Feathers

I have a not-so-secret addiction to Starbucks that developed somewhere between 2020 and 2021 when I was working at the most unsavory of offices in Queens. I really enjoy drinking things and sugar. Mango Dragonfruit Lemonade was the bright fuchsia gateway drink that my three person work team affectionately coined “pinkedty drinketys”, then shortened to pinky drinks. Shout out to Denisa for joining me down this rabbit hole. After I left that toxic environment I felt like it was cheating to keep having them without her, so I moved on to the official Pink Drink. A light to medium pink delight in a clear, plastic cup that is more akin to a life raft than any semblance of nutrition. It is suppose to be strawberry acai with coconut milk shaken and served with dried strawberry “inclusions” that soften as they swirl around the cup. What I am really drinking is grape juice with coconut milk and strawberry pieces. To me it does not matter. The Pink Drink is something that helps me get out of the house, a routine I have never had before. I celebrate the days I do not have one, because those are rare compared to the amount of days I do. Yet, without them, I would continue my rather reclusive patterns. Because of them I have experiences, stories to tell.

We have to go back in time a little bit so today’s tale has context. The other day (could be months ago, no one really knows) I woke up with a searing headache. Not unusual for me. Not unusual for a weekend. Air makes me hungover. Nay, being alive seems generally difficult for my often sickly constitution. The first thing on my mind when I wake is that I can get Starbies soon and that gives me a warm feeling. I surmised that caffeine, which I do not tend to keep in the house, was a possible solution to correct this unwelcome affliction. When able, my cohabituer strolls with me to pick it up after I order on the app. I should have asked him to get it for me, because 500 feet into the 540 foot journey to the 86th Street Starbucks a panicked realization that this headache and it’s debilitating pain rushing through me was actually a migraine. I had to cross Columbus Avenue to get to the other side of the street and to Starbucks. Every step of the way crossing increased the inextricable, excruciating booming pain in my left temple and the violently stirring of the stomach acid whirlpool that I did not have before I started walking now fighting to escape. I barely made it to the oddly tall painted-green metal trash can before I embraced it in a begrudgingly necessary hug and closed my eyes.

It has become a personal joke that I throw up everywhere, but I had yet to do it outside in the wild of NYC, where I spend the majority of my time. I have collected some very choice locations such as Sicily in a median of an intersection of a quasi-residential street, in Hudson, New York on a bougie downtown street in their very nice trash can offerings (also very tall), visiting old neighbors in Florida, leaving city limits on the Hudson Parkway Memorial Day 2021 with passing cars cheering out their windows assuming I pre-gamed too hard.

When I pass “my” trashcan I give it a knowing nod of the intimate time we spent together while New Yorkers do what they do best and pass me by allowing me to suffer in peace. Well, except for one middle-aged man on a cell phone giving me bitter beer face for existing. I tend to be unkempt adorning a messy hair bun, large three-day worn shirt, leggings, flip flops, giving zero shits, but this day I happened to slip on a pretty blue dress freshly air dried from laundry day and appeared to be an upstanding member of society. I was rather…busy… but my cohabituer mentioned a lady asked if I was okay. New York has an unspoken “no you didn’t” policy about seeing things. I figured if I saw someone else doing the same thing I would let them be and keep going on my way, minding my business. There are things you meddle with and stuff you don’t. And of course the trashcan I own by way of having christened it with bile is directly in front of my Starbucks. I will never stop seeing it unless I stop going… even then I will still probably see it.

I was on my way to my daily Pink Drink and I noticed an elder person in distress pose against the light pole that abuts my trashcan. Her right arm draping onto the pole overhead as she braced against it for stability. She was so still amidst the erratic mess of bodies you could easily miss her presence. But not me now. Not near that trashcan. “Crap”, I thought to myself, I am not good at helping people, if I ask her if she needs help would I even be able to do anything? My body was moving toward her even as my mind was hesitant. “Are you okay” I gently asked. Then I braced for the response. Because it could be a yes, but it could also very well result in being told to fuck off for not minding my business, always a possibility in NYC.

“I need to cross the road” she told me in a frail voice.

Okay. This I can do.

I told her I have to go in and grab the drink I already ordered and then I will come back and we will cross the road together.

She was ready when I came out less than a minute later. She wanted to cross Columbus Avenue in the direction opposite that I crossed that faithful day I became a trash can owner. My hand went toward hers, but she wrapped her arm around mine, which felt like it made more sense. Sometimes I feel like an alien, not a human, unknowing and unsure what I should be doing that is not awkward and usual. Usually I am quite reserved when it comes to inserting myself, but I saw her, it was the right thing to do.

I asked her name, Louise. She told me she came from some (presumably medical) tests and her head started hurting badly. She had not told anyone yet, hoping it would go away as swiftly as it started. I told her once I had a migraine and vomited in that trashcan so I knew the look she had and wanted to help. Together we moved slowly and steadily to the other side. I asked where she was going and she said straight, through the green awning, adding she was taking advantage of me. I told her I had time and we went to the green awning. Scaffolding, ever present, covered the sidewalk providing more poles to lean upon. That is where I left her. Before going I told her if I saw her again and she needed help I would come to collect her.

The encounter was much easier than I anticipated when I was considering trying to help. I had my cell phone and keys on me and now also a fresh pink drink in hand. She wasn’t a threat to me, nor was anyone else if I slowed down to be with her. I knew I had time before my next meeting started and even if somehow this additional task tacked on extra minutes it would be explainable and permissible if I were late.

I looked up and saw a bird feather stuck upright in the bark of a tree. Odd. Once I heard that feathers were a sign. Considering the pigeon population they’re quite commonly found, I see feathers a lot. Even with the Louise detour I was a block and a half from my apartment at most. I crossed 86th Street back to the route in which I came. I was on the same sidewalk minutes before. Suddenly I spot two feathers, then another. A handful of steps I register yet another. Some in pristine condition, some drying, ragged with wetness from the storms we had over the past few days. Loudly in my mind I acknowledged, okay, I see the feathers. Apparently my skepticism of being sent a sign was evident because I saw another. “Okay!”, I utter aloud. But that was not the end of the trail. If I counted it would have been around fifteen. While feathers are common, that is not a typical amount on that stretch of the sidewalk and in such a condensed space.

Trying to remember what the sign meant exactly, I searched “feathers as signs”. Allegedly, finding a feather on the ground means you are sharing a privileged moment with the higher power who watches over you and guides you. Still, even though I already knew it was sign I was on the right path, my logical brain argued that I was merely paying attention to them when typically they are common enough to be ignored. Nevertheless, I am warming to the idea that yes, it was a sign, meant for me to see. Now what to do with this sign? I don’t know. Do I smile, let it warm my soul for a moment, and let it be? Am I suppose to do something? That is the thing with sending me signs. Even if I see them I am usually stuck on what to do next.