_ The Chicken Man
He stepped onto the front porch, wearing only his exhausted yellow y-fronts and a morning erection. He put the boom box down to his left, slapped the whole, raw chicken onto the rusted metal patio chair to his right. The sun was beginning to climb its way over the mountains, casting a murky lavender gray light over the valley, turning the hills into hulking black beasts crawling forward for the kill. He stretched, scratched through the white hairs on his belly, heaved a yawn. Let it out and pressed play on the boom box. The old cassette squeaked to life, emitting the soft popping and crackling of a recording made from a vinyl LP. While the song cued, he grabbed the legs of the chicken and hoisted it over his head, back arched, right foot forward, waiting to begin.
At first I was afraid, I was petrified … just thinking I could never live without you by my side …
His right foot tapped. His chin lifted higher. The music picked up tempo and his paralysis broke.
He shimmied, his eyes dropped to slits flashing only the whites. Gloria Gaynor told her unfaithful lover to go on now, GO!, walk out the DOOR! He flung the chicken to the right, single-handed, then back to the left. It was tearing at the joint of what would have been its groin, the legs dangerously close to becoming unhinged, almost sending the chicken on its first flight. But somehow, the legs held.
He mimicked the moves of the voodoo dancers from the National Geographic special he had watched early this morning—or late last night, depending on how you looked at it—contorting his torso in concave then convex arcs, swinging the chicken in large circles over his head. He stomped, he strutted, his baggy saggy shorts slid down to reveal the crack of his skinny, wrinkly old ass. The lank clumps of his long white hair whipped his face and neck. Even in the cool morning mountain, sweat dripped down his chest, his back. His erection bobbed like a divining rod.
The song wound down, faded away. His frenzied maneuvering slackened, then ceased all together as he fell back into the cold metal chair, panting. He lowered the chicken to his lap, contemplated the now dislocated legs. He would fry them up later and have them for lunch.
He stepped onto the front porch, wearing only his exhausted yellow y-fronts and a morning erection. He put the boom box down to his left, slapped the whole, raw chicken onto the rusted metal patio chair to his right. The sun was beginning to climb its way over the mountains, casting a murky lavender gray light over the valley, turning the hills into hulking black beasts crawling forward for the kill. He stretched, scratched through the white hairs on his belly, heaved a yawn. Let it out and pressed play on the boom box. The old cassette squeaked to life, emitting the soft popping and crackling of a recording made from a vinyl LP. While the song cued, he grabbed the legs of the chicken and hoisted it over his head, back arched, right foot forward, waiting to begin.
At first I was afraid, I was petrified … just thinking I could never live without you by my side …
His right foot tapped. His chin lifted higher. The music picked up tempo and his paralysis broke.
He shimmied, his eyes dropped to slits flashing only the whites. Gloria Gaynor told her unfaithful lover to go on now, GO!, walk out the DOOR! He flung the chicken to the right, single-handed, then back to the left. It was tearing at the joint of what would have been its groin, the legs dangerously close to becoming unhinged, almost sending the chicken on its first flight. But somehow, the legs held.
He mimicked the moves of the voodoo dancers from the National Geographic special he had watched early this morning—or late last night, depending on how you looked at it—contorting his torso in concave then convex arcs, swinging the chicken in large circles over his head. He stomped, he strutted, his baggy saggy shorts slid down to reveal the crack of his skinny, wrinkly old ass. The lank clumps of his long white hair whipped his face and neck. Even in the cool morning mountain, sweat dripped down his chest, his back. His erection bobbed like a divining rod.
The song wound down, faded away. His frenzied maneuvering slackened, then ceased all together as he fell back into the cold metal chair, panting. He lowered the chicken to his lap, contemplated the now dislocated legs. He would fry them up later and have them for lunch.
