The gentle murmur

This morning at 5:45 it seemed that someone was racing Pavehawk helicopters around my building.

I live a couple of blocks from the BQE, a major thoroughfare, it's not unusual to hear the gentle whir of rotor blades checking out a traffic snarl. Heck, in my neighborhood it's not that unusual to hear the gentle whir of rotor blades in pursuit of a felon.

However, it's usually high up, they must have some sort of high powered binioculars or something. The rhythmic thump of the helicopter blades is something you can work into your unconscious ramblings, say an overzealous hummingird flapping through your personal field of dreams.

Today there was no mistaking it, no changing it, no going back to sleep once I knew what it was. The wind the chopper kicked up was blowing my window shades around like a gale. I swear that at one point a rotor blade squeegeed my windows clean. If they didn't land on my roof this morning, if they weren't whipping around the tops of the streetlights I'll eat my hat.

At 6, I was unable to ignore the problem, I mean, what if there was an emergency I needed to know about. Clearly with this much activity, making tight circles within a four block radius, something serious had to be happening. They were probably chasing alleged terrorists down Myrtle Avenue, or the neighborhood was combing the streets for a lost toddler or it was Ed MacMahon identifying the latest winner and I should probably get some pants on before he rang the bell. I flipped on the news, I scanned all the channels. There was an accident on the approach to the Manhattan Bridge, over half a mile away.

The pilot must be new. Probably trying to show off on his first day on the job. Maybe his high powered binoculars are broken. I don't care what his excuse is, I want him fired.

I'm at least coming to his house and poking him in the ribs for half an hour before he's supposed to get up.