by Ben Lewis

Created on: June 27, 2008

FOR THE BIRDS

Mortimer Hayes was awakened by the pigeons on his windowsill. They were always there; making those throaty, growling noises, fluttering, and pecking at the pane. Their droppings covered the ledge and splotched the sidewalk below to the peril of pedestrians.
Hayes recalled the warm day about a week before when he'd left the window up a few inches and returned that afternoon to find his room filled with the filthy foul. They'd come in after some stale popcorn. Hayes shuddered at the thought of them in his room. They were ridden with mites and fleas. The "Sterno heads" down the hall had heard him cursing and rushed in to capture several of the birds. They'd left his room strewn with feathers and the halls reeked of boiled pigeon for days.

Hayes sat up and blinked at the raw sunlight streaming through curtain-less windows. Sunlight is very unflattering, he thought, gazing at the mirror. It has no sympathy for mans' neuroses.
His hair was white now and too long. It didn't have that mod look, but a just-need-of-a-haircut look. His face had taken on a permanent redness and the skin was thin and flabby. His forehead was laid off in furrows by time's relentless plowman. He still wore a mustache but it was less distinct since the rest of his white stubble was several days long. The pockets under his eyes sagged into the eroded ruins that had been a great face. Somehow that face still hosted a quiet dignity while reflecting the tragedy of Mortimer Danforth Hayes, Ph.D.
"HA!", he said aloud to the stained mirror while rummaged through the chest of drawers when he withdrew a half pint Gallo Thunderbird wine bottle. Held to the sunlight, it made a pale triangle in a bottom corner of the bottle. This he drank and licked the residue from his lips. He set the empty on the chest and picked up his cigarette makings. He shook a portion of stringy tobacco onto a pre-gummed paper and rolled it up on the way down the hall to the toilet.
It must be noon, Hayes thought. The maid had performed her weekly cleaning of the bathroom; a very good opportunity to take a bath before the pigeon eaters fouled it up.
The tub standing on sphinx feet appeared ivory in the light of one bulb. The string switch cast its shadow on pocked and pitted plaster with paint so uneven that last year's graffiti was bleeding through. The commode filled to the rim before it reversed and started to empty. It hasn't yet recovered from its latest dose of pigeon feathers, he concluded.
Mort Hayes felt

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