My Friend Roger
I hate the sound of wings flapping. Something about the clapping of feather against sternum is unsettling. Whether it’s the idea of dirt and grime being spewed into the air from the movement of their wings or just the flapping that makes a sound like what I imagine wet deli meat makes if thrown against pavement, I’m not sure. But I like Roger.
Roger is a rotund gray pigeon who lives on my fire escape. I met him one night over a glass of red wine while out reading in the dusk of the New York evening. It smelled like snow with the scent of gasoline and dirt that permeates the air in East Harlem. Flipping a page, the frantic whipping of wings introduced Roger who flew onto the rusted railing. He looked down at me, tilting his head as if to ask why I was there. Shrieking, I tried to shoo him away, flipping my hand back and forth in his direction as if to strike. He seemed to catch my bluff. He hopped down off of the railing and waddled next to my leg, where he crouched down into a mound of pigeon and sat.
His wings settled around his body, cocooning the whitening belly protruding out from under him, spilling between the slats of metal. His head tilted, looking up towards the darkening sky before he settled on me. His beady red eyes seemed to size me up before he closed them and tucked his neck into his body and slept. I watched him, seeing his body rise and fall with gentle breath and the occasional twitch of a wing, restless in repose. He looked like a Roger to me, a friendly neighbor who despite my animosity towards his entire species, decided to grace my fire escape and sleep, trusting me in his unconscious state. I watched him for a long time, far longer than I anticipated, transfixed by his trust and tranquility. When the sun set on our time together, I climbed through the window, back into my home, while Roger sat sleeping, unmoving on his.
When I wake up, he’s gone; I don’t know where his adventures take him during the day, but every night Roger perches on my fire escape, hopping around before settling into rest. The sound of flapping greets me just before he does. The sound that still sends chills up my spine now signals the arrival of a friend.
