It was midday, and there was intense bumper-to-bumper traffic. Sporadic honking echoed through the street.
To my left was a scratched-up minivan with five children and a mom with eye bags the size of her hand purse. To my right was a bearded man wearing a red helmet and a leather jacket sitting on a bright red Indian Scout Sixty motorcycle.
As I was listening to the radio, a bird took a baseball shit on my windshield. I turned on the wipers, but it worsened; I was out of wiper fluid. Now there was bird shit smeared on most of my windshield. I was pissed off.
I heard choking or laughter in the distance. The man on the motorcycle was pointing and smiling at the bird shit on my windshield.
He gestured for me to turn my window down. “That is such a blessing! You’re a lucky man,” he screamed.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I responded.
“I love bird shit! I enjoy collecting it,” he said.
I nodded. I was confused yet intrigued. What the fuck was he talking about? Collecting bird shit?
He continued, “I have bird shit on here from 48 states and Canada in all different shades and colors. They’re like souvenirs! You know what I mean?”
He started pointing at parts of his bike and listing bird shits from different states. “This one here is from Colorado, Maine, Kansas, Oregon, Vermont, and my favorite is Florida. They have sandhill cranes that shit bricks down there! It’s the best!”
Confused, I tried to appear impressed. “Wow, that’s so cool,” I said with a forced smile.
“Yeah,” he said. “This all started back in 2002 when I retired and I bought this motorcycle. One day I was on I-95 in Delaware and a goose took a shit on my motorcycle. At first, I was angry. It was a shit stain. But then my perspective changed when I realized bird shit is life. We are all life and we are all shit. It’s a beautiful cycle.”
He continued: “The bird shit saved my life. Since then I’ve been aiming for bird shit wherever I go.”
Not knowing what to say, I said, “That sounds fun. You’re living it up. Gosh, I wish I had a motorcycle with bird shit.”
“Oh yeah?” he responded. “Do you want to switch rides?”
“What?” I asked.
“Let’s switch rides! I’ll trade my motorcycle for your car. I’m getting too old for this bike anyway.”
“Well, I would, but I don’t know how to drive a motorcycle.”
“It’s easy!” he yelled. “It’s like driving a car, except it’s uncomfortable, no seatbelt, and you might die. But that’s alright! You’re young. Live a little.”
He got off the motorcycle and walked around the car toward the driver’s seat.
“Come on. Get out. Let’s switch,” he said quickly.
“I don’t know. Let me think about it.”
Then, as if he was robbing me, he said, “Dude, get the fuck out of my car.”
My armpits began to sweat, and I was trembling. I raised my hands and said, “Okay. Fine.”
I stepped out of the car. He handed me his helmet and keys.
As soon as he sat in the car, he said, “Damn, this is a nice car. Is this a Tesla?”
“Yeah, it’s brand new.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Enjoy the bird shit!”
He harshly slammed the door and drove away. I put the helmet on, sat on the motorcycle, turned it on, and slowly accelerated. As I was driving, it reeked of bird shit. Fuck. My eyes were watering. I could barely breathe. It was nauseating.
I guess this is my life now.
Does anyone know a good car wash?
