Blue Book and I were playing stoop ball against Matt and Nate one Saturday and similarly as Blue Book went up to the divider to hit, a pigeon on the third floor discharged a thick wad that dropped down and landed ideal over Blue Book’s head. Saturday was not one of his treatment days, so he was not wearing his felt snap-overflowed cap. He halted in his way to deal with the divider and gazed upward.
I was inclining toward a vehicle sitting tight for my at-bat. He came over and indicated the highest point of his head. “What is it?” he inquired.
I said that it was a white and green substance. “With a bit of yellow,” I said.
“Is it pigeon poo?”
I said that I thought it was.
“Which pigeon did it?” He was thoroughly quiet.
I indicated three grouped together on the third floor cornice. The one in the middle was puffed up and crouched into itself. It had unsettled quills. “I think it was one of them,” I said.
“Much thanks to you,” he said. He took a short run-up, and with all his power, heaved the spaldeen submarine-style up at the cornice. It landed right in the center of the group – an immediate hit. Plumes vacillated all over the place, two pigeons took off in inverse ways and the wiped out pigeon dropped straight down and arrived at the base of the divider.
“You bastard!” Blue Book wailed and he kicked the pigeon fifteen feet through the air directly over the leader of an old woman in a wheel seat who was being wheeled tough along West End Avenue from poker dewa 87th Street by a heavy woman in a girdle and a white medical caretaker’s uniform.
The old woman sitting in the wheel seat was wearing a cap with a cloak and didn’t see the pigeon, however the woman in the medical attendant’s uniform did. Simultaneously, she heard Blue Book wail and saw him rushing her with a crazed articulation. She discharged the handles of the wheel seat, fell over in reverse and shook back on her bodice with her legs and tights and underpants raised high over her head.
Blue Book raced into the hole between the medical caretaker and the wheelchair and got in another kick. This time the pigeon arced out ten feet high over West End Avenue where it struck the windshield of one of the red and dark colored Orange and Rockland County transports that used to go up West End on their approach to cross the George Washington Bridge to New Jersey.
The driver swerved instinctually and hit the handcar of the harshly toned products of the soil vendor we called Pop as he was moving his truck loaded down with plums, peaches, melons and other moving things downhill on West End Avenue towards 87thStreet.
It took fifteen minutes for the police to arrive and that entire time the driver of the transport was on his hands and knees looking under vehicles for the pigeon to attempt to demonstrate his story.
Blue Book vanished, I snatched the wheelchair, which had begun moving in reverse, and Nate and Matt helped the woman in the attendant’s uniform back to her feet.
A long time later, every time I read my children the narrative of how Rumpelstiltskin flew into a wrath, and stepped his foot so hard he sank into the ground up to his abdomen, and how he got his other foot in two hands and tore himself down the middle, it generally brought back the memory of Blue Book crying and kicking the pigeon that day and charging after it and kicking it once more, this time significantly harder.
Name: Herb Lobsenz Website: oldtimewriter.com
I’m attempting to counteract the vanishing of fascinating individuals, spots and deeds I’ve kept running into by saving their memory recorded as a hard copy. So far my oldtimewriter blog covers Manhattan during the 1930s, 40s and 50s- – marble shooting, stoop ball, punch ball, the milkman, the organ processor, the streetsweeper, the iceman, Frankie the Fixer, Abner the Stooper, Lockup Bill, The Penguin, Cedric the Singles Hitter. Future memories will incorporate Joe Louis, the Polo Grounds, the baseball Giants, the Spanish Civil War, World War II, the Korean War.