I’ve been shat on by a pigeon four times this year. There’s a widespread belief that getting pooped on by a bird is actually good luck, according to the blog PigeonPedia (the #1 source for pigeon-related content). This idea originated because, apparently, the odds of getting crapped on are very low. Supposedly, there is only a .02% chance of getting crapped by a pigeon each time you venture outside. But my chances seem to veer closer to 100%.
A few days ago, when I felt excrement sliding down my cheek again, I found myself skeptical of this .02% chance. The Birding Outdoors organization claims that smaller birds defecate every fifteen minutes (approximately 100 times a day), which seems likely. I’ve always suffered from bad timing. Is being dive-bombed with spontaneous crap really good luck, or is it just plain bad timing? To me, being told that it’s lucky is unhelpful, placating, and inexact. It doesn’t change the fact that there are literal feces on my face. That shit summons a cystic acne break out.
I was passing through the Flatiron Plaza with some friends when I noticed a flock of pigeons perching on a telephone wire. I caught one in my periphery as it flew overhead, swooping for the wire. I jinxed myself by thinking, “Dear Lord, let me pass clean and scott-free.” We hadn’t even crossed the plaza yet when I heard it: the tell-tale splat of liquid hitting leather. I felt something wet on my cheek, something damp sliding between the strands of my hair. I felt it seep onto my scalp. A patch of skin on the heel of my hand was coated in gooiness. I asked my friends in a deadpan voice, “Is there shit on me? Tell me there isn’t shit on me.” To which they replied:
“Um. Not a lot.”
“Oh, GOOD!” I thought in despair.
My friends assured me that it wasn’t so bad, but the longer it took us to walk home, the more despondent I became. I dramatically held out my hand, wrist limp and palm facing upwards, so shit wouldn’t get on the cuff of my sleeve. There was a streak down the front of my jacket, on the strap of my crossbody bag, and even on my thigh. Luckily, it wasn’t the green kind: just white, mostly runny, but still a bit brown and clumpy.
Here’s the thing about believing that pigeon crap is good luck: luck isn’t quantifiable. It isn’t something you can measure and keep track of. How do you know what’s luck and what’s just coincidental timing? Maybe getting pooped on is good luck; maybe it isn’t. Maybe, as PigeonPedia argues, it’s just all about changing the framework of the splat. Maybe it’s about looking out for that luck, that perfect coincidence. Or maybe I already had it—by having found the friends who will clean feces off of my leather jacket while I run head-first into the shower.