It began, as most things in New York do, with a bagel.
Terry, a junior analyst with a mustache of dubious confidence, stepped out of his apartment with an everything bagel slathered in cream cheese and hubris. He took one triumphant bite, looked up—and locked eyes with the Enemy.
The pigeon.
This wasn’t your average, half-feathered, subway-seasoned pigeon. No, this one wore a glint in its eye and the posture of a mob boss. It cocked its head as if to say, You just messed up, pal.
Terry scoffed. “It’s a bagel. You’re a bird. Let’s not make this weird.”
The pigeon nodded. Literally nodded. Then flapped off.
By lunchtime, it had begun.
First, a squadron of pigeons dive-bombed Terry outside the Starbucks. One stole his croissant mid-bite. Another dropped something... suspiciously warm on his shoulder.
By 3 p.m., word had spread to the squirrels. Terry swore he saw one do a hand signal.
At 5:42 p.m., on the F train, he opened his briefcase to find a single peanut and a tiny pigeon feather.
By the time he got home, the windowsill was lined with them—dozens of pigeons, silent, staring. One wore a tiny piece of duct tape like an eye patch.
Terry cracked. “What do you want from me?”
The eye-patch pigeon stepped forward, fluffed up, and cooed with slow menace.
Terry got the message.
The next morning, he walked into Tompkins Square Park like a man heading to a mob sit-down. He laid the peace offering on the bench: an everything bagel, no bite taken, extra cream cheese.
A flutter of wings. The eye-patch pigeon landed. Pecked once. Nodded.
The pigeons dispersed.
Terry was free.
He now packs an extra bagel daily. Just in case. Some debts, like cream cheese, are best spread evenly.