Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Anyway, there was a sale of ... stuff. We thought we could pick up some mementoes, like an oak library card catalog. No such luck, though. It was as if we were walking through a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie.

We walked down the hall toward room 325, which back in the day, was ... you know ... like a room for study hall. The memories washed over me, as if James Earl Jones was standing there, swatting them away like flies.

Yes, Tag, that's what we called him. He had a long Italian name. He and his goomba, Steffano, both wore black leathers, Ban-Lon nylon socks, white, silk-like shirts open at the neck, Italian horn hanging around from a chain around their necks, they were in study hall with first-year teacher, Mr. E. It was a sunny, Spring day, windows open, Mr. E having a harder-than-usual time controlling the raucousness ... I think he came from back east ... prep school ... not really equipped to handle ... er ... midwesterners.

Anyway, Mr. E started screaming at the rowdy study hall students to shut up ... at least one eraser hit him in the chest, leaving a white-powder residue that would mean something else in the future, and several others, from longer range missing, bouncing off the wall behind him. Kids with cracking voices were yelling ... nasty things ... when Tag lifted the integrated school desk/chair overhead, which, of course, drew Mr. E's attention, Mr. E screaming to put the "god-damned, fucking chair down, you little sonofabitch da-go cocksucker ..." Tag heaved the desk/chair out the third floor window, and all Hell broke loose, everyone bolting for the doors, knowing that Mr. Widder would leave no witnesses without red asses. Mr. E had cracked, throwing a few desk/chairs into the hallway, then barricading himself in the room, pushing the teacher's oaken desk in front of the door at the front of the room and stacking stuff in front of the rear door, screaming profanities all the while.

I don't know what happened to Mr. E. He never came back after he was taken away by the ambulance.

I remembered that -- because up ahead, not more than four feet away, a huge pigeon (it seemed like it was up to my knees, but probably not) waddled ahead. I jumped behind Stacey for protection, but it ignored us, taking a right into 325. I slammed the door after it.

That was Saturday morning. I haven't slept since. Tossing and turning last night, I did get to sleep; but I dreamed about the pigeon trying to open the door with its beak. It was having a hard time of it, the brass door knob resisting the bird's efforts. The pigeon might still be in 325 ... hungry ... weak. In fact, after that dream, I'm sure of it. That Mr. E incident has been bothering me. I'm afraid for the pigeon locked in that room all alone, losing its grip on reality ... I'm thinking that I should call the school board office ... someone should let the pigeon out ...

If I haven't starved it to death.

I'm wondering how long pigeons can survive without the little things they pick up off the street? You start wondering about shit like that after you haven't slept for a couple days worrying that ... there's pigeon blood on my hands. What the fuck are those pigeons eating off the street anyway? There must be something in 325 that a pigeon can munch on ... you know, like ... stuff. Maybe I should like call the police ... don't you call the police if cats are like stuck up trees ... or that's the fire department. I could do that.

And report that there is a pigeon stuck in Room 325 of the old junior high school. I called the school board office.

What did you say?
There's a pigeon in room 325 of the old junior high.
What?
A pigeon is in room 325 of the old junior high, the one that's closed and is going to be demolished.
Is this some kind of joke? You want me to call the police, sir? I have you on caller I.D.
Would the police free a trapped pigeon? Or would that be the fire department? I'm serious, ma'm ... We were there on Saturday morning and a pigeon was trapped in room 325.
How do you know it's trapped?
Well, it was a big pigeon, but I still don't think it could reach the door knob. Well, I suppose it could fly up that high ... hadn't thought of that. But it would be really, really hard to open the door knob with a beak, don't you think?
Sir, I am calling the police.
Do you think it'd be possible to turn the knob with its little feet while it's flapping its wings? That'd be pretty tough, even if the pigeon thought of something like that.
Sir, I'm hanging up.