It was morning downtown and the sidewalks were nearly empty except for a few solemn shoppers and people late for work. I was walking east on Adams when a heavyset woman, strolling in my direction with a friend, stopped in her tracks and began to pull violently at her hair. She staggered like a drunk, flailing her arms high in the air, her mouth opening and closing without a sound, until she finally fell slowly backward to the sidewalk like a toppled statue. A moment later I had joined the frightened circle that cautiously gathered around her.
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“It almost killed me, it almost killed me,” she gasped in a broken voice to her companion, who had knelt beside her and was anxiously gripping her arm. Both women were probably in their early 60s, modestly dressed, their shopping bags already half filled.
Her friend wrapped her arms around the woman in reassurance, almost dragging her backward a few feet. I still didn’t understand what any of this was about until I followed the woman’s wild stare. Lying stiffly near her feet was a small dead bird.
Others were more sympathetic, offering various theories as to the cause of death, most of them strange and useless. The general consensus was that it must be as much of a jungle up in the sky as it is down here on the ground.
They glared darkly at each other for a few moments until the girl turned her back on us. “Boring,” she decided, and jogged off.
