Crow Spite
The crow dive-bombed me. I screamed “scram, shoo, go away” and waved my arms like an out-of-control windmill. The malicious bird did its “caw-ca-caw” chuckle as it took another pass. At least I was wearing a baseball cap so it couldn’t pull out more hair. The chunk it took a couple days ago made me look like I was getting bald from the side of my head.
The blasted bird jabbed my cap as I opened the door on my yellow 2001 Saturn and quickly jumped inside. Then I slammed the door and made a face at my attacker as it flew off. “Damn dinosaur throwback,” I said to no one in particular. Before I’d seen the chart at the museum about how birds have evolved from carnivorous dinosaurs, I hadn’t thought much about crow ancestry. Now each time I raced from my houseboat to my car or vice versa, I felt like an extra in a Jurassic Park sequel.
Maybe I needed to start wearing a disguise when outside in the houseboat community where I lived. At least until those damn crows forgot how I’d destroyed the nest they built in the tree next to my parking spot. Bird poop can ruin paint, so I had to do something. It wasn’t until I poked the nest with a broom handle and the whole thing came tumbling down, spilling broken olive-green eggshells across the parking platform, that I regretted my action. But then it was too late. And now it wasn’t safe for me on the path to my mailbox or to and from my car.
I backed out of my narrow parking space, turned on the radio and started singing along with Beyonce while tapping the beat on my steering wheel with both hands: “I’m in the mood . . .” Tap, tap, “missing.” Tap, tap, “prescription.” I started keeping time to the music with my right foot, the Saturn jerking along, a syncopated dance step for Firestone tires. There wasn’t much traffic for once, and I was in a good mood if not the mood. Not that I was entirely sure what the song was all about.
When I reached the freeway, Beyonce quit singing and I quit tapping, although I still occasionally warbled a phrase to blot out the news that had come on at the top of the hour. I was on my way to a work assignment as a claims adjuster for Universal Heartland Liability and Casualty Assurance Company of America, Incorporated—“The Company with a Heart.” Being a claims adjuster isn’t as exciting as you might think; I spend a lot of time on paperwork. So, getting out of the office to visit a client almost feels like a mini vacation, a road trip in my sunshine bright car.
Today I was headed out of the busy city across two bridges and an island to the other side of the lake. It would only take about forty minutes to get there, but time spent out of the office was like playing hooky. That was the one good thing about laws against driving and talking on the phone or texting—my employer didn’t expect me to work en route. Nor was I obligated to answer if they tried to get in touch; it was understood that if I was in my car, they needed to leave a message. There was nothing to do but enjoy.
Well, admittedly it wasn’t 100 percent pleasure. There were gigantic trucks whose wall-like presence made me feel like I was driving with blinders on, gas fumes seeping in through the vents, stop-and-go traffic that made me curse my manual transmission, rocks leaping out of nowhere to attack my windshield, and large potholes that could swallow a tire in one gulp. In some ways it was like being behind the wheel on an online driving simulation game where you never knew what to expect. Still, it beat sitting behind a desk staring at a mountain of paperwork.
In the year I’d been at Universal I’d focused mostly on car accident claims, a lot of fender benders, some justified by weird explanations that didn’t require much investigation. “No one should put a chicken coop that close to a busy road.” “It was foggy, or I never would have missed the turn and ended up driving into his house.” “I’d turned off my hearing aid to avoid listening to my wife talk about her relatives, so I didn’t hear the aid car.” “I wasn’t actually drinking, unless you call having a couple of glasses of wine drinking.” “I’m sure I would have noticed if I’d fallen asleep at the wheel.” “They must have just put up that telephone pole.”
I’d also handled some theft of personal property claims. According to my boss, they were the reason I was being given the opportunity to take on jewelry and painting appraisals and losses. The person who normally did that work had left the company. The opportunity to take over his assignments surprised and pleased me. It was a cozy niche with job security. Of course, I didn’t know much about jewelry or paintings—well, actually, I knew next to nothing about either. Except for my class ring and watch, I didn’t own any jewelry. And I was fairly certain nothing painted on velvet counted as insurable art. But then I hadn’t known much about cars either when I joined the company. Even if they wanted me to take some classes, I wouldn’t mind. Trinkets and pictures—that didn’t sound too complicated.
Someone gave me the finger as I cut in front of a lime-green Audi to reach my exit. A truck had blocked the original sign, so I admit my move may have been less than legal. Still, it was tempting to give him back the finger. But when you drive a yolk-yellow car you have to be careful not to insult anyone. Just in case you end up at the same destination.
Soon after leaving the freeway, I entered the land of construction look-alikes. The kind of neighborhood where every house has an extra-wide driveway with at least two cars parked in front of a double-car garage. Yards carefully landscaped. Everything in its place. A fine example of housing for middle and upper-middle-class professionals. Of course, people in low-rent housing developments probably didn’t get paintings appraised by their insurance company. And the really wealthy undoubtedly had special coverage for their expensive art. We might be the “company with a heart,” but our heart didn’t cover anything over about $30,000. We insured cars for a lot more than that. What did that say about art?
The client’s house was on a cul-de-sac in a row of cul-de-sacs. I missed it the first time around the circle, confused by the lack of landmarks and by the ornate house numbers. The second time, I got better at reading the numbers, like learning a foreign language.
Before getting out of the car, I checked out my hair in the tiny mirror on the back of the visor. I was always surprised that even to me I look forgettable. Bland. The kind of appearance that would frustrate an eye witness to a crime trying to come up with some defining characteristic. The mirror told me that my mud brown hair was appropriately smooth, there was no spinach in my teeth, and my nose hairs were under control. I was ready to meet my clients.
A blue Tesla pulled up behind Bee, the name my mother had given my car when she owned it. At the same time I got out, the woman in the Tesla literally bolted from her vehicle, almost as if “passenger ejection” was one of the car’s functions. She was thin, professional looking, and not my type. I like my women well-rounded with enough flesh showing to preview what might be available if I managed to score. Not that I did very often. But there’s always hope. This woman was zipped up tight in a grey pants suit with a red turtleneck poking out from the top. Her blond hair framed a narrow face, her piercing eyes assessing me as she held out a hand. “I’m Carla Bridges,” she said in a voice that demanded I tell her my name in return.
“John Smith,” I said as I shook her hand, trying to squeeze back as firmly as she did. Our company manual warned against both the limp or the too macho handshake. We were supposed to deliver a moderately firm grip and disengage within 3 seconds. One, two, three—disengage. It was too late—she’d already dropped my hand.
“Shall we go inside?” Carla said, her tone suggesting that we should start making things happen. My mini-vacation was over.
Connie Winslow opened the door before I could use the antique Fat Boy door knocker. My hand was still in mid-air as Carla introduced us. Mrs. Winslow invited us in and shut and locked the door behind us. We were immediately met by the dark, hulking presence of a hall coat tree already partly filled with what I assumed were decorative pieces of clothing and a bench that could rival some sofas. Next to it was a copper umbrella stand with two umbrellas sporting carved wood handles. On the other side of the hall was a humongous mirror in a swirly metal frame that screamed expensive. Although I couldn’t help thinking the frame looked a bit like a soup can lid after my mother opened the can with one of those kitchen tools where you stabbed the blade into the top and then sawed up and down all the way around the rim.
Introductions over, we were led into the dining room where two paintings had been placed side by side on a large, clear glass table. It crossed my mind how uncomfortable eating at that table would be. What if you dropped a crumb in your lap or needed to scratch?
Carla immediately went over to examine the paintings. Mrs. Winslow was explaining their provenance, but I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. I was still looking around, wondering what it would be like to live in a house like this one. Did she have to dust all of the art objects herself? And what was the twisted piece of bronze on the table in the corner supposed to be?
I didn’t really need to study the paintings. Carla had been the appraiser of choice for the company for over four years, and if she said the paintings were authentic and came up with a number within our parameters, then I’d recommend insuring them. It was that simple. I was already thinking about where I could stop for lunch on the way back before returning to the office.
Suddenly, Carla turned to me and said, “What do you think, John?”
That I would like a hamburger and fries for lunch. Fortunately, I didn’t say that out loud and managed to direct my eyes to the two paintings. One looked like something a chimpanzee could have done with a brush, a paint palette of primary colors, and a couple of hairy fingers. Bright splotches and smears of paint were randomly distributed across the canvas. The other looked like motel room art to me, a cow standing next to a tree with a river in the background. “You’re the expert,” I said, trying to sound like I had an opinion but bowed to her wise counsel.
Carla didn’t press and quickly gave an overview of her assessment to Mrs. Winslow, followed by a preliminary estimate of value for each painting. Nothing outrageous, but high enough to compensate the hotel owner and buy a bushel of peanuts for the monkey. “But,” she added, “as I mentioned on the phone, I’ll need to take them back to my office for a few tests. I’ll return them the day after tomorrow.” She turned to me again.
“Would you like to meet me here for the final report?”
“Absolutely.” I hadn’t realized I would get a second field trip out of this assignment. What a bonus. This was definitely a specialty to pursue. I silently thanked Mr. Van Droop for giving me this opportunity.
Carla went out to the car to get some cases to transport the pictures in, leaving me to make small talk with Mrs. Winslow. I’m not good at small talk, but I gave it a try.
“Interesting table,” I said. “Is it difficult to keep clean? I mean, my beer mugs always seem to come out of the dishwasher with spots.”
She looked at me as if I was some strange creature that had just crawled out from under a rock on the beach, but politely said, “Our cleaning woman is very good.”
Of course she was.
Carla fortunately returned promptly with her cases, packed up the pictures, and we said our goodbyes. I wanted to carry at least one or both of the cases—it was the manly thing to do—but Carla wouldn’t relinquish them. “I’m used to this,” she said. Her tone implied she didn’t trust anyone but herself to keep them safe. That was fine with me; I try to avoid assuming too much responsibility.
“Same time the day after tomorrow then,” I said as she got into her car.
“Yes. Same time the day after tomorrow.”
It was a good thing I didn’t find her attractive because her tone and lack of eye contact suggested she felt the same about me. Oh well. I’d have a leisurely drive back, stop for a good lunch, and then face an afternoon of paperwork under the lyncean eye of Emma, our office manager. Maybe I could sneak out early. Mother had suggested I stop by a pet store to see if they had any recommendations on how to deal with my crow problem. It hadn’t occurred to me that a pet store would offer advice about dealing with wild animals. But Mother seemed to think they would. I hoped she was right; I was tired of trying to do a comb-over on the side of my head.
