Commuter Short Stories

Mr. Thomas was obviously distressed that a pigeon could make fun of him. He sat still for a minute, angry with himself for getting angry with a pigeon. As the conversation resumed, a well dressed couple walked briskly past the man and the pigeon. The woman whispered to her companion, "honey, I swear that pigeon and that man were having a conversation!" The male responded, "oh sure, there are a lot of strange things going on in the city, but if that pigeon can talk, then I can fly." Peter the pigeon, winked at the woman as she turned her head for one last glance. They hurried past.

Peter laughed hysterically, between the curious pedestrians and this, this homeless human who thinks this park bench is his home, he thought he'd laugh himself to death.

Thomas Jones was forty-seven or forty-eight. He really didn't remember. He looked like a beaten and broken sixty-five year old. As he sat and listened to the pigeon ridiculing him, his heart sank and he began to sob. He sobbed and coughed, coughed then sobbed. He was feeling the pain of the journey that brought him to this point in his life. He said to the bird while staring at the ground: "if you knew how I was feeling about the way my life turned out, you probably wouldn't laugh so hard."

Mr. Thomas, I'm really not laughing at you. I am still tickled from a fantastic direct hit today. I mean, I dropped a load that splattered the top and the windshield of the prettiest little red BMW you have ever seen. The pigeon then said in a more subdued tone: you know, you homeless humans and us pigeons have a lot in common. It seems as if today, we are fighting for the same food crumbs to eat, the same city parks to sit and to sleep, and the same filthy streets from which we beg for mercy.

Perhaps, we do have some things in common Mr. Pigeon, but I'm a man. I should be doing better. As a matter of fact, I was doing a lot better. I have not been homeless all my life.

***

The blinking vacancy sign just outside the small, dusty, four paned window cast a strobe like shadow on the lanky figure lying across the motel bed. The man lay on his back, staring blankly at the floral design of the wallpaper plastered on the ceiling of the six-dollar per night room. The sparsely decorated room held a single wrought iron bed a four-drawer dresser and a lamp with a dusty shade covered in plastic.

Josh Stubblefield could feel the cold steel of the .32 caliber that lay on his chest. He felt the gun move up and down with each beat of his pounding heart. His index finger was wrapped firmly around the trigger housing, anticipating the moment when he would raise the barrel and fire at any intruder that entered the door.