I sit upon a building ledge, surveying the scene below me. The humans have been released from the building’s insides, waves of them surging out, spilling over the campus. Upon steps and lawns and concrete curbs they will sit, and they will eat. I have yet to choose my target.
As a seagull, I like food. A lot. The greasier the better, of course, but salty works just as well—a throwback to when we seagulls would eat things from the ocean and actually have to work (ugh) for our food. Hot dogs, chicken legs, french fries, pizza—all terrifically horrid choices that require very little effort. If you fly fast enough at a human child, they’ll drop anything and everything. One of my brethren once took an entire hot dog from one of the midget-humans at the zoo, making eye contact while he ate the hot dog whole. You should’ve heard the screams. Gotta love Timothy.
Anyway, back to my restaurant of choice. Most of the humans have settled into place, the rambunctious little things. I lock my eyes on a group sitting high on concrete steps. Easy prey. The group of boys chatter, waving their food all the while in exaggerated motions that don’t emphasize just their words. One guy—taller than the rest, hand full of a drooping pizza perfect for the taking—stands unattentive to his half-eaten food.
I swoop. I dive. A perfect entrance to my soon-to-happen meal, I come closer and closer, a graceful entrance into the best seagull move of all time: the crap n’ steal.
More resilient than large dogs, as fierce and spiteful as an extremely meaty goose, and known to kidnap the occasional chihuahua: seagulls. They have collectively decided to become permanent residents of San Mateo High School. Considered a nuisance by many, but despised by others, they flock around the school at lunch time, eyes set on an easy meal.They line the roofs, the bravest swooping and stealing, the rest waiting like vultures for students to leave a feast behind.
They have had many victims—Amelia O’Connor, a senior who relayed the terrible tragedy of seagull poop, which landed three times on the inside of her backpack alone, has taken to positioning her backpack in the least seagull-enticing way. Another victim, an anonymous junior, laments of her long standing grudge against the birds, one inspired by the hot dog stealing seagull dubbed here as “Timothy,” stating that when she and her sister went to the zoo, and bought a hot dog, “the seagull attacked us and stole it.” She speaks with passionate hatred against the wretched birds, even going as far as to say “I don’t think… that behavior will stay isolated in that zone.” That the child-attacking, hot-dog-stealing habits will spread to seagulls all around the Bay Area.
But alas, it seems the seagulls are here to stay—they’ve certainly made their mark on the place (and what a crappy mark it is). In the meantime, we can only hope to keep our sandwiches and pizzas safe, lest they be whisked away by a sky-borne rodent.