Karma Is A Bird
by Rob Cottignies
This morning, I was in a bookstore when I noticed Katy Perry doing an album signing. I enjoy some of her songs, especially Firework. Slayer was in my Discman and I thought it would be funny to ask her to sign that CD. I waited on line and shook her hand when I got to the table. It was soft and wonderful to feel. Her hand, not the table. I popped open my portable player and my request for her to autograph my Slayer disc was met with an odd smirk. I felt like she understood that I wanted her signature in a funny way when she signed it. For a moment, I thought she was flirting with me, but I quickly came to my senses and I began to walk away. I felt eyes on my back before I heard, “If you were more into mainstreaming I would love to hang out with you.” I asked what mainstreaming was.
“You’re cute, but you should look and act a bit trendier.”
“No thanks,” I said, strangely rejecting Katy Perry’s advances.
I thought she was going to ask to meet up after the signing session when a bird started chirping. I woke up and the thing was right outside my bedroom window, singing away. Some people find bird calls sweet and endearing. I do not, especially at 7:04am. In fact, I run my air conditioner every night so the white noise it creates can overpower any outside sounds. It normally works when my neighbor starts his motorcycle, but this little avian creature was getting the best of my air conditioner. I tried to shrug it off and continue my dream of the lovely Katy, but the pest wouldn't stop. Constant audio repetition keeps me awake like nothing else.
Suddenly, I remembered I had a BB gun under the bed. I grabbed it, put on my robe, and went outside with the intent of firing a pellet directly into the bird's throat. If that didn't kill it, at least it would shut up and I could get back to sleep.
The morning was misty and the dewy grass made my slippers wet. That made me angrier. I could hear the chirps though I could barely see the bush from where they were coming. Me, standing in the mist with a gun. It must have looked like a scene from Insomnia, though I was not hunting Robin Williams, but perhaps a member of the robin family. Bad joke. Anyway, I fired aimlessly in the direction of the bush until I heard a loud squawk. Confident that I'd dispatched the offending bird, I made my way back toward the front door. Five feet from the stairs, I was dive-bombed by a flock of screeching birds. They scared the wits out of me. I tripped over my own foot and banged my head on the concrete staircase.
Many hours later, bandages shroud my head as I type from the hospital. Karma is very real, and its name is Sparrow.