The Pigeon Girls of Neverland

Two ladies passed by me today to find a vacant bench on this small Brooklyn park. They looked at me with contempt.

I don’t blame them.

Sitting next to me are my three-year old brown loafers, my backpack, and the curvaceous, lingering scent of the woman who helped me make a mess of my bed sheets last night. I couldn’t have cared less about the gray-haired pair’s stink-eye stares. They didn’t have a trace of womanhood left on their veined legs anyway.

I sit on this bench in hopes to find someone interesting. Someone who’d question my choice of clothes, or just someone who’d tilt her head towards my direction and ask me why I laid my things about the way I did atop this leprechaun-green park bench.

I would want that interesting someone to be a girl, by the way.

So everyday, I would sit on this very spot. I would wait for the wind’s crescendo, and count from one to three. And as always, on perfect cue, 57 pigeons would make their superfluous landing on the grass. The last thing the grass needed were 57 pigeons. It needed watering. But these pigeons are funny little creatures.

I meant it too, the thing I said about the pigeons. You see in a flock, when one says “I want to go there, croo, croo,” and decides to fly away, the 56 will croo in agreement and lift themselves off from the ground, in a grander, more superfluous movement, flying off to somewhere nice. Somewhere pleasant and jasmine-scented. Somewhere like Neverland.

Girls. Girls are funny little creatures too.

You see when one decides to go for you, all of them will come a-flocking. They’d go to someone nice. Someone tattooed and night-scented. Someone like Neverland.

Someone like me.

My first Pigeon Girl, the Pigeon Girl who started it all, met me in this park. She sat next to me and for a while, we stared at a man with blue overalls pull down the nation’s red, white and blue from its rightful pole. My gaze caught hers and they started talking. Her eyes said they wanted to lock with mine for a little while, if it’s possible. Mine screamed yes, oh yes.

Soon, our lips started talking. We talked and I took her licorice breath in, took it with me in my mind, and before long, I took it in with my dry, excited lips.

That afternoon, the wind blew and I knew then. The flock was a-coming.

Pigeon Girl the First, she told me all about Brooklyn that day. She told me why the whole borough mattered. I told her I wanted to get lost in Brooklyn, Brooklyn the town that mattered.

Her eyes sparkled. In that park, where trees you can never ever climb bragged green, green leaves that glistened, her eyes lit up. I felt like molasses.

I saw Brooklyn on her face that night. I even saw it on her freckled back. I heard the J train pull over, it pulled over on my bed post, and she got in. Draped in my bed sheet, she got in and waved at me as I lay down on my bed, with a small smile on my lips.

After that night, oh how the Pigeon Girls came a-flocking. They cocked their little necks and crooed and pecked, and I gave them all a piece of Neverland.

I’m Neverland, I’d tell them with my eyes. And they’d recognize me right away.

On this very same bench where I sit, a preacher once sat and our eyes had a conversation. His eyes were tired yet elegant. They were the most beautiful pair of eyes I ever did see. He wordlessly looked at me and I felt like the shade of ten thousand red chili peppers invade my cheeks.

Wake up, son. Wake up and live, he spoke with his eyes.
I furrowed my brows and told him that I am fully awake. That I am fully alive.
No you’re not, he replied.
I am, I insisted. I’m Neverland!
Neverland. Neverland doesn’t exist. And neither do you.
I do! I feel, I touch. Pigeon girls see me! Ask the pigeon girls!
Pigeon girls only exist in non-existence. They only exist in you. You’ll see. So wake up, son. Time’s a-ticking.

And then he stood up, he shook his head. He stood up straight like a retired soldier. Like he had the world’s repository of truth riding on his shoulders. His black hair glistened in the late afternoon light, and I stared at him in awe. The preacher man, he left towards a direction I’ve never seen anyone go towards before. His strides were long and fast, and I stared at him, wanting to speak to him but not wanting to know more.

That night, a Pigeon Girl lay sleeping on my left arm. My arm fell asleep but I was wide awake, paralyzed by the preacher man’s hauntingly beautiful eyes. The moon, she turned and fumbled in the sky.

I am the amazing Neverland, I thought to myself. My arm finally woke up, and sleep came to me as the sun came chanting its way towards its rightful spot in the western skies.

I woke up late with a headache. I stared out the window and I swear, I felt like the sun’s moved closer to my third-floor apartment while I slept. Something was off. Something went wrong.

I walked about my apartment, paced around and around, feeling like I’ve lost something but I don’t remember what. I drank coffee. I checked my pockets and my bag, but I still felt agitated. I felt like I’ve lost something.

I drank the three drops or so of coffee left in my cup and stared out my window. My headache worsened and I felt like the screws of my left arm were unhinged. Then I remembered Pigeon Girl the 47th. Where’s the Pigeon Girl from last night? I didn’t hear the train pull over. I didn’t feel her stir and leave.

Then the thought hit me like typhoon.

I may have lost the Pigeon Girls.

I went to the park without taking a shower. I needed to see if I’m still Neverland. I needed to see the pigeon girls. I laid my things about the leprechaun-colored bench and sat down.

I waited for four hours. Then I saw her.
I saw her and she was radiant.

She was summertime and candied apples as she sat on the bench. She did not ask me about my shoes, or my bag. Not even a peep about my tattoo. She just sat there, all peaceful. I stared at her, and with my eyes I told her my name.

I told her I was Neverland.

She looked at me and whispered, I know who you are, with her enchanting eyes.
Do you want to talk about Brooklyn? I asked her.
No, not really, she said.
But Pigeon Girls talk about Brooklyn all the time, I said.
I’m not a Pigeon Girl, she replied.
What are you then?
I’m a girl. I’m a jobless girl sitting on a bench.
So where are the Pigeon Girls then?
There are no Pigeon Girls.
There are Pigeon Girls! They stay the night and fly away. Pigeon Girls see me. Pigeon Girls see Neverland! I exclaimed.
Maybe you’re not Neverland, she said.
But you said you knew who I was! I’m Neverland!
I know what I’ve said. I do know who you are.

You’re no one.

With that she left. She went away and the small breeze that accompanied the late afternoon weekend died abruptly, as if it decided to follow her wherever she went.

I stared at the things I’ve laid down on the leprechaun-colored bench. I stared at my shoes, my bag, and the cloying and obese scent of reality next to me. As if on cue, one pigeon flew by from a nearby tree and walked towards me.

The pigeon stared at me with his red dots for eyes and I tried to make conversation. I tried to ask him where the Pigeon Girls are.

Hey, man I know this is a long shot, but do you know if the Pigeon Girls moved to another park? Or hey, did they move to another borough? Do you know where they are right now? I asked him with my eyes.

But this pigeon, he didn’t want a conversation. He moved in, pooped on my right foot, and flew away.

Pigeons. What funny little creatures.

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