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Last updated: 2/8/2002 |
Posted: 9/29/00 The Pigeon is on the bus today - the 8:15 express. I'm late; I usually try to catch the 7:20, but rarely make it. As usual, I don't notice her at first. She fits into a slot in my brain that's only open when I ride the bus. Except for those 20 minutes once or twice a week, I forget she exists. Anyway, I swipe my card and grab an open seat near the front. After securing my abzor1, I settle back with my coffee and open a book. The bus moves off and all is quiet - then I hear a soft coo from a few seats back. Ever since I started calling her "The Pigeon" (only in my head, of course) I've noticed she is sort of bird-like; thin nose, long neck and an awkward gait. A quiet little woman - probably in her late twenties or early thirties - she's partial to hip clothes and favors books on philosophy and touchy-feely Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul paperbacks. She is unremarkable in every way, except for the fact she makes constant, quiet pigeon sounds. Curious, I've watched her. She gives no indication she's aware she's doing it. Every five to seven seconds - interspersed among the nose scratching, sniffling, eye rubbing and other typical human mannerisms - she'll coo. Occasionally, she'll let a big one go - and it turns into her clearing her throat. I can't tell if she does it to cover up the fact she's cooing, or if the coos are understated throat-clearing. It amuses me to watch people who don't know her get on the bus. We'll ride in silence for a while and eventually they'll realize they've been hearing... something... repeatedly for the last 15 minutes. I can see them performing some mental filtering - separating out the noises in the background, then look around - curious where the poor thing is trapped. When they see it's a woman, they look around to see if anyone else notices. We all remain studiously silent, noses buried in our magazines and Palm Pilots. Most of us are quite used to her by now. Today I start to wonder just what the hell is wrong with her. After some deliberation I decide it's a mild form of tourettes. I assume she's lived with it for years, which would explain her obliviousness. What a strange thing: To inadvertently harrumph softly every few seconds every minute of every day. I wonder what sort of person she is. I realize my characterization of her is an oversimplified outline of a human being - but how well do you get to know the people on the bus? Maybe some day I'll sit with her and ask her about one of her Chick-Lit paperbacks. But, I'll probably just forget she exists - and keep calling her "The Pigeon," in my head, when I see her on the 8:15. |