Eight o'clock at Brophie's on 166th Street - they'd agreed it. He remembered her smile as she waved goodbye to him last night - yup, they'd agreed it; Brophie's at eight. "Yeah. Tomorrow. That's today," he muttered to himself yet again.
At half past eight there was still no sign of her, so he called Evelyn from a phone booth outside, but she was not in, nor was her flatmate Jenny. So instead of going out on the town with Evelyn, taking in a show, having a big fine meal, he just sat there alone at the bar, all dressed up, tux, black tie, until he met this girl.
They were getting on fine at first - invite-her-home fine - but then he must have said the wrong thing, or a few wrong things, or given a wrong impression or something; but whatever, she made her excuses and left, so he carried on drinking, feeling ever more sorry for himself as the night wore on - until he felt it was time to get on back to his dingy rented room on E. 157th St.
Woozily he made his way to the door; as he stepped out onto the sidewalk the cold damp air hit his face. He walked unsteadily, betraying signs of overindulgence in whiskey and beer. He crossed the road and found himself standing in that puddle right under the 3rd Street El.
And then, as he stood there in the cold wet night, wallowing in self-pity that came dangerously close to self-loathing, a bird fluttered down from the ironwork above and landed awkwardly in the puddle close to his feet.
The bird was just a pigeon, gray, ordinary-looking, but clearly quite unwell. Its irregular twitching movements suggested to James that it was not long for this world. It swivelled its head round towards James and fixed him a stare with one beady eye, a stare that caught his attention. Suddenly he focused on the bird; he could sympathize with its plight, he felt sorry for it as it lay there on one side; its left wing attempting to push itself clear of the human being standing so near.
In his tipsy state, James somehow felt overcome by compassion. He should do something to help this poor creature. Pick it up; tuck it into the inside pocket of his big black woolen overcoat, warm it up; maybe take it to a vet's... there's one a just few blocks away, he remembered...
"Dumb idea - there's no vet open at this time of night, besides, even if there was, what would the vet say to some blotto guy in a tux holding a dying pigeon? And what's the point of spending good money on fixing a bird that's little more than a flying pest," he thought.
The pigeon was showing less and less sign of life, it was still staring up at him, the left wing was still moving; James imagined it was begging him for help, for mercy. He swayed as his last bourbon and beer chaser hit his head; he took a deep breath and looked up at the iron superstructure supporting the overhead railway; he tried to get his eyes to focus on the massive steel girders as they crossed high above him. He looked down again; the pigeon was still there.
Up ahead of him, crossing over from the other side of the road, came three office girls, arm-in-arm and obviously in high spirits. They were laughing and breaking into song - "I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night" - and heading his way. It occured to him in his inebriated state that the pigeon could be a conversation opener, the sort of thing to show that he was a caring kinda guy, and heck, there were three of them...
James picked up the pigeon and held it in his hand.
Part Two here.
This time last year:
The Transwersalna in winter
This time two years ago:
This time three years ago:
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