The Birds

Work today was an adventure, as always. It was day two of cleaning out the fixture room, and I was happily flinging unwanted cardboard boxes and plastic screws and heavy metal shelves into the large dumpsters left in the parking lot by the remodel construction crew. I had jumped at the chance to perform that specific task; not only was it a joy to be outdoors, to be soaked in sun and wind while working, but it was also fun to toss the various items into the dumpsters. Nobody was watching, so I could throw clothing racks like javelins, toss signs high enough that they floated and flipped in the air, and even whistle. There was nobody in that parking lot to hear me and to be annoyed.

As I was merrily going about my work, I looked up to see a huge flock of seagulls passing overhead. They were, I assumed, the kind of birds that inhabit parking lots across the country, finding comfort in a sea of black tar, and nourishment in empty slushie cups and shredded candy wrappers. Still staring up at them, I suddenly noticed that slimy white bullets were falling from their midst onto the pavement around me. I shrieked and ran for the store, dodging the hail of poop as if I were running across a battlefield through a torrent of bombs.

Once inside, I pawed at my hair and inspected my clothes until I was completely convinced that I had managed to escape the fecal attack unscathed. My coworkers laughed at me, of course. I didn't mind; I'm sure the sight of me bolting across the parking lot screaming was pretty funny. I had a good laugh myself afterwords. Not at my own antics, however, but at what I see as a deliberate practical joke carried out by that flock of seagulls.

And you know what? If I were a bird, I think I would get a kick out of doing the exact same thing.