Dead Bird Lying by the Side of the Road
Posted: Wednesday, September 28, 2011
by Jack H. Schick
Pennsylvania automobile license plate number 717-880; I’ll remember that number for the rest of my life. I etched it into my mind. On my way home, I repeated it over and over again, out loud, so I wouldn’t forget it. I was only eight or nine years old at the time. I thought it was extremely important that I memorize that plate number. Remembering it didn’t help anything, though. There were no repercussions. No one was even slightly interested. I learned something about the real, grown-up world from that episode, though.
I’d raked away the leaves with a stick and scraped a shallow depression in the dirt where there was a small gap in the hedge. I could see a pretty good distance up and down Ambler Street. I pretended the stick was a ‘tommy-gun.’ I’d spray cars with make-believe bullets when they came by. They were German tanks, but my bullets were magical and could stop them if I hit them just right. I never did. They all kept going
I was shooting from my ‘foxhole,’ when I saw the whole thing happen. It was like I could see into the future. A few seconds in advance, I knew what was going to happen, and it did. It was not a fantasy, not a game, but a real event, and I’d seen it coming. The car, the one with big fins and a round front, came zooming across the bridge. A sparrow popped out of the hedge row and flew across the street. I foresaw two, unrelated events in separate worlds of unrelated things were on a collision course. I jumped up, horrified.
The car’s tail lights came on for an instant. The bird disappeared from my sight. The two worlds merged. There was a sickening, metallic ‘thump.’ I was shocked that the car had barely slowed down. “717-880, 717-880,” I got the plate number, like I knew I should. I ran out into the street to look at the bird. It was dead. There was blood on its beak. Its eyes were closed. “717-880,” I watched the car continue on up to Tohickon Avenue and turn right.
I got a piece of newspaper that was stuck in the hedge, pushed the bird onto it with my ‘tommy-gun,’ wrapped it up and carried it from the street before it could get run over again. I dug a small, shallow hole, put the bird in it and covered it. I carefully marked the spot with several stones so I could find it again if the police needed evidence.
I ran back to the house. “717-880, 717-880,” I repeated out loud as I went. I didn’t want to forget it. My dad was in the recliner chair, watching a baseball game in the living room, when I burst in the front door, out of breath.
“Dad!” I excitedly announced. “A car hit a bird up on Ambler Street and didn’t even stop! I got the license plate number. It’s Pennsylvania, 717-880. Should we call the police?”
He hardly took his eyes from the TV when he said. “You don’t have to stop if you hit a bird.”
“You don’t?” I was shocked.
“No, people hit birds all the time,” he said. “It’s not a big deal, unless it breaks your windshield or something.”
Hey! I was only eight or nine. How was I supposed to know? I remember feeling a little embarrassed that I thought the police might be interested. My dad explained something about the real world to me that day. I’ve hit lots of birds with my car in the past 45 years. One even cracked my windshield. I didn’t stop, not even once. Every time I hit one though, I remember that license plate number, 717-880. I also feel a little sad, for the bird, for me and for mankind.
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Top-level comments on this article: (1 total)It is a harsh world. Someone would say, "It's only a bird." It may be only a bird, but it was alive, able to fly, sing, eat, raise young. Life is harsh, even for a little bird.
I understand the little guy that you were then at age eight or nine. I'll just bet he grew into a caring, kind and loving mature man.I agree.both of you- thanks for reading and commenting
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