Jackbooted thugs of Atwood Street

I spend a lot of time peering out my enormous windows onto Atwood Street, taking in the… I spend a lot of time peering out my enormous windows onto Atwood Street, taking in the unbelievable quantity of unsavory characters populating the place.

It’s been awhile since Tim the Squatter Crackhead has serenaded the neighborhood with Sublime’s self-titled disc back-to-back-to-back beginning at 4 a.m., and Shuffles the Creepy Winter-Coat-Wearing Homeless Dude has disappeared for parts unknown, possibly his summer chalet in the Hamptons.

The Incongruous Weekday Midafternoon Porch Drunks are out in force since the sun has emerged and the Angry Horn Honkers are a constant presence. Everyone knows honking the horn and yelling obscenities bestows superhuman powers upon trash collectors, allowing them to move 8,000 empty cans of Pabst Ice into the gaping maw of their truck with only a glance.

Yes, Souf Oaklin’ is a wonderland, existing in that bizarre dimension populated by overgrown children, long-suffering elderly folks and all manner of society’s detritus, including the most unsavory faction of them all: wildlife gang members.

The birds of Atwood Street are finicky, ungrateful loudmouth jerks. This coming from a woman whose dearest friend for years was a rat who ate off her plate.

When I first moved into my place, I was delighted to see a big tree in the yard, abutting the roof platform of the apartment below mine.

How charming! I thought. Why, I can work on my tan (okay, my burn), grow some plants and feed the birds.

I was foolishly possessed of notions of warbling bluebirds alighting on my fingertip as we waltzed in the sunshine.

How soon I discovered the truth.

Birds are sweet, singing peaceful fluffs, right? On Atwood Street, the jackbooted, feathered thugs rove in plundering mobs, stopping only for terror and Teddy Grahams.

Before I knew their true nature, I used to toss handfuls of the sweet crackery delights out onto the roof, and birds would come and eat them.

Cute, huh? So sweet you can feel your teeth rotting, right? Yeah, they fooled me, too.

Before too long, I spotted one of those pressed-seed birdfeeder bells, the kind you hang outside your kitchen window to sustain the little critters throughout the long icy winter. At first they’re timid at your approach, but then they get used to you and see you as their benefactor, and they pay you no mind as they peck gleefully at the bounty you’ve provided.

I strung the dangling buffet outside my window and waited.

And waited.

“Any day now,” I thought, “there’ll be a virtual aviary right outside my kitchen.”

No dice.

A few times, upon sneaking like a prowler into my own kitchen, I was rewarded by the sight of the tail end of some sort of vulture taking off at the sound of my approach, fleeing in a wave of seeds and poop.

Finally, it came time for my semi-regular key-forgetting, and I had to enter my place through the window. I absently moved the seed bell to the fire escape, just outside of view of the window.

The next morning I was awakened by a cacophony of screaming sparrows, blaring budgies and pestering pigeons devouring the bell. As soon as they heard me coming, they scattered like drunken teen-agers at a Souf Oaklin’ party getting busted. That bell, placed out of my sight, was gone inside of 30 hours.

Jerks.

Melissa Meinzer is keepin’ her Teddy Grahams to her damn self. E-mail her at mmeinzer@pittnews.com.