When Life Literally Shits On You

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• May 12, 2026

The sun was shining on a glorious Spring day in May in New York, sans humidity, perfect weather. The type of weather that lifts your spirits even in tough times. Families bring their kids to the park, dogs play catch with their owners, skateboarders attempt new tricks. Despite the looming doom of the great empire of America, my personal lack of income, and general existential “what’s the point of any of this” disposition, conflicted by my desire to “make it” and my urge to run away to a tropical island, I know the only road to happiness is present living and I aim to make a deal with myself to enjoy the day.

So I gear up for a run, stepping out into the sunshine. Just minutes after leaving my home, I’m under the Hell Gate bridge as I’ve been hundreds of times before, if not thousands of times. It’s a spectacular view on the East River, with the Manhattan skyline in the distance. Music is blasting in my ears, and my phone has yet to warn me I’ve been listening to music too loud, which it likes to do.

Then, all of a sudden… SPLAT! A large, warm dollop of pigeon shit landed on my right shoulder. Now, I’ve been shit on by birds before. Usually a spattering of white feces that is always gross but not necessarily day ruining. This, though, this was no ordinary shit. As my friend and funny comedian, Dennis Rooney, said after sharing a picture, “that’s not a deuce, that’s a tres.”

This giant pile of crap on my shoulder literally stopped me in my tracks. I wanted to throw up, cry and laugh at the same time. What a trifecta of emotions. This very sweet asian woman who was running in the other direction saw the whole thing and ran up to me, clearly seeing I was stunned and shit covered. She said, “don’t worry, that is good luck, and that’s a lot of luck!”

Remember that scene in ‘Jurassic Park’ where they happen on the giant pile of poop— that’s what was on my shoulder, so I immediately cut my work out short and headed back home. I didn’t feel lucky at all. I felt like maybe this was a sign from the universe to leave New York.

I threw the tank top I was wearing directly in the garbage, never wanting to see it again. In the shower, I used all the soap, aggressively scrubbing feeling like I’d never be clean again, scalding my body with hot water.

Later that Sunday, I’d walked to the movie theater to meet my friend Greg to see the new ‘Mortal Kombat’ movie (which was a lot of fun and filled with great jokes). Under bridges or subways, I walked with a particular caution and fear, paying extra attention to shit stained sidewalks.

Monday morning comes and I wake up to two rejection letters of writing jobs I had applied to. Good grief. The weight of piling up rejections was feeling heavier and heavier. Sure, being a writer was always going to be difficult, but I believed with the combination of talent and hard work, it was possible. And through the years something has always come up, but there’s a lingering dread that you’re luck as run out and it turns out I have little other hirable skills besides being a creative writer.

So, I was slow to get moving on Monday, feeling blue. But it was my plan to go to the laundromat and bring my laptop to do some writing while my clothes spin in suds. When I stepped out my door, it smelled like something was burning which I found odd but then remembered I had to move my car for alternate side parking. I went back inside for my car keys, moved my car, and upon walking up the stairs to my apartment I saw smoke coming from my neighbor Harry’s front yard space.

Quickly, I ran next door. Harry is a retired doctor and one of my best friends in Astoria. He frequently hosts BBQ’s where we eat, drink, smoke joints and laugh. Harry has one of the best outdoor set ups in Astoria, plus an outstanding garden and a collection of friends who are colorful Queens characters, including myself.

The plant pot directly in front of his front door was on fire and melting. The soil was spilling over and the area was in flames, nearly a foot high. Harry is a smoker, so he likely put a butt in the planter and perhaps chemicals in the soil heated in a smolder and then the pot caught on fire.

“HARRY, YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE!” I banged on his front door. It was locked. Then, I ran to the side of the house to turn the hose on. The hose coil, however, was directly in the fire and also melting. Then, I realized there was a propane tank inches from the fire, so I grabbed that and moved it away, unsure if it was full or not. There was also an aerosol can in the fire I was afraid would explode at me. I banged on Harry’s windows, “HARRY ARE YOU IN THERE, THERE’S A FIRE!”

I grabbed the hose and turned it on. Even though the hose was leaking from where it was melting, it still sprayed water and as I’m hosing the fire, I’m calling Harry who isn’t picking up. In somewhat of a panic, and also not at all a fire expert, I called the Fire Department in fears the fire would spread. But as I’m on the phone with the Fire Department, I’m able to reduce to fire to smoke and I tell them I think I actually have it under control and may have overreacted.

They tell me they have to send someone anyway since I called and to wait there. It’s not long before a fire truck shows up and three Firefighters get off the truck. I tell them what happened and show them the after math. They survey the scene and decide there is no more danger. “Thank you for your service,” they said to me. I apologized, feeling bad I made the come, because I got scared. They said I did the right thing.

[The aftermath of the fire.]

The fire department leaves and I’m still worried about Harry. Most likely, he was just sleeping, but I recently took a CPR/First Aid class and my mind ran to bad places. It was tempting for me to ask the Fire Department to break down his door just to check on him. But my paranoia was quickly laid to rest when Harry opened his door, “what is going on out here?”

“Harry! You missed all the excitement!”

As I told him the story, Harry stared at the destroyed planter, pile of ashes and melted hose. He had put out a cigarette in the planter and napped through the whole ordeal. He thanked me and I gave him a hug, happy that he was okay and his house wasn’t engulfed in flames. With my blood pressure spiked, I continued to the laundromat texting friends and calling my mom, telling them about the ordeal… “this unemployed loser is a hero today!” My one friend said maybe I should consider being a fire fighter. Hell no! That was terrifying.

Another friend suggested the bird shit on my shoulder really was lucky. Maybe for Harry, I thought. But later that night, luck did strike me, and not in the form of being shit on. And also not in the form of averting a crisis. Finally, an email with good news. A production company is interested in one of my screenplays.

Maybe being shit on is good luck after all.