Must've Forgotten my Bird Coat

An unforeseen hazard of backyard birding in the downtown area: some twat in a Downtown Ambassadors coat might mistake you for a bum, and suggest that you sod off down the east side with the rest of your sort. I'd just spotted me a sparrow with an extra-long beak (which I initially pegged as a Southwestern willow flycatcher), when it happened. The cheek of these vigilante types, persecuting innocent birdwatchers! I never!

I was out back, see, where the dustbins are, bundled cozily into my hoodie jacket. It's a bit smarmy back there, what with the bins, and all, but it's perfect for short-range birding expeditions. They do love their garbage, these urban birds. If you go between six and nine in the morning, when the streets are relatively deserted, you'll be treated to a steady stream of avian snackers: California, glaucous-winged, and Western gulls; sparrows of various stripes; the usual assortment of thrushes, starlings, crows, and robins, and even the occasional wren or mew gull. I've often been tempted to key "PACKBAWKY BAR AND GRILL" into the paint on one of the bins, but I'm a law-abiding citizen, me.

At any rate, there I was, happily abiding away, when didn't I see this marauding patrolman, moseying along quite the thing. I thought it must be a bit pants, having to be up walking the streets at the crack of dawn, so I shot him a cheerful greeting: "Morning, Officer!"

Well, turned out Officer Head-in-the-clouds, over there, hadn't noticed me just yet. When I piped up, he jumped about a foot.

"Ey," he gruffed, once he'd regained his composure; "ey! What're you doing down there?"

"Enjoying the fresh air," I said. "Nice morning, what?"

"Nice morning? Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Not really. Just getting in a spot of--"

"You can't hang around here. This is a nice neighbourhood."

"But--"

"It's looking like rain, anyhow. Don't you want to go inside?"

"No, I'm--"

"Try along Seymour Street, maybe. There's a youth center, over towards Smithe, Nelson area. You can get a hot meal."

"But I--"

"Ah-ah-ah!"

"I live here!" I waggled my keys at him, holding them up so he could see the wee beepy thing for the door. "This is my building, right here. I live on the fifth floor. I'm out birdwatching, is all. The birds, they come round these dustbins in the mornings, when there isn't a crowd about."

The Downtown Ambassador stared in a dubious sort of way. I babbled on merrily. (Hey, it's been a bit lonely in the Rat's Nest lately, what with my being under the weather, and all. I was dying for a blether.)

"I was hoping to see a willow flycatcher today," I told him. "I'd heard you could see them in Vancouver. Probably more in the parks than in the streets, but you never know. I was meaning to go to Stanley Park, except this weekend didn't work out for me, and--well, you know. Hope springs eternal, and so forth. I saw a black swift last year, from my window. You see the most extraordinary things, if you keep your eyes open. Before I started birding, I thought it was just gulls and grackles downtown, but it's much more--"

"Okay!" The patrolman stuck up his hands in an "enough, already!" sort of way. "I'm sorry. My bad. You might want to wear a bird coat next time, or a hat, so people will know what you're doing. Especially if you're going to be hanging around the park at all hours." (A bird coat? What, I should dress like Papagena, now? Who ever heard of a bird coat? Have birdwatchers got their own uniform, and nobody's told me? Figures! I'm always the last to know.)

"Right. I'll, er, keep that in mind. Sorry, Officer. Reckon I'll go back in now, any road." (Now that you've spoiled my morning, ya big lout.)

And I did. I could feel him staring at me all the way, probably making sure I wasn't lying about living here. I keep getting mistaken for a bum, just lately. I've had the strangest feeling of déjà vu, writing this entry. There have been too many others like it. It's always the same story: loitering; rubbish clothes; suspicious demeanour; taken for bum/thief/vagrant. Maybe if I dressed differently, if I wore socks more often, or had my trousers hemmed so they wouldn't drag in the dirt--maybe that would improve my image. Shirts with holes, too--I could stop wearing those. And winter coats in summer, those are a sure sign of hobo-ness. I've got some nice spring jackets, which I never wear. I could get those out. Threads to match the season; that's the ticket.

Still, my hair was brushed out nicely this morning, and I was squeaky clean, having just come from the shower. I thought I looked all right, shabby clothes notwithstanding. You couldn't even see the holes in my shirt, with my coat done up. True, the coat itself had a missing button, but whose doesn't? Buttons are made to go missing, especially those wimpy two-holed ones you get. One loop of thread between them and perdition. It's never enough. And then, you're faced with the eternal question: do you sew a new button on, and have a loop of non-matching thread blaring its presence from under your chin, or do you leave a great buttonless gap? My mother, she's always got thread to match anything, but I'm lucky to have thread at all. And needles--forget about it! You'd find one in a haystack sooner than you'd find one in here.

After all that, it wasn't even much of a morning, bird-wise. I saw something that might've been an orange-crowned warbler, flying high overhead, but I didn't get a very good look. Knowing my luck, it was probably a sparrow with paint on. Confirmed sightings: seagulls, seagulls, and more seagulls. Oh, and that one big-billed sparrow, of course. I didn't see anything new. Also, the pavement was damp, and the seat of my pants got all manky. Summer is nearing its end. (Say, that means it's almost time for passerines, doesn't it? Is it time already? When's migration? Will I get to see any, or will I be arrested for vagrancy?)

Looking on the bright side, I was feeling a bit better this morning. I ate some Pop-Tarts*, and didn't feel like I was drowning with every bite. That's what was up with the back-alley birding effort: I figured I'd take advantage of my improved health to enjoy the great outdoors. The leaves are starting to go red on the trees outside my window. There'll only be a few more weeks when I can enjoy it, so it's important to seize every opportunity. Gather ye rosebuds, and so on.

* Although there was a time, many years ago, when I absolutely loved Pop-Tarts, and would do just about anything to get them, I don't particularly care for them nowadays. I only eat them to remind myself of old friends and happy days, and to fatten myself up. (Mostly to fatten myself up--the reminding bit's just a pleasant side-effect. I always find myself thinking of this one afternoon in 1991 or '92, when I was eating apple-cinnamon Pop-Tarts. My friend Pam was over, and we were playing Crazy Eights and listening to La Traviata. I was translating (badly), per her request. It was a little embarrassing, because the walls were really thin, and anyone passing by in the hall was likely to think I was declaring my undying love for Pam: "Love, mysterious and proud, cross and delight of the heart!") Ah, Pop-Tarts.