Feral Chickens

by C. McGee

  “What can I do for you, beautiful?” he asked.

  I glanced at the barbwire tattoo around his arm, the diamond stud in his ear, the gold chain around his neck, and the three people that he was ignoring in order to wait on me, and said, “Get me five shots of tequila, a pitcher of beer, and then punch yourself in the junk.”

  The guys that were waiting at the bar laughed. The thick girl started to do the same but then checked her amusement. She liked that I told the bartender off, but she didn’t like that I was pretty and told the bartender off. On some level she knew that she would have received his compliments with a flattered smile, and that knowledge prevented her from enjoying the dismissive jab that I delivered. When the bartender responded to my cutting remark by timidly pouring the drinks, the chubby girl’s face shifted into a disapproving scowl.

  As the drinks arrived so did a hand on my shoulder. “You have a bad day, girl?” Koa said, gesturing at the five glasses of tequila that sat in front of me.

  “No. I just really like drinking,” I replied with a wink.

  “Well, we have that in common.”

  “What about you? Rough day? On my way in I heard you talking to your friend and you sounded kind of angry.” I expected Koa to casually dismiss the frustration that I had observed, but he didn’t.

  “Yeah, I was angry,” he replied. “You see that big fucker that’s sitting at my table over there.”

  “How could I miss him,” I replied. Seated at Koa’s table was a giant Hawaiian man. He was well over six and a half feet tall and very well over three hundred pounds. He hadn’t been there when we walked in. I would have noticed.

  “His name’s ‘A’amakualenalena, and he’s a pain in my ass.”

  My eyes widened as Koa said the man’s name.

  Koa laughed, “Everyone calls him, Tiny. I just said his given name so I could see your reaction.”

  “Well played old man. Were you sufficiently entertained by my shocked face?”

  “I suppose,” he said with a chuckle.

  “So why is the big bastard a pain in your ass?”

  “He’s just got the foolish temperament of a brash young man,” Koa replied. It seemed an honest, albeit vague, response. I considered further inquiry but decided it wasn’t my place. I was about to offer up a change of subject when Koa did it for me.

  “What happened here?” he asked, indicating a spot near the bridge of his nose.

  Confused, I touched the corresponding spot on my own face. “Oh,” I said, comprehension dawning on me, “the goddamn chickens happened.”

  Koa was referring to a faint bruise that ran under my right eye toward my nose, a souvenir from my collision with the rich kid. It had been a few days since the bruise had developed and even at its peak, it was hardly noticeable. It was an odd thing for Koa to bring up, especially in such a discordant fashion. It was as if he was grasping for a way to change the subject without making it obvious that he was grasping for a way to change the subject.

  “The chickens gave you that bruise, huh?” he queried, urging the conversation down its new path.

  “Yeah,” I replied, acquiescing to the subject change. “I was walking behind some kid when a big ass rooster flew out of the woods at him. The kid got startled, jumped backward, and slammed his skull into my nose.”

  “So what you’re really saying is a cowardly kid gave you that bruise,” Koa said, readopting his normal, easy tone.

  “Nope,” I insisted. “It was the chickens. The chickens are always to blame.”

  “Well, I won’t argue with that statement. Those things are the worst. Intruders doing their best to ruin paradise.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You know, back in the day I was almost killed by one of those fuckers.”

  “Killed? By a chicken?” I said with a skeptical grin. “And you questioned me when I said that one gave me a bump on the nose.”

  “Yeah, well, pretty young ladies are prone to dramatization,” he winked. “Whereas noble gentlemen such as myself never exaggerate.”

  “Oh, of course not.” I said, returning the sarcasm. “So, how did this chicken try and take you out? Claws to the jugular? Sucked into your airplane engine? Salmonella?”

  “A knife.”

  “That’s not surprising. Wild chickens are known for their knife skills. Where did he hold it? His talons? His beak?”

  “Beak. It was a classic chicken-beak-knife maneuver.”

  “Mmm-hmm. I’ve seen it a million times.” I said. Then, transitioning away from facetiousness, “No, but seriously, how did the chicken almost kill you? What happened?”

  “It was quite a few years back,” Koa said, suddenly adopting the tone of a natural storyteller. “During my young and impervious years, back when I was both brave and foolish.”

  Enjoying the campfire feel of Koa’s introduction, I shifted my bar stool toward him settling in for the story.

  Taking note of my interest, Koa grinned at me and then continued on in his raconteur style. “Back in those days my friends and I spent nearly every waking moment outside. We didn’t just live on the island, we were connected to the island, we were part of it, and it was part of us, or at least that’s how it felt. Sadly, that feeling is gone now, departed along with my youth. In fact, it left me that very day. The day the chicken almost killed me. But the chicken can’t be blamed for its disappearance. That feeling would have left anyway. It was always temporary; I knew that. That’s why I was nostalgic for it even as it happened.” Koa’s voice faded out, as though he were retreating into his own thoughts. After a second’s pause, he gave a swift shake of his head, took a drink of his beer, and then resumed talking, his voice livelier his mind more present. He jumped ahead in the story. “It was especially rainy that day, the day that I got stabbed. My friends and I didn’t think much of it; we had been out hunting in worse. Shit, we had been out surfing in worse. We didn’t even check the TV or the radio; we just headed into the interior of the island in search of some boar. We brought along our knives and our reliable dogs, same as always. The first couple of hours were fairly uneventful. The skies gradually darkened and the rain steadily picked up as we made our way deeper into the interior, but still we weren’t concerned. We would get a little bit wetter and a little bit muddier, but we would be fine. We were on our island, and on our island we were impervious. Or so we thought.

  “The first sign of trouble came in the form of a mudslide. We didn’t see it happen but we could tell that it was a recent occurrence. It should have given us pause but it didn’t. We dismissed it without hesitation. If I recall correctly one of my friends even cracked a joke, something about having taken shits bigger than that mudslide. So we proceeded on, making our way through increasingly thicker brush and increasingly heavier rain. We kept up our normal conversation, discussing girls and my friend’s new surfboard and the big swim race across Hanalei Bay. It was as if nothing had happened. Maybe we acted that way because no one wanted to seem weak in front of his friends, or maybe because we were legitimately untroubled. I suspect the latter. We honestly believed that the island was with us that day, that it was with us every day, that it would do us no harm, but the second landslide changed all that.

  “The moment that we laid eyes on the second mudslide we were immediately struck by an inescapable feeling of insignificance, although it was only slightly larger than the first slide, it felt infinitely more powerful, and in a weird way, more indifferent. Trees were turned over, their roots shooting absurdly toward the sky; a creek was damned up, its water spilling out in search of a new home; our old hunting trail was overrun, rocks and mud erasing it from existence; the entire landscape was different, foreign, unsettling. The slide had changed everything, and it had shown regard for nothing. I hated the way it made me feel, I refused to accept it, and I didn’t. When the dogs took off up the mountain, toward what was left of the creek, I followed them, alone. The sight of the slide had driven hunting from the minds of my friends but not from m
ine. I wanted to get a boar. I had to get a boar. Semblance needed to be restored. I followed the barking dogs across overturned earth, past fallen trees, and through what was left of the creek. The pursuit was my singular focus. I didn’t stop when a rush of water came down the mountain and knocked me off of my feet, and I didn’t stop when I looked out toward the ocean and saw a giant waterspout making its way toward the coast. I couldn’t stop. I had to get the boar, to do what I had always done. It was the only way to put things back in order.

  “Finally, after three or thirty minutes of chasing, I caught up with the boar. The dogs had it by the ear, by the tail, and by the side; it had nowhere to go. With my knife in hand I moved forward slowly, savoring the moment that was about to come, the moment that I would take the pig down, the moment that I would put things right. Oblivious to the pouring rain and the barking dogs and the sodden earth, I placed my left hand on the boar’s shoulder and pulled the knife back with my right. Feeling an undeniable sense of relief, I took a second for myself. I took a second to acknowledge the significance of the moment. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and then exhaled slowly. It was an instant of equanimity, of sanity, of congruity, perhaps my last.

  “The moment to myself complete, I opened my eyes and focused them on the spot in the neck where I would plunge the blade. My gaze remained fixed as I clinched the weapon’s hilt. Acknowledging that it was time, I drove the knife forward, toward the boar, toward normalcy, toward consonance. At that exact moment, the earth slid again. It didn’t move much, just a few inches. The dogs kept hold of the boar, and I stayed on my feet. My knife missed its target and a couple of golf ball size rocks were dislodged from the uphill side of the mountain, but other than that the minor ground shift caused no harm. I shrugged it off. I reset myself, returning my focus to the boar and the knife. Within a matter of seconds, I was ready to strike again; my feet planted firmly, my left hand on the pig’s back, my right grasping the knife handle. Determined, I plunged the blade forward once more, and once more things went awry. This time, however, it wasn’t the ground that caused my miss, it was a chicken.

  “Evidently, my focus on the boar had been so intent that it had left me blind to my surroundings. I was completely ignorant to the fact that one of the small stones that had been released by the most recent ground shift had tumbled passed myself, and the dogs, and the boar, and into a nearby bush. The moment that it connected with the shrub, the largest rooster I’ve ever seen burst forth, its frenzied appearance coinciding precisely with the strike of my knife. The beating wings and scratching claws of the bird threw me off balance. My plunging blade glanced off the boar’s shoulder. The errant strike having thrown me off balance, I tumbled onto the pig’s back. The chicken descended with me, refusing to release its talons from my face. It was a maelstrom of feathers and rain and blood and mud. Reacting to the scene, the boar found one final reserve of energy. It flipped me off its back and ran, its rear hooves connecting with my shoulder and head as it accelerated away. The mud and barking dogs and kicking hooves were too much for the rooster; he finally released his talons and took off. The dogs followed in pursuit of both the chicken and the boar. Sprawled out in the mud, a sharp pain in my side, my senses and mind overwhelmed, my body aching, I watched as the tail of the last dog disappeared into the bush. The animals having dispersed, the scene calmed. The pattering of rain and the ragged exhalation of my lungs slowly replaced the tumult of the previous minutes. Rather than getting up, I continued to lay there, sprawled out, belly down in the mud. My face turned toward the side, I looked out on the ocean. In the past you couldn’t have seen the coastline from that location, but that was no longer the case, the mudslide had removed all obstructions. The path in front of me was clear. I could see everything. It was awful and it was wonderful and I couldn’t look away. So I didn’t look away, not for a long time anyway. Not until the storm passed and the sun burst through the clouds. That’s when I finally sat up, and that’s when I realized that there was a knife sticking out of my side. Somehow, I had managed to stab myself. It should have shocked me, but it didn’t. All I remember thinking is, That’s unfortunate.

  “The rest of the guys found me a couple minutes later. They helped me get back to the car, and drove me to a hospital where I spent the next few days. So … yeah, that’s how a chicken almost killed me,” Koa finished lamely. The last few words he spoke were delivered in a tone that was discordant with the rest of his story, as if the burden of telling it had exhausted him, rendered him incapable of finishing.

  Unsure of what to say, I sat quietly, allowing Koa to collect himself. After a few seconds of staring at his beer, he spoke up again, his voice back to its normal joviality.

  “Needless to say, I’m not a big fan of the chickens.”

  “I’m with you there,” I replied, handing Koa a shot of tequila while taking another for myself. We clinked the little glasses together and swallowed the clear liquid down in one.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I said, as we placed our shot glasses back on the bar. “I hate those goddamn chickens with the fire of ten million suns, but shouldn’t you blame the land for the whole knife incident. I mean, the mudslide is what made you miss with the first stab, and the tumbling rock is what set the chicken off as you attempted the second. It just seems to me that the island and its natural shifts hurt you just as much as the chicken.”

  I hadn’t intended to question Koa’s interpretation of events, the story seemed to have troubled him and I had no desire to upset him further. Nevertheless, question him I did. It just came out. I couldn’t help myself.

  Fortunately, Koa didn’t seem troubled by my words.

  “I’ve considered that possibility many times,” he said, “many times. And you know what, girl? Maybe that’s the right way to look at it.”

  I smiled at Koa. He smiled back and then slid off his stool, gave my shoulder a friendly squeeze, and said, “We should do this more often, but for now I have to go deal with that big dumb fucker back at my table.”

  “Anytime,” I said. “And good luck with the big dumb fucker.”

  Koa walked back to his seat. I ordered a couple shots of tequila to replace the ones we had drank and then headed back to mine. Once I arrived, I handed out the liquor. Ethan immediately took his, raised it to the center, and said, “To Kauai!” It seemed like a random toast, but that’s probably because I had missed the last fifteen minutes of conversation. Joining in, I raised my little glass and echoed the salute to the island.

  Having swallowed down the booze, the group returned to the conversation that they had been having in my absence. Ignoring the primary discussion, Charlie leaned over to me and asked, “Who was that guy you were talking to?”

  “That’s Koa,” I replied. “That Hawaiian dude I was telling you about. The one that Obama found naked.”

  “Interesting, and what about those guys that are with him? Do you know them?”

  “No. The big one has some long-ass Hawaiian name and the little one hangs out with Koa a lot, but I don’t really know either of them. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” Charlie said with indifference. “Actually, I want to know what to tell the cops when you disappear. Now I know. I’ll tell him that you were probably taken by Koa, a fifty-something Hawaiian man with a history of public nudity.”

  “I swear. He’s not a creeper.”

  “That’s just what creepers want you to think,” Charlie joked.

  “You’re the worst,” I said, while shaking my head and rolling my eyes.

  “Maybe,” Charlie smiled, “but probably not.”

  With a face of exaggerated exasperation I turned back to the main conversation. Smiling like a brother that had successfully antagonized his sister, Charlie did the same. As a group, we finished two more pitchers before calling it a night.

  Chapter 14

  Mongoose Breasts

  I wore a baseball hat and a hoodie to the public library. It was cliché but effective. There probably
weren’t any security cameras, but I didn’t want to take any chances. The whole point of going to the library was to avoid risk. Had I been less concerned with caution, I would have googled “smuggling” on my own computer while lounging on my living room couch.

  In terms of useful information, the Internet search yielded very little. In terms of entertainment the search yielded a great deal. The images that popped up in response to my query kept me mesmerized for over an hour. As it turns out, smugglers are an ingenious lot. Out of all the illegal transportation methods that I read about or saw pictures of, these were my favorite:

  • A Mexican drug cartel built a medieval-style trebuchet that they used to sling marijuana over the border fence.

  • Some low-level dealer molded a whole bunch of cocaine into a huge Jesus cross and then paid some old bitty eighty bucks to bring it through the border check.

  • An organized crime syndicate sent rolls of cash to one of their clients inside a bunch of delicious croissants.

  • A Columbian drug kingpin paid for a group of women to get boob jobs and then sent them on an international flight. Unbeknownst to the busty ladies, their new jugs were filled with blow not silicone.

  • An old man that loved heroin and hated snakes forced a bunch of drug-filled condoms down the throat of a boa constrictor.

  While all of the aforementioned efforts are laudably ingenious, none of them offered a practical solution to my problem. Here’s why:

  • Mongooses can’t be catapulted onto the island, as the impact would probably kill them (even the most resilient animals find survival difficult when they’re treated like ammunition). Also, there are roughly seventy miles between Kauai and Oahu, which is the closest island with a mongoose population. I doubt that a piece of medieval technology can toss a projectile that far.

  • Mongooses can’t be molded into a crucifix because that would hurt their bones, and they need their bones. They find it difficult to hunt chickens without them.