Then I collected myself and had Chuck take a photo of it.
After chronicling it, I tried to wipe my arm in about a 6-square inch splotch of urban weed grass along the boulevard. A man across the street, who magically had a hose on him, asked if I wanted him to wash my arm.
I skittered through traffic and he hosed me down. Later, while browsing in a bookstore, I saw a round hardened ballish clump of crap that he had missed. I flicked it off my arm outside of the store and aside from a questionable stain on the shoulder of my dress, I now seem void of bird butt debris.
I think we should all be very grateful that it was me who was shat upon and not Chuck.
"That's how I know I'm lucky," I said to him. "I mean, who gets shit on and then has a guy just appear with a hose?"
"I don't know," Chuck said. "I think I'm luckier because I didn't get shit on."