Bad Karma

For the last few days, I have walked out of my garage using great caution, fearing an attack by a large flock of angry birds. On Monday morning, I walked out of my garage to pick up the paper and found the corpses of five baby birds. I looked up, and could see no discernible nest on my house. Then again, my roof is 30 feet off the ground. No nest in the tree adjacent to my driveway either.

It was a complete mystery as to how and why those birds ended up in my driveway. I know lions and other predator type mammals will kill the offspring of another male when they take over a pride. Do male bluebirds share similarly agressive instincts?

I am relatively certain that the birds are going to figure out their chicks died outside my house, and then put 2 and 2 together and come back for vengence. As they rip me to shreds with their sharp, little beaks, I will vainly be trying to rationalize with them.

Bad accident. Dead birds. Apparently, I have pissed off a wide swath of gods of multiple faiths, who have decided to consign me to period of bad luck.

Take today's ride home on the metro for example. Some older man in bicycling gear felt like the six feet of space adjacent to me was not enough for him and the passengers to get off the train. The 1.5 feet of space I was occupying was crucial to him getting off 0.05 seconds quicker. As he passed me, he started poking me and mumbling something about, "You need to step off the train and give us more room."

What do you do at a moment like that. The hypermasculine part of me wants to snap his wrist. Of defeat him in more extended combat, take over his pride and kill his offspring. Like lions and apparently bluebirds. But that would probably end with me in jail. So, instead, I decided to humiliate him.

"First, you smell [he did]. You need to bathe. You are irrational. And stop touching me."

"You need to --"

"Sir, get yourself under control and stop touching me."

"But, you need to --"

"Get it together and stop touching me."

He walked off the train, and I turned back to look at the train. It seemed like everyone was looking at me like I had been talking to myself. Eventually, I learned that several had seen his behavior and found him troubling.

It was over just like that. I exhaled and thought 'out of sight, out of mind.' Then, as the train doors closed, a wrinkle arm reached through the door at me. As the door was closing into it, the arm retreated.

Probably 100,000 people ride the metro every day. On average, I would guess that there are no more than a 100 similar incidents. Just my luck. Perhaps I need to make some sort of sacrifical offering to appease the gods. Too bad I just threw away those dead baby birds.