Of all the spirit animals so lovingly chosen for our crew, mine alone possesses an epithet (of sorts). I am not merely a pigeon (noble birds, to be sure), but specifically a wounded pigeon. I've always assumed that the pigeon in question has a broken wing or leg; something that inhibits movement in some way. People usually laugh when I tell them this. This is because, although wounded animals are not specifically funny, wounded pigeons are.No one really likes pigeons. They're like mice with wings: contemptible, messy, disease ridden, prone to defecating in inconvenient places, and they frequently die in fairly stupid ways (re: flying into windows). Even the noise they make is boring. They don't caw, sing, or even squawk. They just say, "OOOOOO." Over and over again. But take this relatively bothersome bird and watch it flail for a bit. Just watch it. You'll laugh. You'll watch this dazed, awkward, rodentine little bird and you'll feel the smallest twinge of guilt and then you'll laugh. Because it's funny, dang it. And so I am not merely a pigeon, but a wounded one. Because when I screw up, it's funny.
Take, for example, an incident that occurred a few weeks ago. I was in charge of vacuuming classrooms on the bottom floor of the ESC, but was running late. Now, when I say that I was vacuuming, you must understand that I was not using a traditional vacuum cleaner. Such devices would be cumbersome, inconvenient, and slow if forced to travel from classroom to classroom, devouring dust and dirt all the while. No, we janitors use professional grade vacuums. You may remember seeing them in the movie Ghostbusters, only those ones shot lasers. Mine doesn't do that. It's just a backpack with a hose/pole attachment and an extension cord, which can at times be very cumbersome, inconvenient, and slow. When I walk around, I carry the coiled cord in my right hand and the pole in my left. Both hands being occupied, this can make little things like unlocking or opening doors inconvenient. This does factor somewhat into the story, but I digress.
So, having returned from an impromptu jaunt to the (spotless!) restroom, I raced into the classroom where I'd left by backpack and hastily donned my gear. As I said, I was running late and wanted to finish up as soon as possible lest I disturb those already in class. I rapidly swept my way through the room I was in (I believe it was N-132 if you're curious), coiled my cord, and fumbled my way out the door. It should also be noted that I was singing along with my mp3 player.
Because that's what I do.
So I'm at the door to the next room (possibly N-124, though I'd ask you not to quote me on that), and, after a glance at the glass aperture in the door made expressly for this purpose, I determine that the classroom is dark and thus vacant. Since the lights are off, I proceed with the awkward, floundering process of unlocking the door, a task which ideally requires three hands. Key in lock, pole and cord in tow if not under control, I swing open the darkened door accompanied by by a particularly loud and vibrant note of song (perhaps a trifle off-key).
The room's occupants, especially the professor presenting the slideshow, stare at me.
Pause a moment and savor that. Thrill in the sheer awkwardness of that moment, and picture me, eyes wide, frozen like a deer in the path of an oncoming semi. Revel at the thought of a song dying on my lips, and chuckle as I stand for the briefest of instants frozen in sheer . . . what? Terror? Embarrassment? Chagrin? Who can say? Pause and enjoy that. I'll wait.
Finally, after a span of time which might have been measured in aeons for all, I sputtered out an apology and backed my way out of the room. Were I to have gracefully and quietly taken my leave, perhaps the story would end there. But no. I am a wounded pigeon, and that means something.
Specifically, it means that my key got stuck in the door, I banged my pole on the door frame, my bulky backpack got stuck in between the door and the wall, and I almost tripped over my extension cord. If you've ever pushed a drum set down a flight of stairs, you will have a fairly clear idea of what it sounded like. Add to that the echoing laughter of a class full of college students, and you'll know exactly what it sounded like. I have never before nor since had such trouble getting that thrice-cursed machine out of a room, nor have I ever had such reason to do it so quickly. When I finally gained my freedom, I went as absolutely as far away from that room as I possibly could, my face red and my pride in shambles.
A week later, I requested that I be moved to another job. My boss did not object. Now I clean bathrooms. Definitely no potential for embarrassment there, right?
--Wounded Pigeon, over and out.
