|< <Story 7>>|

The Pigeons

Grand Central Station is a true work of art, ornate, imposing, and crumbling at the seams, like a proper New York City building should be. Many people pass through this station. They're mostly commuters or tourists, occasionally you will get the stray Manhattanite (who you can always spot because they are invariably either looking disdainfully at the lost tourist, or shoving the commuters out of the way because, frankly, they are terrible people). I have quite a bit of experience with the people of Grand Central and by far the most interesting specimens in the enormous halls are the pigeons. Grand Central is, of course, their main indoor headquarters on the island. One would be prudent to avoid the birds. Like manhattanites, they are also quite impolite. I was running early on my commute a couple of days ago, so I stopped to watch the angry winged rats converse. They rarely talk about anything worth mentioning, and that day near the central information booth was no different. They were twittering on about the increasingly more significant abundance of terribly expensive food in the area when all of a sudden the chattering stopped. A juvenile had perched nearby and they appeared to be very displeased with him. He asked them where the nearest spot to grab a drink and maybe a bite to eat was and he was met with a disdainful, heated silence (save the bustle of the people below). I knew of a bar down a block or two on Lexington, but decided to keep to myself. I don't believe the juvenile pigeon ever got his answer. I never saw him again.

|< <Story 7>>|