regarding the pigeons of new york city

the pigeons of new york city are fortunate because they don't have to pay rent. i decided this while dragging my lifeless body through central park north today, fatigued from the day's trials. these pigeons, unassuming little rats with wings, they arrive in droves and act like they own the place. not being from the city myself, i realize that i may be projecting. after all, here i was, falling for an unattainable place that always wanted to do things the hard way, and these goddamn birds didn't have to worry about any of that. they can come and go as they please; they don't have to make a purchase to take a piss on lexington ave, and they certainly don't have to ask disgruntled subway attendants how to get to the lower east side. they eat scraps of food discarded by the rich and poor alike, alternating between foie gras and mcdoubles without so much as a flinch. they don't have to wonder about which borough they fare best in because we expect them to be everywhere, making them more welcome in places like chelsea than the budget hipsters in last season's fashions that get sneered at before given the chance to speak. you have to question the sanity levels of the people living here if they are more willing to entertain the existence of some pompous and dirty species over well-meaning h&m-clad brooklynites just looking for a good time. to me, the pigeon seems to possess a marriage of the worst qualities belonging to the wealthy and the destitute: exceedingly entitled but without any of the credentials or funds to back it up. in this way they are the mascots of new york city, accepted only because its citizens are no better, no more virtuous. no one expects the pigeons to pass quarters to the homeless or to even have pocket change at all, an oversight i find to be worthy of addressing. the least they could do is have some sort of unusual talent to capitalize on, like playing the saxophone on the steps of the met. this way they could at least redeem themselves and confirm that, just like anyone else, they had to work to earn their spot here. but the sad truth of it is they simply don't, making their mere presence a mockery in the eyes of immigrants breaking their backs just to sublease a coffin in tribeca. in a delusional haze the other night i saw a pigeon with a cigarette in his bill. i nearly reached into my pocket for a dollar i could exchange for a smoke he was inevitably hiding within his feathers. i think he sensed my desperation though, for he gave me a formidable up-and-down glance before telling me to get a job and fluttered away.