Feral Chickens

by C. McGee

  I wasn’t expecting Charlie to jump on Tiny, and I certainly wasn’t expecting him to throw on a chokehold with the confidence and efficiency of an MMA fighter, but that’s exactly what he did. In response Tiny reared backward, slamming Charlie into various objects throughout the kitchen: first the microwave; then the oven, where Tiny unintentionally fired off the loaded round; then the spice rack, where I heard the unnerving sound of a clean bone break; and finally the fridge, where Charlie capitulated, releasing the chokehold and falling to the floor.

  Free to take a breath, Tiny gulped greedily at the air as he pumped another round into place—clack-CLACK. With Yukio now well out of range, my mind quickly speculated about Tiny’s next target. Perhaps it would be no one, perhaps it would be me, I had no fucking idea. What I did know was that I had no intention of sticking around to find out, so I scrambled on all fours down the hallway toward the garage. Halfway there the door in front of me burst open and law enforcement flooded in, authoritatively shouting phrases like “freeze” and “drop your weapon.” I didn’t have a weapon so I didn’t drop anything, but I did freeze. The KPD or FBI or whoever the fuck they were had lots of guns, so I wanted to make them happy.

  Fully prepared to get handcuffed while having a knee shoved in my spine, I was surprised when the cops moved past me without pause. Both hands on their pistols, arms outstretched, they proceeded down the hall with hardly a glance in my direction. Evidently, they had been given a clear target and it was not a skinny blonde girl.

  Eager to move away from all of the guns, I kept my gaze fixed forward, crawling against the stream of law enforcement officers. Only when I made it over the threshold and into the garage did I dare look back, and even then, I did so carefully—positioning my body so that the vast majority of it was hidden behind the wall, my head sticking out just enough for one eye to peer down the corridor.

  In retrospect, I wish I had not looked at all.

  Chapter 42

  Liberation

  In sixth grade, I watched a fight between two of my middle school peers. The reason for the fight evaporated from my memory long ago, as did the outcome and the names of the little assholes that were involved—Andrew Gustafson, maybe? Brandon Larsen? I don’t know. Whatever. It doesn’t fucking matter. The important part is this: the sight, the sound, even the smell of that fight, none of it was what I expected. The entire sensorial experience felt wrong, disconcerting, raw. Hollywood, with its special effects and its talented choreographers and Foley artists, had deceived me. Real fights, I learned that day, are ugly affairs. The sounds they produce are flat, the body movements graceless, the action sporadic. There is no histrionic background music building to an apogee, there is just breathing and anger and adrenaline and pain.

  Watching Tiny get shot, I was reminded of that middle school incident. It was the same in some way, a comparable violation of my understanding of the world, a sudden awareness that my expectations and my experience were irreconcilable. I remember thinking, “That can’t be what it’s like.” But of course that is what it’s like—at least when it comes to intense moments of action. There is no fanfare; there is just the occurrence, straightforward and matter of fact. Although the events leading up to the shooting were dramatic and compelling, the happening in and of itself was a surreally bland affair. Tiny slightly raised the barrel of his gun, which resulted in the police putting five rounds in his chest, which resulted in him slumping to the floor. He didn’t cry out, he didn’t whisper his final thoughts, he just went.

  For five seconds after the shooting occurred, no one spoke. The police moved in cautiously on the mound of human that was once Tiny, pushing away his rifle and checking his vitals, but they did so in a hushed manner, going about their business with the deliberate calm that accompanies an ingrained procedure. Everyone else stood still and silent, the reality of the shooting sinking into them. Quiet disbelief dominated the scene—but only briefly.

  As soon as those five seconds expired, a switch flipped and everything changed. The house went from placid to bedlam in an instant. Letting out a string of expletives, Koa charged Tiny’s corpse and began unleashing blows upon it, swearing at the deceased for his impulsive behavior. The cops, initially taken aback by Koa’s outburst, snapped to and began yelling at him to calm down while simultaneously pulling him off his departed friend. Lana, in a pained yet firm tone, called out for a paramedic. Charlie, holding his ribs and grimacing, attempted to command the scene. Ethan, somewhere distant and out of sight, yelled out my name in concern. Biggie Smalls tilted her head in mild curiosity. And five yards to my left the mongooses rattled their cage.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said to myself, still on all fours, head tilted toward my furry assassins. “I forgot about you guys.”

  On hands and knees I scuttled over to the cage, swearing under my breath as I went, “Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit-shit-shit.”

  It struck me all at once, just how fucked I was. Generally speaking, law enforcement frowns upon the possession of illegal animals, especially when their numbers fringe on small army status, and although they were temporarily distracted by the humongous gunshot victim in my living room, I knew that he would not hold their attention indefinitely. Eventually, they would look around the house, secure the perimeter, clear the scene, whatever the fuck they call it, and as soon as they did, I would be screwed. Huge fine, community service, maybe jail, I didn’t know what the punishment would be but I knew I didn’t want it, and it seemed that the best and most obvious way to avoid it was liberation.

  It was time to set my slinky predators free.

  Having previously experienced the wrath of distraught and confined mongooses, I decided that the garage had to be opened before their release. They needed a clear escape route. The slightly ajar side door, through which the police had come, was not enough. The odds of the mongooses failing to spot it, freaking out, and tearing me to pieces, were too high. Of course opening the garage meant unwanted attention from law enforcement, but it would be worth it. By the time the police made it down the hall to investigate, the silence of mongooses would be long gone, out the door and into the vivid green expanse of Kauai’s windward side wilderness, beginning the end of the chicken’s reign of terror. And without the mongooses what evidence would the cops have against me, an empty cage? Worthless. Not to mention the wonderful possibility that the furry little predators might sneak off completely unnoticed. Mongooses are quick and stealthy, and the police were preoccupied with more grave concerns.

  Proceeding with the plan, I got up off my hands and knees, took two nonchalant steps over to the garage door opener, pressed it, and then took two quick steps back to the cage, stealing a glance down the hall on the return trip. Much to my delight, the police had not seemed to notice. The events in the living room were still dominating their attention; the distant mechanical sound of a rising one-car garage door had not even registered.

  Smiling, I looked down at the mongoose’s cage, moving my hand toward the spring-loaded latch. This was it, the moment I had been working toward, the flick of the first domino, the beginning of the end for the rat-birds. The island was about to be fixed, back to the way it should be. Kauai B.C.—Before Chickens—it seemed impossible. I didn’t even know what the island was like without those clucking, crowing, monstrosities running wild. Nor did half the population for that matter, certainly no one under thirty-five. The mongooses’ release would be a watershed moment. It would rid Kauai of a hallmark characteristic, redefine it for generations to come, forever alter it for those that know it now. With the opening of a small metal door, I was about to change everything. No. Restore everything. All of it back to its proper place. Right?

  For some reason I froze, hand on the latch, anticipatory mongooses piling up frantically by the cage’s exit. Something was amiss. I didn’t feel right, or at least not the way I thought I would, not like a woman that was about to do an undeniably great thing. Instead, I just felt like a woman that was about to do something. Not
something good, not something bad, just something. True, the chickens were obnoxious, but did that mean the island was better off without them? And who’s to say the mongooses would even succeed. And even if they did, would they be any better than the chickens? My gut said yes, but there was no guarantee. Maybe they would be just as obnoxious as the rat-birds, or maybe they would be worse, who knows? Perhaps the fact of the matter was that the chickens belonged here now, just like SPAM and slippahs and kukuis trees, all of them panels in the quilt of the island. Then again, by that same logic, didn’t the mongooses deserve a shot? Given time, couldn’t they become a part of the patchwork as well? And sometimes aren’t panels removed from a quilt for being too ugly and worn, replaced by more desirable material? Sure, it’s hard work substituting a new panel for an old, but oftentimes hard work is the most worthwhile work. I mean if you can make something prettier or more functional you should, shouldn’t you? After all, action tends to be better than idleness—at least the majority of the time.

  “Hey! Girl! What are you doing? Stop right there.” The sound of a policeman’s voice made its way down the hall, snapping me back into the moment. My hand was still on the latch of the cage. I had no idea how long I had been standing there, probably no more than thirty seconds, but it could have been longer, I can’t say for sure. Regardless of the duration of time, I was pissed at myself. I shouldn’t have paused at all. That was foolish. Law enforcement was all around me. I should have taken immediate action, released the mongooses without hesitation, dispensed of the incriminating evidence. I have always despised it when characters in movies halt in the middle of the action in order to embrace or discuss some internal epiphany. It seems supremely unrealistic. Nevertheless, there I was, behaving in the same idiotic fashion as the stars of the big screen, pausing to grapple with my own thoughts while encompassed by a whole mess of cops.

  “Ingrid, you’re such a fucking dummy,” I muttered to myself.

  “Stop. Now. Hand off the cage.” The policeman asserted while taking a step in my direction.

  The moment for a decision was upon me.

  “It’s now or never,” I told myself, trite but accurate words.

  “Freeze! Don’t open that door.” The cop reiterated while transitioning into a brisk jog.

  My hand squeezed momentarily on the latch, I could feel the weight of the mongooses pushing against the door.

  “Stop!” The policeman was nearly at a sprint.

  I opened the door slightly. A furry, whiskered nose peeked out.

  “Don’t!” The cop was two yards away, lowering his shoulder like a linebacker.

  “Fuck it,” I said, closing the cage door back up.

  As the spring on the latch snapped shut, the policeman tackled me to the ground. Then, with the eagerness of a rookie making his first arrest, cuffed my hands behind my back, and commenced with a recitation of my Miranda Rights.

  “Easy, champ,” I sneered, my cheek on the cement floor, the chubby cop on my back. “I’m a slight unarmed woman, not a ‘roided out bodybuilder.”

  Ignoring my derisive retort, the arresting officer yanked me onto my feet and ushered me toward the exit, one hand constantly poised on his holstered gun, the other pushing on my back. The rest of the policemen looked at him with amused disapproval, as though they found his approach more than a tad excessive, but he didn’t seem to notice, marching me toward one of the cop cars with intent. As we approached the cruiser, I fixed my gaze on the reflection in the side window, attempting to make out the face of my captor. I expected to see some anonymous, gung-ho, douche bag with a crew cut, mirrored shades, and a thin mustache. What I actually saw was a face that I had seen before: the shit-cherry from the beach, the one that searched my vehicle in the wake of the whole kayak-shark-mongoose fiasco. He looked smug. Fucking dick.

  Annoyed, I shook my head in frustration as the shit-cherry lowered me into the backseat of the squad car and closed the door. Sitting uncomfortably upright, my knees pressed against the wall dividing the front seat and back, my thumbs tingly from the handcuffs, I looked out the side window at the scene.

  Lana was being lifted into an ambulance, bloodied bandages swaddling her right hand. It seemed fairly serious. Ethan was standing at the base of my steps, looking through the open front door, barred from entering by the young cop that had given me the mongooses. I suspect that he was looking for me, oblivious of the fact that I had been brought around the side. Yukio and Koa, hands cuffed behind their backs, walked side by side toward a pair of black sedans, pushed forward by a woman and a man wearing black bulletproof vests emblazoned with a three letter acronym that I couldn’t make out. A dozen yards to the left of the sedans, two other men wearing the same bulletproof vests stood next to Charlie. The three were conversing. It didn’t look like Charlie was being questioned; it looked like he was briefing colleagues.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said to the interior of the empty cruiser, the duplicitous reality of the situation taking shape in my mind. “No fucking way,” I added as the shit-cherry, looking pleased with himself, received a nod of acknowledgment from Charlie.

  Experiencing a swirl of competing emotions, I shifted my gaze upward toward the towering verdant peak of Mount Waialeale, hoping for its sublime beauty to provide clarity. As always, it was breathtaking, but it didn’t clear up shit. It just stood there, grand and indifferent.

  Some cop I had never seen before slid into the driver’s seat of the car in which I was interned. As he switched on the ignition I moved my attention away from the mountain and back to the mongooses. They were still in their cage in the rear of the garage, scrambling around the confined space. It looked to me as if they were eager and restive, yet confused and unsure. Then again, I might have been projecting.

  Chapter 43

  Six Months Later

  “For dinner? Anything but chicken.”

  That’s what I told my mom as she opened the rental car door. Prison had ruined chicken for me. Six days a week they served it. It was borderline cruel and unusual punishment. Sometimes I wondered if the Hawaiian penal system was intentionally rubbing salt in my wound.

  “Let’s bring you some place classy,” my mom suggested, kissing me on the cheek. “Ya know, celebrate your release properly.”

  “That sounds really nice,” I replied earnestly, attempting to convey a sense of deep appreciation.

  Mom had handled my incarceration remarkably well. She had attended my trial, posted my bail, offered consoling words upon my conviction, shipped me care packages on a regular basis, and conversed with me via phone whenever possible. She even flew down to visit me in prison on two separate occasions—once by herself; a significant gesture considering the distance she had to travel. My dad had also been remarkably reassuring, but that was as expected. I hadn’t been so sure about my mom. It seemed possible that she would disown me or at the very least distance herself, but that never happened. She was supportive from the outset. The day of my arrest, I used my one phone call to contact her. Before I hung up, she had a ticket booked to Hawaii and a lawyer headed over to defend me. Of course, it helped that she found the reason for my arrest ridiculous. (“So hold on, sweetheart, I just don’t understand. You’re in jail for owning mongooses? Well, aren’t those just like ferrets? I mean my friend Patty has two of those, what are they going to do, toss her in the slammer? Good grief. There are terrorists running around all over the place, shouldn’t they be worried about them, not some nice girl with pets.” I believe those were her exact words.) Regardless, I got the impression that even if I had been put away for something more severe, she still would have been by my side. That meant more to me than I could have imagined. Yes, my mother and I are very different people with strikingly disparate worldviews, but when the shit hit the fan, she was there for me, immediately and unequivocally. I like to think that if the roles were reversed, I would have behaved in the same fashion.

  Talking about lighthearted topics, Mom and I drove from the Women’s Correctiona
l Center in Kailua to a posh restaurant in downtown Honolulu. Over dinner she caught me up on what was happening back home. It was routine stuff for the most part—hockey, Dad’s work, church—but there was a sprinkling of more serious fare casually dropped into the mix. Among the heavier topics two stood out as particularly noteworthy: the first being my mother’s change of heart regarding the shifting demographics of our hometown and the second being the recent destruction of her grandparents’ homestead. In regard to the first, my mom’s altered tune was not a complete surprise as the tenor of her language had been subtly shifting for months. Initially, there was just less complaining, but in the waning weeks of my incarceration, she had gone so far as to offer up some plaudits regarding the town’s newcomers. Despite the foreshadowing, it was still a bit jarring to see her adjusted sentiment in person. I never thought I would hear my mom say that she was excited that the Padillas’ were opening a Mexican restaurant a block away from her church. It just seemed so discordant. The fact that she even knew a family with a non-Scandinavian surname struck me as a tad surprising, let alone knew such a family well enough to mention them in an offhanded fashion.

  When I inquired as to what had caused her change of heart, my mom seemed a bit befuddled, as though she wasn’t fully aware that there had been a shift. Then, after a short introspective pause, she forwarded a few possibilities. First, she talked about how a couple of new kids had stuck up for one of my nephews, put an end to the minor bullying that had followed in the wake of the whole duck-duck-gray-duck disaster. Then she discussed how some of the new kids had joined the boy’s hockey team, and how they were remarkably clueless about the sport, yet incredibly eager to learn—a fact that she found endearing. Then she relayed an anecdote about teaching a family how to plug their car’s block heater into a parking lot electrical outlet, emphasizing throughout the story how incredibly appreciative they were.