Pigeons are my mortal enemies

When I am on my bicycle I am faster than everyone but middle-aged men and women because I travel at reasonable, efficient speeds, and men and women in their middle ages travel too quickly because they are worried about death and afraid. Sometimes the way they like to challenge me is frightening, because they are bitter about lost youth, and if I ever get in their way I know they would not flinch at the idea of pushing me on the ground, which they did once, wrecking my bike.

In the bathroom on my way out of the hospital, my backpack in the corner by the door. The doorknob twisting frantically and some uhhing and grring and other frustrated mumblings, the door handle continuing to twist as I sit on the toilet and watch and say “Someone’s in here”, in a voice that’s not meant to be anything but comes out a bit smarmy and annoyed. Justified, maybe, because the handle moves in a way that I don’t like and it jitters too much and it really seems as if someone’s trying the “coin trick” and trying to get inside.
            I think that’s it but just as I am finishing up I hear heavy wailing with the words “Help me! Help me!” shouted loudly in a thick Eastern European accent and the throbbing of the woman’s voice is terrible like she is leaking blood out of her abdominal cavity. I hurry to get out but hilariously need to flush and wash my hands. My flush comes just as a nurse or doctor reaches her, it’s like an exclamation mark and when I finally exit the room there are five people surrounding the wailing woman and her daughter, who’s just passed out in a chair.
            “Oh, she’s just passed out,” I think.
            I am completely blank.

It’s a cliché at Queen and Yonge, like something out of a high-energy cartoon. Two businessmen in suspenders, white shirts, and ties, are driving SUVs side-by-side in anger, honking and carrying on like young brothers tussling in line. The two men stare into each other’s eyes and fight for position, hating the other man’s guts. Pedestrians, cyclists and other cars are nervous, because if it wasn’t such an inconvenience the two men would run over every single thing in their path.
            Later I’m drag-raced by a Discount trunk, and under a bridge a pigeon almost kills me, because pigeons are my mortal enemies.

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