Omar, a scrawny, ill-mannered high school boy, lives with his father, Eugenio, a gentleman farmer, across the street from me. He harasses everyone in the neighborhood who will pay him any mind, especially his next door neighbors in the tidy white house. Ms. Pearl and her preacher daughter, Amari, have lived in that same white house for as long as I can remember. Ms. Pearl has more wrinkles than a preacher’s Bible and is the wisest person I have ever met.
That Saturday was too hot for anyone to be outside. Despite the heat, Omar was out in fine form, throwing rocks at doves and cursing the mail lady for being white and stepping onto his property.
Then, Ms. Pearl stepped onto her porch to check her mailbox. Omar shouted, “Ya know, Old Woman, we don’t want Nword folks in this neighborhood.”
I could see from my porch as Ms. Pearl stiffened her spine, but instead of yelling back at the young fool, as I may be tempted to do, she closed her eyes for a minute. Then, she turned toward the house with her hand on the screen door panel as if to go back inside.
Suddenly, blam…crunch…a giant red-headed turkey vulture with a wingspan of about five and a half feet dove out of the sky and thudded onto the top of the rusted out green VW van parked on the grass beside Omar. The bird dug his finger claws into what was left of the van’s metal, causing a high-pitched, grinding wail. The sight of the bird and awful sound drove Omar down, flat on his back, into the dirt. He forgot about Ms. Pearl, covered his eyes with his arms, and screamed, “Help me! Help me!”
Meanwhile, Ms. Pearl did a praise and victory dance in her front yard for all to see, lifting her hands and clapping in joy, she sang,
“Victory in Jesus,
My Savior forever.”
Ms. Pearl’s daughter came out to see the commotion. She said, “Well, Son, I guess you’ll think next time before you harass someone.”
The women laughed together when Omar’s father came out with an old broom as defense against the bird. The vulture stared, unflinching. Eugenio advanced, then backed away, and focused on Omar. Eugenio pulled his son safely inside. Now left alone, the vulture swooped down from the van, gingerly picked something alive and wriggling from Omar’s yard, and took off into the sky.
I remember thinking that the vulture was probably first attracted by sour teenager smell: sweaty outdoor hair, funky pits, fruity gum, moldy socks, and bad attitude.
The whole vulture visit didn’t last very long, but news travels fast here. Most neighborhood kids look up when they pass Ms. Pearl’s house on their way to the bus stop. Mornings, I walk the block and look up, too. Then, I walk away. I don’t mind being the crazy storyteller from across the street. Being human can be really funny.
King's Daughter's Kitchen 