I don't know what the fuck is up with birds.
It's their flying and shit; I don't trust that.
Okay, let me start from the beginning, mostly because I'm not Quentin Tarantino and I'm not in the mood to bootleg the man's tracks today:
It all started with my brother's graduation. I was thrilled to finally watch my own brother walk across the stage and receive his empty diploma (our high school handed out actual diplomas later in the month for some twisted reason). It was quite the celebration--my dad came in from Missouri and my aunt drove down from Canada to witness this event. The whole family was together again for this brief while, in celebration of this historic point in my brother's life.
Hey, I got a shit-load of money for my graduation, so it's pretty much the same thing.
My dad drove me back to my apartment in Grand Rapids a few days later, and I was excited that I could finally get some one-on-one time with the man I hadn't seen in two years. When he dropped me off, he reiterated the fact that he would be back in a few days, which was information that we had clearly gone over, yet I had forgotten. Having already cleared my schedule for the week, I was a little upset. Sure, my week was free, as I had pushed everything to later on, but now what was I supposed to do? I couldn't in good conscience invite my papa to a college party. Parties are already an awkward situation for me, without the addition of bringing along a chaperone.
Of course, I love my father and wanted to spend time with him, and was therefore excited by the prospect of our eventual "hang time," but it was a conflicted excitement.
But first, I had to wait.
I made up my mind to go for a run, because I was bored out of my mind and remembered that I had not exercised in a week. Although, with my demeanor and work-out schedule, 'jog' might constitute a more suitable word than 'run'. Even more so would be 'flailing with momentum.' Don't judge, we all have our methods. Mine just happens to be more flaming than others...
It was a decent time for running; the sun was going down and the mosquitoes weren't out yet. There also weren't a lot of people out to make fun of the fact that I only own socks that go up half my calf. Instead of investing in a treadmill or taking the time to go to the gym, I prefer to run outside, on a path of my choosing. I run with my iPod on because, while I enjoy spending my time in nature, I don't want to hear nature sounds. The outside world is not exactly aurally stimulating, if you know what I mean.
I had barely left the parking lot when the trouble started.
The first bout of "what the fuck" occurred when the claws/beak made contact with the back of my head. At the time, the feet appeared like talons and the beaks was wide enough to swallow me whole. It is clear to me now that a bird the size of my hand rarely possesses the jaw flexibility to ingest an entire human, but I was not prepared to test my hypothesis at the time.
In a typical 'fight-or-flight' situation, I have found that I am surprisingly a fighter, hurling whatever objects within reach I can. However, when the only item in your grasp is an iPod Shuffle, 'flight' immediately becomes the better option.
The second bout of "what the fuck" occurred when the bird decided that one kamikaze divebomb was not sufficient enough to chase off a confused and terrified jogger, and remained fluttering behind me, not two feet above my head.
Realizing that this bird was not going to retreat from his one-sided game of tag, I broke into a dead sprint, in hopes of suggesting that I was getting the fuck out of whatever territory I had apparently invaded. Yet the stubborn bird continued to tail me, flapping violently, and I quickly came to the conclusion that whatever species of bird this was, it must be the cheetah of the sky.
If I learned anything that day, it was that running sideways is not in my repertoire of skills, and in one quick maneuver, I simultaneously tripped and dove for the concrete below me. Lord knows what I was thinking, but I suspect that it was a combination of "It can't get to me if I'm four feet lower" and "Oh shit, my clumsy legs!"
I slammed my body into the pavement on my left side, and my iPod skittered across the dotted yellow median. By some miracle, the usually busy street was void of any traffic, which ensured that: a) I was not about to get run over by a car, and b) there would be no witnesses of this embarrassing experience that I would be forced to "make disappear."
Pumped with adrenaline, but noticing that the bird was no longer in my cranial vicinity, I booked it back to my apartment. Immediately, I researched my attacker and nursed my wounds, which began to hurt after I calmed down. Using Kleenex after Kleenex on my gashed hip, I found that the only bird that seemed to fit the bill for the small amount of description I could recall (all black with red-and-yellow striped wings) was a red-winged blackbird, a moniker I would have come up with anyways in retelling the story later: "It was like this red-winged... black... bird!" I even dedused the sex of it, as the females are not black, do not have red wings, and--I'd venture to guess--would hardly be considered birds.
The article also mentioned the fact that red-winged blackbirds have been known to swoop down upon humans who approach their nesting grounds during mating season.
No shit.
What was surprising was that I was not the only person affected by these deadly birds. Many of my friends had similar stories in which their golf games were disrupted by similar Hitchcock-y instances. We all commented on the fact that, regardless of running or golfing, a tennis racket could greatly improve our overall experience of the sport, while not directly related to performance.
The hatred in my psyche was fierce; I knew I wanted to go back, as soon as I stopped bleeding, and kill this bird.
It was a bit out-of-character for me, a usual nature lover who believed that all of God's creatures serves a specific purpose in life (except for mosquitoes, which are actually Satan's creatures). But when I found that these birds are so abundant that they are considered "pests," I lost any sympathy for the winged assholes of the sky. In fact, farmers have been known to put pesticides out to poison these birds, and at that point, I was ready to give my life savings to whatever agricultural charities I knew.
Is Farm Aid still around?
Injured and depressed, I realized that I still had three more days until my dad returned.
Two days after the incident, I found myself walking down the same road on my way home from work. I felt more prepared, as I was wearing a hat this time, which doubled not only as some sort of head protection, but could--if used properly--swat a bird out of the air.
As I walked slowly down the side of the road, much busier during the mid-day rush, I listened carefully for the flutter of wings or a squawk that sounded aggrivated. I scanned the skies, my eyes searching for any black dots that could eventually swoop down and attack me again. Every bird I saw, from robins, to a sinister-shaped leaf, was a potential foe. This was a war zone, and I was behind enemy lines. ...Only they had numerous air forces with agility and animalistic aggression, and I had a bum hip and a hat.
I was relieved when a student on a bike rode past me. If this really was the battlefield that I had pictured in my mind, this biker would be my expendable first wave. If he made it through, I could breathe a sigh of bird-less relief.
In hindsight, I should have stopped him or at least yelled out "watch out for birds," but I didn't. Instead, I watched helplessly as the poor sucker suddenly swerved and swatted above him. It was remarkable--I hadn't even seen the bird begin its assault. It just magically appeared at the back of this biker's neck.
Fortunately, a bike is faster than on-foot and the guy got away relatively quick (although likely scarred from his close encounter of the aviary kind). My disposable pawn had done his job, but I still had to get home.
I was dead-set on killing this fucker, or at least injuring it and making it die a slow and painful death. It was as if this bird had kidnapped my daughter and I was Liam Neeson, prepared to do whatever it took to get my fictional offspring back.
When in reality, this bird was the one protecting its own babies, so determined that it was ready to fight creatures 20 times its own size.
I was across the street from the bird, using the same path that I had used for escape two day previous, certain that my respectable distance would send the message that, while I wanted to bash the father bird into a thousand little feathers, his chicks were at least safe. "I am not a monster!" I wanted to yell.
My intentions did not translate, however. Just as I was beginning to think that I could make a clean getaway, I heard the ominous fluttering right above me. I grabbed the brim of my hat, and made for a swing.
But something stopped me.
I don't know what made me think of my dad at that point, but something did. The bird was a father, and he was doing everything in his pathetic little existence to ensure that his kids were safe.
I thought of the baby birds, and their little heads peeking out over the nest, waiting for their daddy to return home with a worm, or a small chunk of some innocent runner's hair. They will have missed him, and he them, even though there was never any doubt in their pea-sized minds that he would return.
And I thought of my father, and how his absence was affecting me. Not just for the week, but for the time he spent in Missouri. While my father was alive, he wasn't around. I wanted to blame somebody for it, but I couldn't. It was never his fault that he couldn't stay here with us after the divorce. It was nobody's fault.
I spent my late teens without a masculine presence in my life, because I wouldn't necessarily call my mother "butch."
He could be there if I needed someone to talk to, over the phone, or required advice, but it was difficult knowing that he couldn't be here, for fishing trips and blowing shit up (y'know... guy stuff).
"What kind of monster would I be," I thought to myself, "to deprive these hatchlings of all of that stuff?" I was pissed for all the wrong reasons and almost let that anger get the best of me.
Who am I? I'm not the kind of person who kills animals in cold blood! I listen to Fleet Foxes, for Christ sake!
So I put my hat back on, using the age-old adage "The best defense is defense, because why would anything else constitute defense?" And I ran. I ran so far away. (The fact that I've been talking about bird and then used A Flock of Seagulls reference is purely coincidental.)
Back at my apartment, I found that I had another text from my dad. It said that it would be a few more days before he could make it up. He was going to spend a little more time with my brother, to help him with his post-graduation decisions. At that point, I was happy with that. At least I knew he hadn't been beaten to death with a hat.
