"Streetlights / People"

- Journey

Two of my fellow proofreaders loved getting high on the roof of the building after work. Eventually, they invited me. I was nervous.

It was a stellar roof to get high on, far superior to that of the building the team would soon be moved to, a building which, for all I knew, kept doors locked. I was fired before learning more; roofs were not involved.

Being high and looking at Manhattan is the rare experience that transcends the city’s deepest corruption: that the image of New York is inside you before you arrive. When you get there, image and experience set upon each other as flint and stone strike fire.

You’re high on the roof in the dark and the wind is gentle; at this distance the honking cars feel nearly friendly. You are eye-level with the hive of window-glows, each of which means a person, which means warm breath and enemies.

In rare cases, taking a drug gets you out of the matrix long enough to see how heartbreaking, how perfect the matrix really is, “ecstasy of soul and senses.” If you try this too often, you risk becoming trapped. “What is this universe the porch of?” asked Ashbery.

I believe my two coworkers were sleeping with each other, but I’ve never known for sure. The third proofreader was a Belgian who met his wife playing online chess. They lived in Bay Ridge with their child. He taught me that the sport of cycling is Belgium’s national pastime—Lance Armstrong was frequently denounced—but The Belgian’s greatest ardor was reserved for First World War messenger pigeons. Do you know of Cher Ami?

Cher Ami (French for "dear friend") was a homing pigeon who had been donated by the pigeon fanciers of Britain for use by the U.S. Army in France during World War I.

Late in 1918, the 77th Infantry was in trouble. Artillery fire rained down; casualties were, as they say, mounting.

Cher Ami was dispatched with a note, written on onion paper, in a canister on his right leg.

His task was desperate. The Germans had already shot down two messenger pigeons.

As Cher Ami tried to fly back home, the Germans saw him rising out of the brush and opened fire. After several seconds, he was shot down but managed to take flight again. He arrived back at his loft at division headquarters 25 miles away in just 25 minutes, helping to save the lives of the 194 survivors. He had been shot through the breast, blinded in one eye, and had a leg hanging only by a tendon.

And yet: this pigeon was alive.

Army medics worked to save his life. When he recovered enough to travel, the now one-legged bird was put on a boat to the United States, with General John J. Pershing seeing him off.

Cher Ami, savior of the 77th, was awarded several medals for valor.

We wrote haiku for Cher Ami together, the four of proofreaders—the five of us, rather. There was finally the proofreader in his 30s who liked to explain what it means to be in one’s 30s; he was pleased, he explained, to be in his 30s. He played DJ sets at a pool hall on the weekends. By the time of the pandemic, I’d realized he’d been right about everything. I ran into him last year at Kellogg’s diner in Williamsburg. We’d both quit our jobs; we were both leaving town. A good man, Matt.

Not all heroes wear capes. Some of them totally fly.

SEE YOU NEXT FRIDAY, DEAR FRIENDS.