In The Company Of Death

There’s this strange pocket of death that I move through on my way to and from work. It’s next to an old warehouse building and near this generic convenience store/Chinese deli where convenience is apparently a loose term in regards to hours of operation, where the odds of botulism are so high that ungraciously aging ladies mill around in hopes for a free dose through their pores.

On one passing, I noticed the corpse of a mouse well on its way to returning to dust. I remember this fairly clearly as it reminded me of my friends and I at a young age obsessing over decaying animals we would find in our travels through the woods. Plus, I walk along this sidewalk on a daily basis; it was strange I didn’t notice this body when it was fresher.

I completely forgot about this mouse laid low until not long after there were the remains of a bird, not far from the same spot. It had obviously been hit by some scavengers since falling to ground.

Now, my general rule of thumb in life is that 2 occurrences of something can still be ruled a coincidence, three or more there could be something fishy going on. It’s much like the time that I was being hounded by Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin'”. So at this point, in my mind, what we had here was a strange dead animal coincidence.

But then appeared a third bird body; again in the same spot and again picked over. What we have here is the universe conspiring for me to see something, or malicious intent against local wildlife.

More birds showed up over the weeks, culminating in a newly dead pigeon on the sidewalk last night. A story was developing in the back of my mind, one that involved a store of poison being kept in the warehouse falling quickly towards dilapidation; poison that tasted good to birds – finch candy, pigeon scotch. These poor creatures couldn’t resist the tasty treats they were finding and were only making as far as the narrow concrete strip outside. And being these guys weren’t really trying to run away, they became easy marks for scavengers looking for a little street meat.

And as my mind is wont to do, the story began to become a tad darker, a little more desperate. I imagined someone, perhaps someone who works at the salmonella deli, out there methodically killing the urban wildlife under shade of darkness. They then prepare the carcasses, sometimes splaying them open, sometimes just a little rouge around the bills. This person, dressed in a zippered jumpsuit – a navy blue, zippered jumpsuit – then lays his victims out in memory of their young girlfriend who had been attacked and left horribly scarred by a flock of feeding birds and mice.

Did I mention that the birdseed used to feed these animals was put out by the owner of the warehouse? Actually I know that I didn’t tell you, I can scroll right up and see what I’ve written.

Today, I was forced to walk on the opposite side of the road, a victim of the whims of traffic signals. And on the opposite side of the road today I find another dead soldier. Laying in a scruffy patch of weeds, a game of patience ensuing as it biodegrades into the dirt, was an empty bottle of Wild Irish Rose.

Oh, the humanity.