“Why don’t you give us a smile?” He said. The man was thick and bottom-heavy. He was like a bowling pin that had traded in its neck for a nice suit and a corner office. I was sitting on a blackened cardboard rug on the sidewalk of park avenue wearing a hoodie that hadn’t been washed since the last time it rained, but something about him felt filthier then me.
	You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him. Weird Al Yankovich said that. At least, I’m pretty sure it was him. It’s solid advice. I followed him one day around lunch time, using the body of a statue-shitting ball of feathers to get close. Oh, I’m a werepigeon by the way. Try to keep up. He got a bowl of bisque at a bistro on 23rd street. Lobster fucking bisque if you can believe it. That’s how the happier hundredth lives. Dude wouldn’t even let me peck at the leftover breadcrumbs. I could actually survive off of those technically. Being able to shrink your body to the size of a soda bottle has some practical benefits in times like these.
	So yeah, I gave the guy a smile. There wasn’t a whole lot else to do. See, this is something you learn fast. See, a coke is what, a dollar-twenty-five? It’s twice that for a slice of greasy street pizza, and Three bucks for an umbrella. Every loose quarter helps. If you can get enough for a meal just by smiling at a creepy hedge-fund manager so he can pretend he’s a philanthropist than that’s your job. Smile at that creepy fucker. Personally speaking though it feels like prostitution. You know, betraying yourself to earn money by making some piece of shit happy. I suppose most office workers feel that way and I’m just being overly dramatic.
	When I was a bouncy baby of 2 sitting in a stroller I don’t think I really appreciated how great things were. Don’t get me wrong, I was a happy kid, more happy than most probably, but I was picky. I was picky, spoiled, and always assuming I had the world at my fingertips.
	I think I was 4 when it happened. Chasing pigeons by the fountain always made me feel powerful, like I was a force of nature or a power ranger. Probably the latter, poetry was never a strong suit of mine. One day one of them din’t fly away though. It pecked at me until blood was running down my forehead and then flew away while parents tried to comfort me with sugar and coddling.
	The bird bites swelled up all red and purple. My eye was so puffy and sore it wouldn’t even open. My parents made me take these grape-flavored antibiotics to avoid an infection to taking root, but they didn’t help much, something did. I threw up the first two times I took it for nothing.
	My face was still swollen when I turned for the first time. Woke up in the middle of the night trying to cry, but it just sounded like an avian cooing. To this day I don’t remember if I realized I was a bird at the time. Obviously I do now but I don’t know about then. I just know my arms and hands wouldn’t move right and I couldn’t walk or cry. After twenty minutes of that I passed out again and woke up in a puddle of pee. I got put back in pull-ups for that.
	By the time I was in first grade I knew I could do it. It was good for dealing with bullies though. I had talons after all. My parents did too but only because I was a bad liar. After that they started taking me to all sorts of specialists about my “condition.” I thought it was pretty cool but they over-reacted trying to cure me. I think I went through 20 doctors by the time I was in third grade. That was even after my dad lost his job and had to pay from our savings. Like I said, they over-reacted and tried to solve a problem that wasn’t really there in the first place. At least they tried.
	Money was tight for a long time. Most kids got a Nintendo Wii for their birthday, but I was happy to settle for cheap lego sets. I also didn’t really mind eating at McDonalds more often. Say what you will, mcnuggets are a golden brown and delicious gift from the heavens. At first my parents were really uncomfortable with me eating them though. For like a year after I was diagnosed we didn’t eat any chicken, nor any turkey for thanksgiving. Maybe it was my whining that finally got their minds off of the potential cannibalism. Maybe it was just that chicken is cheaper that pork cutlets.
	In fifth grade I got in a fight with a bully after school. Some guy named Harry called me fat. It was kind of true, but he had bigger boobs than I did at that age. He started pulling my hair so I did what I thought was appropriate. I broke Harry’s wand, and by that I mean, well, I think you have a good idea what I mean. When he let go of my hair I turned into a bird and started clawing at his face. He somehow managed to regain enough to composure to slap me out of the way.
	Did you know bird bones are hollow to cut down on weight? That was the day I found out. The doctor told me that later but I saw it with my own eyes. I remember turning back into a human and not feeling my arm and leg. Trying to stand up was a bad idea, I had one arm, one leg, one wing, and one drumstick. My mom came to pick me up and saw the whole thing. She tried to rush me to the hospital but then thought twice. She wasn’t sure if they could help, my case wasn’t really common. Instead she called dad and asked if I should go to the hospital or the vet. As it turns out, the NYU medical hospital has a veterinary ward, who knew. When my bones were set and limbs were in tiny casts the scolding began. It went on about two hours.
	From what I was told, the medical bills weren’t cheap, and mine weren’t the only ones we were raking in. I didn’t know at the time, neither did my mom, that earlier that day my Dad had a checkup at that hospital for a different reason.
	See, after I was born my Mom was lucky enough to shed the baby weight in about six months. My dad kept the excess pounds on. I didn’t mind really. When you’re the age I was, more fat just means there are no bones poking you when you hug. When I was about nine he started exercising in order to get back into shape. He was an older parent, already in his late thirties when I was born. His body wasn’t what it once was, and what it once was couldn’t have been all that great. He went the gym every tuesday and thursday for two years and shed about 40 pounds of gristle. I was happy for him, we all were. The problem was that he shed 30 of those pounds in the last two months. About a week before I got in that fight he had a coughing fit at work and dislodged a few alveoli into a kleenex. If you didn’t take heath or biology in high school, let me fill you in: those are the part of your lung that actually do the breathing.
	My dad had a small-cell carcinoma and a trouble-making game bird for a daughter. I really don’t envy him. I can’t imagine how he felt but he kept up a facade for us. I’m not quite sure when he told my mom. Suddenly she was always casting concerned looks in his direction and was spending one or two nights every week getting suburban, white, soccer mom drunk.
	In november of 2008 I came home from a friend’s apartment, and my parents told me to take a seat on the couch. It was dark out and the florescent lighting gave everything around the orange leather couch a sickly yellow glow. My mom got me a glass of soda and herself a glass of boxed wine. In hushed tones my dad sighed and told me the truth. There was a mass the size of a golf ball in his lung. There are only four stages and he was in stage III. The rate of survival was about fifteen percent. Money was already tight, but it was going to be tighter for a while because chemo was expensive. I say was, in the past tense, but the reality is it still is at least in this awful excuse for a first-world country.
	I had to hand it to my dad, he stayed strong for us. He was a stoic, a plain and simple one who never showed weakness to his family. It wasn’t out of pride, he just saw no use in complaining and didn’t want us to worry. Zeno would have been proud if he didn’t die of old age at the archery range. What? I like philosophy, all right? I’m homeless, not a plebeian.
	Anyway, like I said he kept a smile on even after his hair fell out from the chemo and he couldn’t really eat anymore. Amazingly he lived for three years.
	My father was buried on a chilly day in early autumn of 2011. We put him in the fanciest plywood box we could afford, and followed the hearse into New Jersey, because apparently my mom took every extra step to make sure he ended up in hell.
	The weird thing is, I didn’t cry when we put him in the ground. I just sat there, looked and thought to myself “My dad in there, dead. I will never see him again. Shouldn’t I be feeling something.” My mom sure was crying a lot. There was more mascara in the corners of her mouth than in her eyes. Her tears just carried them down the creases in her face and made it look like she had a fu-manchu. That was it, the most shameful moment of my life, when I broke out laughing at my own dad’s funeral because my mom looked like she looked like an ancient Chinese emperor. You know what I did next? I was so goddamn ashamed that I just turned into a bird and flew home. You can’t tell because this is a story but I just threw my hands up at my sides like I was saying “don’t shoot! It’s not a gun, it’s skittles!” Too soon? Too soon.
	I flew through goddamn window like the feathery trash I am, turned back over the bed and sobbed about how embarrassed I was. At least that was the first five minutes. The other ten or so were about being angry for being embarrassed when I should have been upset for a more important reason. I didn’t cry myself empty, after a while I stopped feeling again. I called my mom, told her I was home and two hours later I was playing web games and my mom was passed out plastered on the sofa. What I didn’t realize was that this would be a typical night from here on out.
	There were a lot of bills to pay after the funeral. Hospital, funeral service, rent, car, parking, cell phones, grief counseling, cable, phone, internet, and a steady supply of boxed wine. Dad didn’t have a life insurance policy. My mom wrote children’s books for a living, but that wasn’t enough so she looked for a new job. She did brief stints as an art teacher, and then again as a grocery clerk. The two combined didn’t last a year. The odd thing was she wasn’t fired, or at least she said she wasn’t. When I asked why she said she had to do some serious thinking. The obvious joke is there but the Simpsons already did it so I’ll spare you. It wasn’t really a laughing matter anyway.
	I got a job too. I worked at Kmart. Did you know they’re still around? There’s one right in Manhattan. I think Walmart is afraid to move in on their turf. It’s a shame really, I was always curious to see their famous morbidly obese meth addicts who cut the crotch out of extra large underpants and wear it as a shirt.
	Every day I spent 9am to 3pm at school, then took a bus across town to get to work where I stayed dealing with the worst customers retail has to offer until 8 because I needed the money. It was a 15 minute walk home. I would get home, put my bag down, heat up a chicken cutlet from the deli down the block, and eat it over the sink. If I was lucky, my mom was passed out on the couch, and still wearing clothes. To bad I’m not known for being lucky.
	I’d get home late, she’d yell “Where have y-*urp*-you been. I was up all night worried sick! You had me worried sick” Yeah, she repeated herself like that. I gave her the typical “I was at work, getting us money, like you should be.” In response she would repeat herself again, and then a few more times. I think she liked the sound of her own voice. It was a good voice when she didn’t have a throat full of yeast farts. She would then wander off in another direction and wobble a bit on the way. I’d try to slip into my room and lock the door until morning. Sometimes I did my homework, mostly I just read or streamed tv shows. My grades didn’t matter a whole lot, seeing as college wasn’t an option. I just needed to do well enough to not fail.
	So yeah, that was the story of my life as a teenage werepigeon. God damn, that sounds like a great name for a cartoon that’s really fun to watch as a kid but doesn’t hold up well. What are you still doing here? Oh right, I guess I never explained how I ended up homeless, I just sort of hinted at the circumstances that led me along that path like someone who wasn’t speaking to a guy who believes in werepigeons. So here’s what really happened. Strap your shit down because it’s going to go flying with this shocking revelation. Spider-man was involved. Yup,  Green Lantern too. Do you want a five minute break maybe? Need to change your pants? Yeah, I know, crazy.
	But seriously, I didn’t tell you everything. Spider-man wasn’t involved, but given his track record with bridges that’s probably a good thing. See, eventually I convinced my mom to go to AA. It didn’t last more that a few weeks, but while she was there she met someone. He was — god, how do I describe him — imagine it’s 1985 and there’s a guy who looks like his name was Dirty Sanchez. Are you picturing a beer-bellied abomination that thinks he looks like Freddy Mercury? Okay, just checking.
	So they start dating, and it’s not pleasant. She’s a recovering alcoholic ex-housewife who can’t take care of herself and he’s basically gas pains, which now come in human form apparently. What did he actually do? Well, he ate dinner with us every night and didn’t contribute a cent. Scent on the other hand he had plenty of, mostly sweat but also liquor and camel joe. Yeah, I said liquor. He didn’t collect a single sobriety chip and as soon as my mother agreed to a second date he stopped showing up to meetings all together. You heard it here first folks, there are people who go to AA to pick up drunk chicks. It’s literally a month later she asked him to move in. Technically, he asked her, and she said yes.
	From there on it was me, my mom, and sleaze so congealed it didn’t even need a bag, all living in a two-bedroom apartment. I say two-bedroom but that’s not quite accurate, my bedroom had three walls a sliding door that didn’t lock. Did I mention I was the only one with a job? I know I did before but it needs repeating. I was a teenager struggling to support two irresponsible adults. One year from graduating I dropped out of public school to get a second job. A year prior I had started fooling around with HTML and CSS so I could make my blog look nicer. To my surprise it was actually kind of fun, and while I wasn’t all that original I was fairly decent at ripping off designs from other blogs and websites. Over that summer, a classmate’s brother hired me for two months to help him set up a page for what was basically a conspiracy theory blog. If it meant I could both eat and pay rent then I was all for revealing that J.K. Simmons is secretly a lizard man. So yeah, he was a fucking lunatic, but with my help he was a lunatic with very stylish ravings.
	Unfortunately the few jobs I got didn’t last long. See, it doesn’t matter if you can do a good job in this society. It doesn’t matter if you can prove you can do a good job either. No diploma, no job. When I dropped out I exchanged a lifetime of money for a temporary reprieve from homelessness. Great job bird brain.
	I kept up my daily life but I tired to spend less and less time at home. It wasn’t my home anymore really, I was a guest in my own house while a fat, greasy bastard had supplanted me. I stayed with friends for a while, surfing couches as it was called but still going back home every now and then to pay the bills and make sure my mom was okay. I was spending so little time around her, I didn’t realize what was going on in my absence until I came home to a drunk mom with a black eye. I didn’t ask her what happened, I knew it already and she would lie if I asked.
	I didn’t let the anger show. I didn’t scrunch up my face, I didn’t raise my voice. I walked up to Filthy Fucking Sanchez a told him “you are no longer welcome in my home, please leave.” I don’t know why I said it politely, but in my defense it came out cold enough that my spit froze a little bit. Fucker didn’t even turn off the TV, I had to do it for him. He turned it right back on and told me to fuck off. I responded by Fonzie-ing the TV screen hard enough to cut my knuckle. “What the fuck is wrong with you, you stupid bitch?” I’m reciting this all by memory. “How dare you break my fucking property.” He stood up and smacked my across the face. With the same cold smile and the same fucking petite doll voice I said “I paid for that TV. I can do whatever I wish to it. Please leave” This time, his punch knocked me to the floor. What was my mom doing at a time like this? Nothing. She just stood there, watching without a peep. I stood up, still smiling and in the voice of a kindergarten teacher I said. “I’m going to count to three, and then you’re going to fuck off and never come back. Ready? One… Tw-” Just guess what interrupted me this time.
	People’s brains can do weird things when at the breaking point. I imagine most people would run, or cower or maybe fight back. At the very least they would protect their face. Me? I chose to let him punch me. Weird, huh? I wasn’t that passive though, I chose where he was going to punch me. I positioned myself between a vase on the counter top where we kept our stationary and this obese gorilla. When he broke my nose, it spilled. I crossed my arms behind my back and still smiling, I finished counting. “-two… three. Okay, now lets clean up our whisky bottles, and fuck off, never to return.”
	He didn’t see the scissors in my hand until he had too much forward moment to step back. Don’t worry, I did my best to help him see it, with at least one of his eyes at least. Naturally, that was when my mom decided to step in. Now wasn’t that nice of her. She took one of our kitchen knives and pointed it at me, both hands wrapped around the handle and a look that told me Sanchez was getting was getting a ride a ride to the hospital, and I was getting a ride to the police station.
	I didn’t mind him hitting me, it wasn’t pleasant but it gave me the adrenaline and excuse to fight back. The my mom’s face on the other hand felt like, um, wow, this is hard to describe. Imagine getting a big tattoo removed. With a belt sander. Covered in lime juice. And then you realize they missed the tattoo completely and need to try again.
	Jumping out a window isn’t as dramatic when you’re on the second floor and can fly, but I like to think I made it look cool. No, that’s a lie, my face was covered in tears, blood and snot, I looked like Bieber getting an eyebrow piercing.
	I think I flew around for two hours in random spirals. If you made a 3d model of my path it kind of looks like earbuds fresh out of your pocket. Eventually I wound up on the Brooklyn bridge. I clung to the outside of the jumper’s fence and made one last call to my mom out of desperation.
	“Hey Mom, it’s me. I’m on the bridge.”
	“You’re dead to me!” Isn’t she lovable? “Never come back! I have no freaky bird-bitch daughter!” I dropped the phone and after three minutes of crying I let go.
	Do you know what most surviving jumpers have claimed about their experiences on their way down? They all say the same three things. First, time seems to slow down. That’s not too shocking if you know anything about psychology. Your mind performs all sorts of weird tricks in moments of mortal terror to keep you from dying. Time slows down, your muscles get strong enough to lift a car at the risk of snapping your tendons. Even shitting yourself has it’s purpose
	Second everything seems really funny, and you have no goddamn idea why. I laughed hard enough to snort for the first time since I was eight. After what felt like a solid 15 minutes the third thing kicked in.
	I realized that I had inadvertently just rid myself of the two biggest anchors in my life, and    even then as I was plummeting towards the East River at terminal velocity, my life had just taken an upswing. Holy fucking shit do I love being able to turn into a bird.
	So yeah, I’m homeless now. I’ve been this way for two months. Looks pretty shitty, and admittedly it is. I spent my last $40 on a 24-hour gym membership so I could have a place to stay warm during the night and wash my clothes so I was ready for a job interview. I ran back home to grab the backpack I left by the door while my mom was at the hospital and took my laptop, some food and drinks, and the hidden bits of cash she was saving for a rainy day. By leeching off of starbucks wifi — don’t worry, I bought a latte — I actually managed to find a few small jobs in web design to keep afloat. It’s not a fairy tale ending, I’ll give you that, but I have three job interviews this week, which is more than most people in this city can say. I have enough money to eat every day but I try to ration it out and save up. That’s why I gave that guy a smile a few minutes ago. You like that? I’m referencing the start of this god-awful story to make it feel cohesive. Let’s see a billion hipster monkeys at their typewriters do this shit.