The perfect day for remembering… On December 30, 2011, I got a double-bird rammed on me as a truck flew past me on the Grapevine. I must have done something to deserve it, but I still have no clue as to the infraction or err of my ways. I don’t know why, but that little gesture cuts deep into me. I can count on one (no, maybe two) hands how many times someone has flipped me off in my life. There have probably been a million that I am not aware of, but since my fragile little heart has witnessed so few, I can remember each one quite vividly.

A couple friendly teases, a few shocking slaps in the face, some literally in my face, some from a few blocks away… a pair of girls in Manhattan who wouldn’t give me friendly directions – the over-the-shoulder bird (2007)…
a guy peeling out and missing gears in his Datsun as he grinded and clanked up the street – the half-body-out-the-car-window bird (1985)… a sassy kid performing the classic “Wait, I got something for you” as he reached way down in his pocket… slowly pulling out his clinched fist, casting an imaginary fishing line at me, then reeling in the fish as it lifted his middle finger (1984)…

Similarly, I can’t remember more than one time I ever used the flourishing gesture myself… there were many situations where it might have been appropriate, in fact expected, but only one comes to mind.

I was hurdling through side streets and neighborhoods in a taxi, racing to get to the port of Tunis in Tunisia. The ferry from Tunisia to Naples, Italy only ran once a week. I HAD to get back to Rome or I’d miss my plane home to the states. With the wind in our face, and the taxi’s cassette stereo blaring middle eastern jamz like a fire engine siren, we blazed to the shipping docks to catch my ferry. Innocent pedestrians be damned, we ran every light and cut every dirt corner, as Muhammad, my driver, repeatedly assured me he could make it in time.

It was a 30 minute rollercoaster hell-ride, but with real obstacles (people) and actual near-collisions that are only scripted or choreographed for professional stunt drivers. But we made it. Indeed. I jumped out of the taxi, asked more directions from the policia at the loading gate in my cluster of broken French-English-Arabic… only to find out… we had raced to the opposite side of the bay… there were two port stations… and we blasted into the wrong one… in our frantic miscommunication and chaos, we did not clarify this important minute detail…

I jumped back in the taxi, and the Mr. Toad’s Ride continued for 20 more minutes, all the way to the other side of the bay. I ran through all the security check points, past all the police with automatic rifles, finally, panting and hacking, I was stopped at the final gate. Outside the giant wall of 3-story windows, I could see my ferry still docked. Relief. Until the administrator with important credentials told me it was too late to board. The doors were sealed. There was nothing she could do for me, she said.

After I caught my breath, and after we argued for 18 minutes while the boat sat there right in front of both our faces, after all my pleading to speak to the captain or anyone on the ferry to please let me board… it slowly pulled away… slowly… chugged out of the harbor… and we both watched silently. Her important manager’s position still intact. She walked up some stairs and into her office. I followed. The door was open, and I entered as she sat behind her desk.

She regurgitated all the rules and regulations to remind me she was doing her job, and doing it well.

I then carefully and calmly told her how great of a job she was doing and that it was an important job and that she was amazing and a credit to her profession. Then… after a pause and some silence, I started to walk out of her office… stopped… slowly turned around… I had a Christmas look on my face, like I suddenly remembered something… held up my pointer finger, like I had something to give her… and I reached deep into my pocket… my tongue firmly licking my upper lip and my eyes looking upwards at the ceiling in concentration… I dug around like there was a lost treasure to unearth…

Out came my sealed fist… slowly… with a precious jewel clinched inside my hand… pause… pause… I then shook it, 3, 4, 5 times, as if it were glued and stuck closed and I couldn’t get it open… until, I shook out… and revealed… a beautiful, erect, middle-finger bird… sort of like a magician pulling a dove out of a silk… then I raised it up like a candle lighting a darkened room… or a world-peace torch…

I turned and continued walking out… she followed, scolding me and shaking her head with a mother’s scornful disappointment…

Perhaps it is like any muscle in the body, the more you use it and exercise it, the easier it gets to use. Over-use it, and it loses its punch and flavor. Or, like a magician’s dove-silk trick, if saved for the perfect rare unexpected occasion, the shock and awe remains. I guess I am averaging about one bird a decade. Which means I am long over-due. and entitled to a double-bird… the perfect day…