The Walk to Work

I walk to work most days. It's sort of a compulsion. It could be raining or snowing or 101 degrees and I'd still feel inclined to walk to work. It's a fascinating, two-and-a-half mile journey across Patterson Park and about 30 blocks down Baltimore Street into the center of the city. Charm City. The Greatest City in America, according to the bus-stop benches.

Just about two-thirds of the way to work, there is a strip of semi-abandoned buildings across from a sign shop and a homeless men's shelter/drug treatment center. Next to a building that looks like it used to be a small bank or a strange temple is an open grassy area. Each morning, a man is standing on the edge of the field feeding bread to birds. I should say, he is dumping torn-up pieces of loaves of sliced white bread. He has a whole black garbage bag that he reaches into to pull out a new loaf after he's dumped mauled shreds and chunks of white bread to the ground. There are plenty of gulls and pigeons circling around but they are never able to eat as quickly as he tosses the starch to the ground. It covers the grass. It is amazing. This morning, swarms of birds circled overhead, seemingly uncertain which way to go or where to land to find a spot not already claimed by other birds. It felt like an Alfred Hitchcock film without the blonde lady.

I wonder about the man who feeds the birds. He seems to care less about feeding the birds than he seems frantic to get rid of the wealth of bread. And yet, a part of me thinks he must be extraordinarily lonely to give away such a feast every morning, just for the temporary, parasitic company of dirty feathered creatures. These are not majestic or pretty birds. These are city birds. And this man who does not appear to have much in the way of belongings or money is intent upon lavishing the refined carbohydrates upon them, inviting them near. I wonder about this man, what he's thinking, why he does what he does, where he goes when the feeding is over, how he feels. I don't know that I'll ever get up the nerve to ask him, but some day perhaps. For now, I like the mystery.