead. He gave a sigh of contentment. Looking in his mirror he saw a pillar of smoke emerging from the gas station. His face turned red from laughing so hard. The thought of the pale-faced teen being burned alive just tickled his funny bone.