The waitress stands over me. I can feel her shadow as it envelope me. I can sense the gravity of her cheap starchy ass. I can sense the apron of her aged boobs.
She leans closer.
Her back and shoulders stoop into a tired question mark. She clutches her hen-scratched order pad before her like a holy paper shield, a weary interrogative awaiting an answer.
"So what do you want?"
Always the hard questions first.
What do I want?
Another life.
A marriage that isn't in the dirtiest phase of a death-by-attrition divorce.
A day job that doesn't involve selling my time and lack of interest.
A shot at immortality.
"Eggs," I say. "Give me eggs, fried in sunny sided optimism. Four strips of bacon, charred like St. Joan's pelvis bone. A couple of slices of hot buttered toast as bland as a generic greeting card."
I give her my best smile.
She ignores it.
"Eggs," she says with a nod of her chaos-haystack blonde sprayed hair.
She's right.
Why waste words?
She walks to the kitchen.
I sit.
Waiting.
The coffee gets colder.
Godot doesn't arrive.
I look at the ceiling.
I try to remember the last time I was truly happy. It doesn't come to me all at once. Memory never happens the way it happens in stories. It's confused, twisted, jumbled. Memory is a refrigerator that rarely gets cleaned.
Once a decade you rearrange.
Reprioritize.
You check the expiration date on the milk.
You sniff the eggs suspiciously and you throw out what cannot be preserved. You make compost offerings out of rotted fruits and forgotten jars of sauerkraut.
There is strength in divesture.
Sacrifice must be made.
Damn it.
I am dying from caution.
It is happening slowly.
"Here you go."
She reaches over my shoulder, a reveille from reverie. She sets a plate before me. I feel the weight of one of her heavy breasts, soft against my shoulder blade. It is a good feeling, like being born again. Something moves deep inside me. A warmth I haven't felt for a long time.
"Enjoy," she says.
Then I see what's on my plate - sitting there, like a coil of shit on a china cake platter, a large brown chicken pecking listlessly at a handful of undetermined grain.
A chicken?
I look up at the waitress.
I try another smile and hazard a joke.
"Are you trying to pullet my leg?"
It's got to be some kind of a gag. Maybe I've won something. Maybe I'm the one millionth customer to order chicken.
She looks at me. "I'm sorry?"
I hate that. People who say they're sorry, when they mean they didn't hear or understand.
It's sloppy English.
Wasted words.
"What's this?"
I point at the pecking bird, bringing on an instant Ice Age, just that fast.
The waitress's face petrifies into a slow blank slate.
"Eggs," she answers in a flat monotone.
"Yes," I agree. "I asked for eggs."
"Correct."
I point at the chicken. It snaps at my finger with its beak, like my finger was actually a large pink worm.
"That's a chicken. Where are my eggs?"
"They're coming."
"They're coming?"
She points at the chicken. I give her a grin to show her humor is appreciated.
I swear the chicken grins back at me.
"The chicken comes first," she says.
It's a joke.
It's got to be some kind of joke.
"So who's on first?" I ask.
She stares at me.
Maybe she isn't an Abbot and Costello fan.
"You asked for eggs," she says. "But the chicken comes first."
I'm hungry and pissed off.
I hammer the table with the side of my fist to make a point. The chicken emits an indignant squawk. Apparently I've broken some point of poultry procedure.
"Where are my eggs?"
"There's a problem?"
I hear a voice from behind me.
The voice sounds big, and really close.
I turn around.
There's a large man in kitchen whites. A beak of a nose. A head, as bald as an ostrich egg.
It's the cook.
He scuffs his feet in front of me, like he's scraping off dirt.
"Is there a problem?" he repeats.
He bobs his head forward, tucks his fists beneath his armpits, a run-to-seed Mr. Clean attempting a sorry funky chicken. I ignore what I figure to be a pitiful attempt at physical wit. I'm too busy trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
"Of course there's a problem." I point at the chicken. The bird pluckily snaps again. "Where are my eggs?"
"They're coming," the cook says.
I can't believe my ears.
I rack my memory.
Is this April the first? Maybe some national chicken holiday that I'm unaware of? The chicken clucks as if I'd tried to pluck it raw. It poofs its feathers up in an apparent attempt to emulate the waitress's amok bouffant. Then it stands and looks at its feet in surprise.
There, upon the metal dinner platter, is an egg.
The cook and waitress point at what's supposed to be the answer to my problem.
"There's your egg," she says.
"I'm not eating that," I say.
"Why not," the cook asks. "It's an egg."
"It came out of that chicken's ass."
"Well where did you think eggs came from?"
"Not on my plate. Not at my table."
The chicken sits down.
"That's an egg. Fresh, too," the cook says. "I don't see what your problem is."
The chicken squawks.
It puffs itself up and repeats the process.
This time when it stands, there are three eggs upon my plate. It has laid the last two at once.
"Two in one," the cook points out. "That's rarer than double yolks. That's a good luck sign for sure."
I shake my head.
"I'm not eating those eggs."
"But they're your eggs. You asked for them. She laid them for you."
There's a sound.
I listen closely.
One of the eggs cracks open.
"Is it hatching all ready?" the waitress asks.
A piss yellow chick pokes its wet sticky head from beneath its mother's feathered ass.
I can't believe my eyes.
"Oh my god."
"From whom all blessings flow," the waitress crows.
I hear the sound of more cracking, like static on an untuned radio.
"Praise him, egg and yolk." the cook calls out, with another furtive funky chicken step.
I stand up, nearly overturning my chair. Two more chicks peek out from the plate.
Then the chicken squawks and lays a fourth egg.
I step right back.
The chicken hops from the plate to the floor.
"You can't go." the cook says.
"You can't leave your eggs behind," the waitress adds.
I move for the door, brandishing a butter knife: a salesman is trained in all forms of martial defense. "You can't stop me."
"You have to pay for your eggs." the cook repeats.
I shake my head and back away.
"I'm not paying for those eggs," I say. "They're raw."
"Correct," the waitress says.
"You have to pay," the cook says. "They're your eggs."
I reach behind my back to open the door. The chicken bustles past me, chicks in tow. I ignore the chicken rush. I've got more important things to worry about than chickens.
I turn to run.
Feet, beat the street.
The last thing I see of the restaur
ant is the cook standing in the doorway.
"Sooner or later you have to pay for your eggs." he calls after me.
It strikes me strange, how calmly he says that.
There's no time for that now.
I run.
My car is back there, but so are the chickens.
I'm not taking any chances.
It's hard to run down a busy city street. I feel like a salmon, bucking the stream. People push past me like I'm not even there. A mailman stares as I run past him.
"You ought to pay for your eggs," he says, or maybe I just imagine it.
I continue to run.
My heart feels like it might break open, but I don't dare stop until I reach the bus stop. I'm home free, free for all, all the outs are free. I lean against the signpost, panting like a winded hound.
I'm free.
I've escaped.
What has been going on?
"Are these your chickens?"
I look up.
A policeman stands there, his arms loaded with half a dozen fully grown chickens, and another armload and three entire pockets full of baby chicks.
"Are these your chickens?" The policeman repeats.
I try to explain, but the policeman isn't listening today. He pushes the chickens at me.
"I ought to take you in. You can't be running around with chickens. There are laws against the unlicensed exercising of barnyard fowl. Haven't you heard of the poultry flu?"
I shake my head, too tired to think.
"Chicken flew?" I ask. "I didn't know chickens could fly." .
"You're darned tooting they can't. And that's why you're responsible for these eggs."
He hands me a hatful of eggs.
I cradle the eggs gently, nesting them in the pockets of my suit jacket, my briefcase, and wherever else I can find room to fit them.
The bus hisses to a halt in front of me.
I jump back, startled.
The door levers open.
I climb on board, holding my fare out with one egg filled hand.
The chickens clamber up the stairs behind me.
"Hey," the driver says. "You have to pay for your chickens."
I'm tired of arguing.
I open my wallet and drop a twenty dollar bill in the driver's hand.
"Keep the change," I say.
I stumble to my seat. The chickens heap in around me. They're soft and warm and somehow comforting.
The bus moves forward.
Someone sits down in front of me.
I know who it is before he even turns around.
"Are those your chickens?"
I look at the cook. He's sitting there, so calmly - like we'd just met.
In a way, I suppose we had just met.
"I asked for them," I nod with a big friendly smile.
I'm learning
The cook reaches into his pocket.
He pulls out a handful of grain.
Of course.
Everyone carries grain in their pockets.
He probably wears beef jerky braided into his hatband and a dog chew stick tucked like a cigar in his vest pocket.
The cook keeps on talking.
"I like chickens. They're a holy animal in some parts of the world. A sign of wealth and security. It makes sense, doesn't it? If you own chickens you've got eggs and meat whenever you want them. Autonomy. Emerson would have approved."
"I don't want them."
"You asked for them, didn't you?"
He keeps feeding the chickens. One of them squats in the seat beside the cook and lays another handful of eggs. The eggs begin cracking.
The cook keeps on talking.
"Fecund little bastards, aren't they? The Persians believed that chickens were a form of immortality. They offered new life every day. The sun trapped inside an egg. I needn't tell you about the giant who kept his heart and his whole life, tucked inside a single egg."
"Needn't you?"
I look at the eggs.
There's so many.
How many?
I have to know.
I begin poking them off, one-two-three.
"Don't do that." the cook warns.
"What?"
"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched." he smiles. It's almost a friendly smile.
Almost friendly enough to make me want to smile back.
"Life is full of surprises," the cook adds.
Great.
I'm travelling with a flock of chickens and Forrest Gump.
I stare gloomily at the chickens.
"You're not just whistling 'Chicken Train'," I tell him.
The cook smiles, and winks, like I've cracked a very funny joke.
He keeps on talking.
"They've been used for prognostication throughout the years. Priests would read the future in the windings of their entrails. A gypsy woman in Tirgu Mures used to lay a box of sand and pebbles and brightly colored rocks for the chicken to scratch in. She would read the future according to where the chicken scratched its tracks."
I listen glumly.
"They had a chicken at the World's Fair who could play tic-tac-toe and win, if you let it play first. It knew the secrets of life and death. That bird could guess your weight and age and peck out the numbers on an Underhill typewriter."
"Is that so?"
More chickens sprout and grow.
It happens at a geometric rate.
I wonder if this is some sort of alien invasion.
The invasion of the unidentified frying objects.
The cook keeps talking. "It's a shame what finally happened. Someone kidnapped the chicken. They held it for ransom. It died from a broken heart."
He shakes his great bald head sadly.
"He should have paid for that chicken."
The bus pulls to a stop.
"Is this your stop?" I ask.
"No," the cook says. "I've paid for further on."
Then he bows to me, like it's an honor for him to meet me.
I push my way to the front of the bus.
"There are more chickens here then you paid for," the driver notes.
"Put it on their bill," I numbly mumble.
I walk off the bus and down the sidewalk, a pied piper followed by a thousand feathered rats.
I'm no longer even trying to run away.
What's the point?
These are my chickens.
I asked for them.
I walk into the lobby. It's a tough trick to fit all of the chickens into the elevator, but I manage. We ride up four floors together, the chickens clucking softly to themselves, as if wondering about their destination.
Their clucking is restful.
Or maybe I'm just that tired.
I allow myself to be gently herded towards my apartment door.
Apartment 505.
I stare a long time at the zero.
It's funny, how egglike nothing can be.
I open the door. I step aside to allow the chickens into my apartment.
"Make yourself at home."
They clamber over the furniture. They perch atop my stereo and bookshelves. They clutter about the carpet and the laundry hamper.
I'm tired.
I slump upon the couch.
The chickens watch closely, their heads flicking like restless snakes. Who was it who defined a play as being the moment in which the chickens came home to roost?
Tennessee Ernie Ford?
I can't remember.
It's too hard to think of anything.
The chickens keep watching.
Clucking softly, like a flock of conspiracy whisperers.
I watch them right back. At least they've stopped laying eggs.
That's funny. I cackle, startling one hen into a nervous short winged hop.
That was funny too.
I decide to taunt them.
"A watched chicken never boils." I call out.
They keep on watching.
"I'm not afraid o
f you."
They still keep on watching.
"You stinking bunch of chickens."
I fall asleep with the chickens watching over me.
I dream of Colonel Sanders. The old southerner, looking at me, all antebellum and sagacious in his dapper white suit coat and his carefully knotted string tie.
"There has to be a sacrifice," he whispers.
He pokes me with his gnarled black cane. There's a chicken claw on the head of it, clutching a great carved egg. The colonel pinches me, like a cannibal testing a would-be feast.
He's tenderizing me.
I awake beneath the weight of a roosting chicken. It looks like the original chicken from the restaurant, but I can't be certain. All chickens look alike, even now.
Is that some form of avian racism?
The chicken stares at me, its eyes like beads of red corn, hard and unblinking.
"Go for it," I say. "Let's play, chicken."
I keep staring.
The chicken stares right back.
Minutes pass.
Sweat beads and crawls across my forehead and brow.
"I'm not cracking," I warn the chicken.
The chicken keeps staring.
Then it pecks a button off of my shirt.
Ha.
The damn bird is trying to break my concentration.
No way.
I keep on staring.
The chicken pecks another button. A second bird lands upon my left arm. A third rests heavily upon my right.
I keep on staring, determined to get the best of this chicken.
I can't let them beat me.
The chicken pecks another button. My shirt flops open like a loosened wound. Two more chickens mount my arms. I feel others on my legs. How many more, I can't be certain.
I try to move, but I've sat still for too long. My limbs are number than rubber chicken wings.
It doesn't matter.
I keep on staring.
The chicken pecks at my bellybutton.
"Damn!"
I snap.
I try to rise up.
The chicken pecks again.
Again and again.
I struggle beneath the weight of all these chickens.
Pecking.
Pecking.
There are chickens all over me. Jackhammer-jamming their beaks into me, like dirty orange pincer hooks, tearing, ripping, tearing, pecking.
I scream into a mouthful of beating dusty feathers.
The birds keep on pecking.
I thrash and flap my arms.
I try to stand up.
Pecking.
Pecking.
I look down and see the bird with something long and wet and sausage-like in its beak.
Spaghetti?
The bird tugs.
I feel a sharp pain.
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