Several years ago I was going to get my son from basketball practice. It was bright, warm and the world seemed agreeable. I was still smoking so I had the driver’s side window wide open. On the right side of the car was Blendon Woods Metro Park; six hundred and fifty-three acres of thick beech-maple and oak-hickory forests divided by a few roads and several meandering trails that climb and plunge through valleys carved by years of erosion. It is a majestic, ancient-looking place.
On the left side was a string of apartments, and as you rounded a gentle corner you saw the highway leading to the trendy, exclusive New Albany, home to half the wealth in north-eastern Columbus.
My car had just rounded the corner, and I was thinking how beautiful the weather was, how pleasant central Ohio could be during Autumn. It was an amazing drive. The air coming into the car was cool, pleasant, none of the stifling humidity that can make Ohio so miserable.
I was looking at the trees in the park, they were exploding in fall colors. There had been plenty of rain that summer and fall which made the display bold, mesmerizing, and hypnotic. Everything seemed perfect.
“Life can surprise you,” I thought.
There was an explosion of sound on the left side of the car. A loud, terrifying crash, as if a bomb had gone off, the sound of creation from the Big Bang, it was like a brick smashing into a steel wall. Odd, rough tentacle things were grabbing inside my car. They appeared to have barbed, shiny hooks on the end. For a minute I thought they were reaching for my neck, and a vision of them ripping out my throat flashed across my mind.
“I can’t die today, the weather is too nice.” My mind shrieked against the intruder, the injustice. “Why me? Why now? I’m not ready.”
Using the elbow of my left hand which was steering and my right hand I managed to push the beast away and out. I was sure it was Cthulhu, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the Alien, from Alien, something terrible. I was locked in battle with a primeval beast, come back from the beyond to extinguish me. I couldn’t understand what I’d done to deserve the anger of a vanquished god of yesterday, why it wanted to rip me to pieces in my own car, on such a beautiful day, during such a pleasant drive by such a beautiful landscape.
I finally managed to wrestle the beast out with one hand and negotiate the wide, gentle curve with the other.
My side mirror was hanging by the wires that ran the little electric motor that made the micro-adjustments so I don’t have to waste all that energy reaching outside and adjusting it manually. It bounced softly against the side of my car. Feathers floated lazily all around me.
I reached out and brought the mirror inside so it wouldn’t scratch or dent my car. Or fall off into the street. I lit a cigarette and called my wife.
“Something, a goose or duck or maybe an owl, flew into my car, I didn’t see what it was, it was big, it broke off my side mirror, and almost killed me.” I said, breathlessly. My heart was still racing and I felt lucky to be alive.
“Something flew into your car? And broke off the mirror?” She was doubtful.
“Yeah, it was big, a goose, or a demon, I don’t know. It tried to kill me.”
My son came out of the school. When he saw the mirror stuffed neatly inside my car he stopped in his tracks.
“Does mom know?” He asked, looking from me to the mirror.
“I called her. A goose hit my car, I think it was a goose, it was big and it tried to kill me.” I told him. It was clear he thought I was insane.
My wife went out and looked, and came back holding a feather.
“This is a turkey feather.” She said, holding the feather up triumphantly. She looked at me like everybody should know the difference between a goose feather and turkey feather. I thanked her, and told her it almost killed me.
I called the dealership to make an appointment to get a new mirror installed.
“A turkey knocked it off.” I told them, as an explanation of why the mirror needed replacing.
“What?”
“A turkey flew into my car over by Blendon Woods. It knocked my mirror off.”
“A turkey?” She asked incredulously.
When I went to get the mirror installed the service advisor, the guy who writes down all the information and takes your keys asked; “Are you the guy who ran into a turkey?”
“No, he ran into me. Unprovoked, I was just driving along minding my own business and he flew into the side of my car. I think he was trying to fly in through the window, but missed.” I told him.
My mind was whirring through all the possibilities, the turkey was part of an avian uprising, or a kamikaze trying to upend Thanksgiving, or maybe it was just hated me. I didn’t want to be known as “the guy who ran into the turkey,” this was where I got my oil changes and routine maintenance.
His phone rang, and he mouthed “it will be done in about an hour,” and gave me a thumbs up while listening to the caller. He looked down and started typing furiously.
This was years ago, though, a distant memory, kind of funny when you think about it.
Last weekend I looked out the back door and there were two wild turkeys walking through our backyard, looking all around. I ducked before they could see me, reached up and closed the blinds. Damn things are still after me.
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