Shitty Luck

I am terrified of pigeons. They soar in close proximity to my head and force me to use my arms as armor. I run as I flap my long arms, fearing they will touch me with their spotted wings and leave a trace of the grime they’ve picked up underneath bridges and on rooftops. But unlike me, they don’t feel threatened or afraid. I am the one who has to walk around the flock when my size 6 shoes - giant in comparison to their tiny bodies - fail to produce a flinch or a change in their position. They remain gathered, bobbing their heads back and forth as they seek grains of uncooked rice or pick on gum stuck to concrete.

Not everyone feels the same way I do. There are many people dedicated to these creatures - discussing their importance, banning the practice of tossing uncooked rice outside wedding chapels and churches because it kills pigeons. It is even said that their shit brings good luck. Not the foul palette of off white and green they leave on car windshields and window ledges, but the shit that falls from their pigeon butts and lands on heads. It is this shit, the shit that fell on me a year and a month ago, that is said to be lucky…

“I got the graduate assistantship!” I exclaimed to my cousin while walking toward the Walter Rand Transportation Center in Camden.

“That’s great!” she responded.

“But I gotta go – have to catch a bus! We’ll talk more later.”

I closed my cell and drew in my surroundings. Little girls, moms, aunts, and sisters strutted their stuff, clothed in tiny tanks, halters, and tube tops. Curls and waves refused to rest on scalps as the summer wind engaged them in dance. Changletas flapped against the warm pavement and dirtied heels of feet. I stood out from the pack, from the groups crossing streets and gathering at corners. My hair was pinned back. My red blouse made of silk. My silvers shoes high and pointy. This is where I was going to be every day of the week for the next two years. No matter what the differences, I had to adjust.

I finally arrived at the bus stop and positioned myself on line. An older man lined up behind me and began to smoke a cigarette then the woman ahead of me lit herself a Newport. I was drowned by the stench and couldn’t escape. I began to fan myself, attempting to find some relief, when a splash of off white and green landed on my red blouse.

“Shit. Fucking pigeon!” I yelled.

The chimney ahead of me glanced over and chuckled. I ignored her as I grabbed a napkin from my purse and began to wipe myself clean. I moistened the napkin with saliva and scrubbed. It wasn’t coming off. It was tainted. My eyes welled up in frustration as I scrubbed harder; my skin hot. I finally decided to call my mother.

“Hola,” she said in her soothing tone.

“Cion mami,” I replied.

“Dios te bendiga,” she answered.

I explained it all. How the ride to Camden was smooth. How I was starting the assistantship the following day and how a pigeon had ruined my mood, shitted all over my day.

“Bueno, la gente dice que eso es buena suerte,” she said.

(Well, people say that’s good luck.)

“Buena suerte? Yo lo dudo.”

(Good luck? I doubt it.)

“Eso es lo que dicen,” she replied.*

(That’s what they say.)

The bus pulled up and I ended my conversation with mami. The line began to move. A white teen, sucking on a toothpick, stepped onto the bus first. A woman and her screaming child, nose filled with snot, were next. A scruffy white man staggered onto the line in a drunken state, asking for ten cents. The woman in front of me ignored him as she took her last puff before stepping onto the bus. I was next. I was finally facing the bus driver. She sat, seatbelt strapped, with her right arm resting atop the contraption that spits out yellow New Jersey Transit receipts and transfer tickets.

“I’m going to Philly”, I said.

She punched three buttons with her long dark fingers and then looked up at me.

“How much is it? I asked.

“$1.15” she replied.

She looked away as I fondled through my purse for change and came up empty handed.

“Do you have change for a twenty dollar bill?” I asked.

Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head left to right. She asked me to step off the bus, get change and wait for the next one. I did as I was told. The doors swung shut and the bus pulled off, flying down North Broadway and then making a right turn. I looked down at my shirt, the shit stain setting, and waited for my luck to change.