The Truth About Tesla: A Late Pigeon’s Memoir

(Slackjaw failure 1/ )

4.25.20

Twas never a challenge to spot his hotel window amongst the others. He left a fresh, crunchy mound of sunflower seeds upon the sill every morn. He would always tell me, “Belcalis, a real woman has curves.” Our love was not without its charms. After a long day pacing the alleys and sidewalks of New York, he would rub my callused talons until I cooed. He could be a sweet, tender man. But he could also be an utter ghoul. What the world never learned was the true cause of my untimely death. Until today.
We first met on a bench in Central Park, ‘neath a sky marbled with clouds. My fair complexion helped me to stand out amongst my girlfriends more generic in appearance. From the moment I caught his eye, every other winged damsel was rendered invisible. Blushing, I dared, “Good day, sir. Do you come here oft?” His lush moustache twitched above a nervous smirk. “I do now, sugar beak.” By sunset that day, Nikola Tesla would possess my tiny, feral heart.
As is typical, he went above and beyond wooing me in the first few weeks of courtship. Flowers, chocolates, moss, professions of unequivocal adoration. Then, once he could be certain I was attached, his true colors shown forth. Suddenly it’s my fault he can’t concentrate on his inventions, my fault the tea is weak, my fault the newspaper’s soiled. His punishments were cruel and calculated; on one occasion he backhanded me into the icebox. Thankfully, I had put on some weight due to all the seeds, therefor suffering minimal plumage damage. Four days later, he arrived at my mother’s and convinced her to return me to him. I could never be sure, but I would have sworn I saw him pocket two of her eggs. Nik never skipped breakfast.
Time passed. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. Emotions alternated like the currents from his wretched coil. Christ, I hated that thing. But we take the bad for the good, do we not? Love is blind, yes, but it is also armless. Tried as I did, oh how I tried! I never quite managed to crank our telephone all the way in order to reach Gary, my buzzard sidepiece. Surely, he would have rescued me in time.
It was an evening just like any other. We were beginning to slip into slumber after making love, when suddenly Nik flew up out of bed in a rage. Before I could even process what was happening, I heard the final words ever uttered to me. “Damn and blast it, B,” he exclaimed. “I just cannot handle the allergies any longer.” With that, both our relationship and my life were cut short. He snuffed me out with a down pillow, the bastard. A week later, flames dancing inside the fireplace, he removed our framed portrait from the mantlepiece. He swept the granite clean, a brand-new feather duster in his hand.
Today, perched here in the eternal aviary, I rarely dwell on the man who changed the course of human history. The past is the past and what’s done is done. Not to worry though, dear reader, for I am onto brighter horizons. Turns out Edison knows not the bounds of species either.