“Ugh, like . . . totally gross” muffles a gorgeous blond in disgust, as she struts past young Mr. Parker in her red kissed Manolo Blahniks heels and turns down to 5th Avenue. Sure she’s just another New York city socialite, but even the old ladies scoff at Parker.
He’d rather wished these city gals whispered an “ooooohh” or “ahhhhh”. Better yet, he wished they had a Parisian-eque way to them, singing an “ouuu lala monsieur!” as they passed by, then smothering him with french kisses and baguette sandwiches (After all Parker is a glutton for gluten).
But who’s he kidding, that socialite brat served up the usual daily response, from well ... almost anyone. The kind of response that initially had Parker turning around to see who this outrage of a citizen truly was. But after a while, he just realized that the scoffs, ughs, and cold shoulders were really just meant for him.
You see, Parker is kind of a dime a dozen in this city that never sleeps. Mind you, he’s not from your typical group of Wall Street lifeless-bankers, Brooklyn wanna-make-it-big artists, or West side classy-but-I-save-the-world folks. He’s just Mr. P. Parker. Pizza-loving, street strutting, Madison Park frequenting, head bobbing -- Parker.
There wasn’t even anything particularly special about Parker that would separate him from the rest of his kind. Yet you’d probably spot him from a good few feet away. His big eyes and sharp nose made him okay to look at.
So the only thing that kept Parker from crossing the Hudson river into New Jersey suburbia, (especially after yesterday’s unfortunate event where a fashion intern chucked her leftover tuna sandwich crust directly at him) was Parker’s exuberant confidence.
With all the mummers and second looks he gets, Parker’s confidence definitely came from anywhere but people. That tough shell of his was his one marker of being a true Yankee. This was his city. Even if the people tried to shove him out.
After shaking his head in slight disappointment of the over wealthy breed of New York’s empire children, he rounded the corner of East 23 Street into Madison Square Park. While it was an especially touristy area, he found the Park goers to be far more indifferent to his presence.
Plus, he has fond childhood memories in Madison Square Park. This is where he spent valuable time with some of his dozens of cousins. His favorite childhood memory in this park was chasing around the kids with his cousin Perry, trying to get them off balance so that big dollops of ice cream would drop from the narrow waffle cone in their hands. Perhaps not much has changed after all, he thought to himself.
It was the best day to be in Madison Square Park. He just caught the last song a street musician was playing near the W.H. Seward Monument. Nothing like some live tunes when you are living right through a recession he thought. Strolling by, Parker can’t help but bob his head to the music.
Then that is where he saw it. A big arm coming at him again. But this time it was armed with the New York Times.
Maybe it was the platinum blond babe coming back at him with vengeance. Maybe she caught me looking up her skirt. I mean how could I not, he smiled to himself. That skirt was both way too short, and too bright. Neon colors should never have made a fashion comeback from the 80s.
Or maybe it was the street performer who begged for some coins but didn’t even get a penny from Parker. Well, maybe if she took fashion advice from that socialite, I would have considered it, he validated to himself.
With a swift move, Parker turned his head up to face his assailant. Instead, Parker saw the giant letters of the New York Times headline coming closer and closer.
He tried to make out the heading before the printed news knocked him over with a big thud.
Hit in the head by bread crumbs.
Shooed away by gorgeous women.
And now, wack in the face with the city paper.
You’d think Parker had quite the week. But in fact this was his daily grind.
Well because you see, Parker is in fact
... a pigeon.