PIGEONS DON'T SHARE YOUR SECRETS

PIGEONS DON'T SHARE YOUR SECRETS

Most people don’t know this but from all life stages we go through, the one which frightens me the most is when the lights go out for the last time. In case you are wondering what I mean about that, is it the why, the how or the moment the sand drops its last grain at the bottom of the glass, it’s the latter. Then what? It’s better the devil you know.

I remember the first time I said it out loud, to the person who would become my wife, Eloise, during our first dinner date, which she took seriously and was boldly asking me all sorts of questions, clearly attempting to grasp if I was worth her while. As you will have figured, I passed the test and she did too. The setting helped, we were in this unpretentious Italian restaurant that promised nothing and delivered everything, merrily exchanging life stories under candle light and a bottle or two of negro amaro.

That night was almost forty years ago. I am now a father of one, grandfather of five, and still a husband, I gladly confirm. You see, I am here in this park, sitting on this bench, pouring my heart out, because I did something stupid last night and feel that I upset my entire family, and I dare guess, the entire neighbourhood.

I probably shouldn’t be telling you this and I will kindly ask for your discretion - which I will consider agreed upon, seeing as you are a pigeon - but I have this heaviness that I just can’t brush off my soul. I am a cautious man. I have been so since a little boy, always going to bed on time, polishing my shoes, cleaning my teeth, looking both ways before crossing the road. About a week ago my daughter Nora got her PhD after many years studying, researching, working on her thesis, sleepless nights, tears, missed holidays and family celebrations. My wife organised a family dinner to celebrate.

I don’t particularly like my son-in-law, an arrogant and greedy man that one, but I try my best to ignore his presence. You see, Nora is my baby, the moon of my life, and the way her husband addresses her, and even us, does not sit right with me. Eloise says I am being paranoid, but I swear he is up to no good. The man comes from nothing, has no job and as far as I can tell, has no intention of getting a job, considering we are wealthy and Nora supports him, the kids, works and studies - well, was studying - for her PhD.

Last night I walked in on them having a hushed conversation and naughtily stood by the door eavesdropping. From what I could get, he was casually asking Nora about my will should I pass away. Why would he want to know about what happens to my money should I die? It is worth mentioning, my friend, that he and I had just had a heated argument during dinner, about him buying a Rolex with my family money, and feeling no shame, no shame at all.

I bit my lip and slowly backed away, entering my office, which was just next door to the room where Nora was. I sat in my armchair, smoked a cigar, downed some whiskey and stood by the window. Outside the window there is the front of the house, the driveway, Nora’s car, Eloise’s car… Who was that messing around with my car? I dashed down the corridor, skipped steps down to the living room, out into the driveway, where my son-in-law stood by my car, like a child caught in the act. He was holding the keys. How many times did I tell him not to drive my car? Why doesn’t he drive his own bloody car? His excuse, we were out of wine.
Oh, friend, I should have thought this through. I myself had had a glass of the wine and the right thing to do was to back away and get Eloise to buy some more, being the overly cautious man I am. Eloise does not drink alcoholic beverages, ever, so is my permanent designated driver. I was however infuriated and grabbed the keys to my car, dashing out to the shops.

Excuse my assumption that you are a pigeon local to the area. Do you know the roundabout just after the big pet shop? That annoying one where nobody ever seems to know what they are doing? Yes, that one. Did you know that the traffic lights got moved? Moved! I kid you not. I didn’t realise it and once I reached the front of the lane I got confused when the lights went red, became one of those motorists I normally shout at and even though I immediately stepped on the brakes nothing happened! I went in too fast, an SUV hit me straight on my rear and I went right into the sculpture standing pompous in the centre of the roundabout. Horrid scene, my friend.

I was lucky. I sat there for a couple of minutes adjusting my brain, grasping what had just happened to me. I then did an ever more stupid thing than crashing. I walked out of the car, away from the scene, leaving the people in the SUV behind, not knowing if they were dead or alive, not calling 999, nothing. I just assumed someone would call the emergency services and I was intoxicated from the glass of wine. You now know why I look like this, dishevelled, covered in blood. I was in a bad car accident.

My little escape didn’t even last that long, Pigeon, I walked home after an hour or so, but nobody would talk to me. Nora was screaming over the phone and completely ignored me. Eloise wasn’t even there, maybe she got tired of waiting and went to the shops herself, I don’t know. My grandchildren were all over the place, the police officers wouldn’t let me explain myself, just looked right through me. I gave up and here I am, pouring my soul out to you.

Most people don’t know this but from all life stages we go through, the one which frightens me the most is when the lights go out for the last time. I just hope that I am one of the lucky ones and that I do not feel it happen.