Pigeons

Having been kicked out of everywhere else on the construction site, the pigeons are nesting in the old spray-foam insulation in above the little alcove that holds the electric box. The last refugees of the old world, when this hotel used to cost 40 bucks a night, then the three years where it cost zero bucks a night if you break in. Now it’s going to cost way more than it’s worth a night. The sparkies have to get into the box now, so the pigeons have to go. My boss, who is very explicit in making clear that he is not a Nazi about anything, to the point where you have to wonder whether he is, in fact, a Nazi, has told us this in no uncertain terms. Pigeons delenda est. My partner, who’s from Idaho and dropped out of zookeeping school, and I mask up and shovel the pigeon shit and dead pigeons and half-full spitters, out of the alcove. The pigeons watch us from above, not knowing that the end of their tenure in the old Holiday Inn is drawing nigh.

We get the extension ladder. The would-be zookeeper loses the coin toss and heads up, poking at the pigeons with a roll of mesh, both of us getting showered with shit. The pigeons erupt from their holes – dozens. My partner meshes over the holes, one by one. I hate pigeons, but I can’t help but feel mean for doing this. Like a vengeful landlord. Pigeons make me think of skeet shooting. Of home, back in North Carolina where it’s already warm. Of Blaze Foley and John Prine. Of the botanist I went on a couple dates with who talked with me about both of them, convinced me to buy Lonesome Dove, then ghosted me. Hanna. Hanna, you cold bitch, you’ve left my heart as homeless as these pigeons. Text me sometime.

A pair of pigeons, one all-black, shoot out of a crack. Couer d’Alene Steve Irwin looks in. “These ones look like they should be able to fly, but they’re not.” Our project had a pigeon die on the sidewalk out front once and it became the cause celebre of bored losers city-wide, so I tell him we should probably go ask our not-Nazi boss what to do. “Nah,” he says, “these should probably be old enough to fly. Here, lemme get the fuckers.” He reaches in and pulls out two baby pigeons. “Fuck, man,” I say. ” He puts them in the middle of the styrofoam pile behind the portashitters. “Nobody needs to know about this,” he says.

The rest of the day the pigeons are mad as hell. Divebombing the netting. Clucking or cooing or whatever the hell noise pigeons make. I see the black one and a regular-colored one in a fight. Maybe it’s their nest partner. A pigeon dispute about who lost the kids. At the end of the day, filling out our time cards, I ask what description I should put for the chunk I spent on the pigeons. My boss suggests “bird negation”. I just put wildlife relocation.