The Great Robber Barron of Old, Reincarnated

by Gabriel Caplan   

          You will not believe whom I met after that Bob Dylan and Twila Tharpe Broadway production last night. Well, I was switching from the downtown E to the D train at West 4th street. Matter of fact, I was sneaking between trains.

            "Sneaking?" you ask.

            Yes. Sneaking.

            See, a pigeon nested in the upper structures of the station.

            I was lurching against the inside E train doors. Impatient for the opening, I shot out, dropping my beloved pocket watch. Jostled by the crowd, I jumped down picking through shoes, litter and itty-bitty grit of the subway platform floor.  Mind you, this watch has always had a screw loose–at the top, part of the winding device. In this case, the watch was found beneath a nice woman’s gown, but the loose screw remained to be seen.

            That is, until I watched the pigeon swoop and nab a silver sliver.

            I gave chase. The bird flew back to its upper-structure chambers, somewhere in the vaulted ceiling at the far end of the platform. There was reason to believe that he and his pigeon cohorts plotted and charted this thievery from the start.

            Reason? Because I am a grade-A paranoid. Right now, I know you are reading this, polishing your fingernails to then type mean things about me with your chatty-catty girlfriends: gossip, gossip, gossip. Hmm... 

            So imagine me, in my Broadway attire, sneaking from column to column, attempting to find and destroy the bird, in hopes of retrieving my lost loose screw. Now, take that same image, add more contour to my muscles: a longer leaner Gabriel. Smear some war paint under my eyes. Give me a sidekick, preferably my female counterpoint: a dark, lithe war scout with greasepaint stains straight down her snout.

            We stand across each other on the platform of the E, still hiding and lined up behind columns. Signing with our hands, stomping with our feet, we bleat like sheep whose woolen days are over–sheared luck that Farmer takes only the coat, not the skin or meat.

            There’s a fluttering above, near the staircase. Ronette (my scout) and I slowly approach on all fours, "baaaaah" we say. "Baaaaaaaaah..."

            The pigeon is in sight, wearing the screw through a pigeon ear lobe. Dazzling, he seems king with a garbage harem. His nesting contains spoils, both in terms of old food, but also pens, staplers, wallets, iPods. This pigeon, I think, is the Great Robber Barron of Old, reincarnated.

            From either side of the platform, Ronette and I gesticulate.  We make a battle plan. In mid-hand jerking motion, I am stopped by an awful voice - the source, the pigeon's little throat.

            "Who goes there? Who dares approach me? I cannot be approached. I am the last echo of light at dusk. I am a million nails and staples, bolts and glue of the world congealed unto me. I am horror to those far away, and the safety of Nothing to those near. Not my nothing, but there soon to be nothing...”

            "Give me my screw back, you jerk!" I yell, revealing our position.

            "Hmmmm?" The pigeon seemed puzzled.

            "My screw. The one you're wearing in your ear as an earring. I need it for my pocket watch."

            "Oh," says the pigeon, flying down and into the open. "Sure. Sorry about that. I just thought it were more trash people leave behind."

            "Well, it isn't and we want it back!" cries out Ronette.

            "Yeah! I heard you. I'm giving it back.  Geez!"

            Ronette and I come out from behind the columns. The pigeon wobbles up, taking the screw from his feather-ears and placing it into my outstretched hand.

            "Sorry," he says.

            "That's okay," we say.

            The pigeon then wobbles away, flying back to his lair.  He looks down at us,  "Well. See you around town.”

            We part ways with a nod of the head. Ronette disappears back into my imagination. I finally transfer, taking the F at West 4^th, instead of the D, seeking a little change of pace. Nothing special happens.

            I arrive home and make fun of the horrible Broadway show to friends and colleagues alike.  I then wind down, get snug in bed thinking of the crazy adventure just hours before. I pull ole' Ronette back out from my mind, practicing some of the signaling from earlier in the night. 

Gabriel Caplan is a writer and musician residing in Park Slope, Brooklyn.  A graduate of NYU's Gallatin School of Individualized Study, Gabriel has always known he "knows nothing" and purchased the
corresponding undergraduate degree in 2002.  He continues on this path, published in various online flash-fiction sites and composing for chamber-rock orchestra.  His email is gabriel.caplan@gmail.com.