Thom Lofgren currently resides in Alliance, Ohio. He originally caught the writing bug during a Creative Writing course in college many years ago but shifted his creative talents into a photography career. At the urging of his children he again has put fingers to keyboard and is exploring this side of his personality. He is currently putting the finishing touches on a novella, “Dodging Butterflies, The Autobiography of Thomas Speaker.”
“Breakfast in Bed”
2009 Winner, JuneHe sat deathly still. Deathly. He giggled then caught himself, forced himself to be still again. “Deathly is the perfect word,” he thought, “for Death was surely coming!” He giggled again, caught himself again, and forced himself to be still.
“Be Still!” he commanded. And he was.
Dew drops glistened on the park grass around him, the morning sun rising up turning them into millions of tiny diamonds. “If only they were diamonds,” he snorted, “I could buy breakfast and lunch and dinner, too!”
“Be still! Be still-l-l!” he commanded and stomped his foot. Too late. Several pigeons that had been coming in closer flew off in a panic. He jumped up. “Higgins, you fool!” he cried and kicked at the pavement. He took a few paces away from the bench, turned back and sighed. “Well, Henry,” he thought. “You’ll just have to start over.”
He pulled the tattered coat on to his lap. He hadn’t been wearing it earlier and now the rising sun was warming the air. He pulled it down tight, one hand on either sleeve. “Now be very still!” he told himself. But, how do you keep still, he wondered.
His thoughts wandered. He remembered finding that old coat, what? It was maybe three or four years ago. He had found it in the dumpster in the alley off Vine Street. It had been late at night, the best time to go dumpster diving. What a find! It was the middle of winter and even California had some cold nights. The coat definitely belonged in the dumpster, maybe some other homeless person had given it up. But Henry had been so cold, shivering in just a dirty, torn tee shirt and ragged blue jeans. The coat with its tattered sleeves was a godsend.
“Yup, gift from God,” he thought. “Kept me warm all those nights and now…” Now it was his main weapon.
He had gotten the idea two days earlier. It was a Saturday and he had been walking the streets when he passed a church as evening came on. There must have been a wedding that day. Bird seed was still scattered along the sidewalk, thrown at the bride and groom as they left the church to begin their lives together. Henry knew the custom. “In my day they used rice,” he had muttered to himself. “Now they may as well feed the birds!”
That’s when the idea struck him. He had looked around, saw that no one else was around and bent down scraping his hands along the pavement. He gathered up as much of the seed as he could before he caught sight of someone entering the street. He made himself invisible, crouching behind the low shrubbery while the stranger passed. Then he hurriedly gathered as much of the bird seed as he could and scooted off down the street.
When he had gone several blocks he stopped and looked up and down the street. No one else was around. Slowly opening his had he checked out his find. The tiny seed was multicolored. “Something for everyone,” he thought and began to put it into the left pocket of the tattered coat before remembering.
“There’s a hole in that pocket,” he thought. He carefully poured the seed into his right hand then pushed it deep into the right pocket, felt around to make sure there was no hole there then dumped the contents out. He giggled with delight. “Henry,” he had thought, “this is the best idea ever!”
Now it was Monday morning. Not even those health nut joggers were out on a Monday, running through the park. His mind wandered. Sometimes they even spat their distaste for people like Higgins right on them. Henry grimaced at the memory of being awoken from his park bench bed. At first he thought maybe he caught a bird dropping right on his cheek. But then he heard the jogger laugh as he disappeared around a bend in the path. “Not a Christian,” he had thought.
The sound of a pigeon cooing brought him back to the present. He slowly turned his head towards the sound. He couldn’t believe it! There were two of the fattest birds he had ever seen. There they were pecking at the seed he had scattered at his feet totally oblivious of his presence.
“Easy!” he commanded himself. “Nice and easy does it,” he almost hummed as he remembered the lyrics to that childhood song. “Frank Sinatra? No, Perry Como, no, it was Frank.” The birds cooed again and brought his attention back to the task at hand.
They were within two feet of him and no more than a foot from each other. “Perfect!” He thought and his hands tightened on the sleeves of the coat. He had practiced this next move over and over. At first he had thought he could just throw the coat and snare the birds but he found that the old rag would just float in the air. So now, he tensed up like a coiled spring and with a yelp of glee, jumped, spreading the coat out.
The unsuspecting birds didn’t have time to beat a wing before Higgins’ body thumped down on them. Henry got to his knees, rolling the coat up, gathering the pigeons in. He slowly unwrapped the coat and confirmed their deaths. He must have stared at the limp bodies for five minutes till his stomach grumbled in protest, reminding him that his last meal had been two days earlier.
Looking around he saw that he was still alone in the park but the sun had risen further. “Must be about seven,” he thought. “It’s breakfast time!” He headed down to the river where his bedroll was tucked under a piling to the bridge. He had already gathered some sticks together and the old lighter still had some fluid in it. A thought occurred to him and he began giggling. “Hee, hee,” he laughed, “breakfast in bed!”