Pip and Friend

by Warren Read

Pip peered down the seemingly endless face of the terra cotta building and quivered slightly. It was a long way down to Broadway and when you’re a pigeon, unless your bird feet are planted squarely on the ground, it always feels like it’s a long way down to anywhere. The truth was, standing on the fifty-second floor ledge of the Woolworth building could stir a bit of vertigo in any creature, even one equipped with a strong set of wings and sharp reflexes.

The pigeon’s name was Pip, for it had been the rule among pigeon society (since the late 19^th century, anyway) that all pigeons must adopt the name of a Charles Dickens character. Pip stepped warily down the ledge to the window staring out from Haffer, Feffer and Douglas Advertising Agency.  Scurrying alongside was his loyal little friend Gerhart, a common yet handsome German cockroach. Gerhart clung to the glass and waved his antennae dramatically, as German cockroaches are wont to do.

“You appear to be hurt,” hissed Gerhart. “Is there something wrong with your foot?” When Pip cocked his head in curiosity Gerhart added, “The left one, that is.”

Pip tried to pretend he didn’t hear, but when the mere instance of not responding became a fear of his having been rude, Pip merely feigned misinterpretation. “Am I hot?” he cooed. “No, I’m actually quite cool.”

Gerhart sensed a discomfort on his feathered friend’s part and quickly changed the subject. “Have you flown over the park lately?” he asked. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that there is a fashion show of some sort down there. There could be some food to scavenge.” He paused and waved his antennae wildly. “If you do, I would be grateful for a crust of bread if you could manage to bring back a tiny piece.”

Pip doubled back and strutted a few inches, then shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He looked around for a moment as if he was confused, lifted his foot and gave it a quick shake. “There was a fashion show last week,” he said. “But no sandwiches. Only ice sculptures with a lot of fruit scattered around. I would have brought you something, but melon is too heavy to carry.”

“That you considered it,” Gerhart said, “is more than enough.” The cockroach watched his friend strut along the ledge for a moment, then quickly scurried after him. “That walk of yours,” he called out. “I’ve always wondered why you walk in such a way, with your head bobbing back and forth like you do. You pigeons, I mean.”

“Is it odd?” Pip asked, momentarily deterred from thinking about his foot which was, in fact, a bit hurt.  “I think all birds walk this way.”

“My friend the chickadee doesn’t,” Gerhart said. And as soon as he said it he was stricken with a pang of regret. Was it good manners to bring up another friend in the company of one who was clearly feeling so melancholic? “Well, she’s not really my friend, per se,” he retreated. “Merely an acquaintance, at most.”

“But this…this chickadee,” Pip asked, cocking his head quizzically, “she walks with no bob?”

“No bob.”

“Well, I’ll have you know,” Pip said with a lacing of irritation, “we pigeons have developed the biology to allow us…” he stopped, tilted his head fast to one side and then just as quickly to the other. “We…,” he stammered. “Oh to hell with it all. The fact is that if we don’t bob our heads when we walk, we get dizzy and vomit all over ourselves.”

“Oh, I see,” Gerhart said sheepishly. It seemed as though the cockroach couldn’t manage to say the right thing at all today. “So, you have a modified internal gyroscope of some kind?”

“A what?”

“A modified internal gyroscope,” the cockroach repeated. “It stabilizes your brain when you walk, so that you don’t get sick.”

“Actually,” Pip corrected, “I think we don’t have that. That’s why we have to move our heads so much, you see.”

 “Well then,” the cockroach hissed. “Isn’t that brilliant? That you have thought up a way to compensate for nature’s shortcomings. You are incredibly smart,” he went on, waving his antennae madly. “I’m always telling people just how smart you pigeons are.”

The two went on past Haffer, Feffer and Douglas, beyond Hedd, Scholder, Neigh and Towe Modeling, stepping around the corner where they perched on the cast iron railing of the fire escape.

“Gerhart?” Pip asked, almost inaudibly.

“Yes, Pip?”

This chickadee friend of yours,” he went on. “What’s her name?”

“Her name?” Gerhart stammered. “Well, it’s…it’s Holly. Holly Golightly.”

“This Holly,” Pip said. “Has she ever complained to you of…of her toes.”

“Can you be more specific?” The cockroach crawled to the pigeon and scurried over his spindly feet. 

“Well, you’ll no doubt notice that one of the toenails on my left foot appears to be…well…ingrown.” He held it aloft, balancing precariously on the right. The third toe of his foot was, indeed, inflamed and angry looking. “Have you seen something like this before?”

Gerhart tiptoed around his friend’s foot, peering at the toe from all angles. He inspected it with a surgeon’s precision, poking and prodding at the toe with his tiny feet. Finally, he reached out with his pincers and took hold of something wedged beneath the cuticle. Pip winced, but held firm as Gerhart pulled with all his might. After much tugging and wrenching, the object came loose.

“Well there,” Gerhart exclaimed with glee. “Here we are!” He held the object up for his friend to see, the light refracting from it like a disco ball. It was a tiny metallic sequin, silver and sparkling in the late morning sun.  “It appears, my feathered friend, that you managed to snatch something from the fashion show after all!”