He kept the caged fowl in a metal building he called ‘my old chicken shed.’ Not any particular shed, but a full-blown garage. The structure featured an overhead sliding door, mirroring the kind I have on my own suburban home. But I was far from home, and this was not the time to second-guess the man’s choices.
He didn’t offer us sweet tea. He didn’t offer a bite to eat. But he did offer a quick tour of ‘the babies.’ Nestled in individual wire cages, I saw 11 full-grown chickens and roosters arranged on folding tables in the shed. They were quiet. Some of them appeared to be sleeping but roused when we entered the garage. The clucks and screams that emerged from their frantic beaks and angry, feathered faces seemed to remind me that I was in further unknown territory.
I saw a TV mounted in the corner. Cables ran out from the machine through the top of the shed and onto his home’s inputs from what I could tell. Incredulously, I asked him ‘What do they like to watch?’
I wasn’t sure what I expected him to say, if anything at all. I was frightened. This was the first time I’d been to his home and I had been warned several times before that he was a ‘little rough around the edges’ and prone to fits of yelling. ‘Remember what he did last spring?,’ I was asked. No, of course I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember. I wasn’t sure if I should have extended a single syllable. But he answered, amazingly.
‘The mean ones like to watch The Price is Right,’ he said, laughing at the absurdity of it all. ‘Nah, really, I don’t know. But I like to watch it with them. It’s comforting before showtime, you know?’ He motioned to one of the wire cages that housed a large red and white flecked rooster. ‘That one, he loves takin’ a guess, don’t you Red?’ The man laughed out loud and I found myself laughing alongside him.
That’s when it hit me. This man spends more money and time with these birds than he has spent on his children. The adjacent single-story home next to the ‘chicken shed’ needed new siding and the truck needed a new muffler, paint, and some hope. The lake air moved around us causing the leaves to whisper as we spoke.
After a few moments, the angry screams slowed to frustrated clucks, then silence. He flipped on the TV, changed the channel to ESPN, and turned on the interior fans. He didn’t want his babies to ‘get all worked up for nothing,’ he said. I found myself nodding absently. But what business do I have with this knowledge? None.
I cautiously thanked him for his time. I walked outside and ran my hands through my hair, tried to exude a sense of calm, and I waited for my friend to finish his conversation so we could leave. Promises were made to meet again. A few bills passed from one hand to another, and a plastic Dollar General bag was traded. I didn’t ask any more questions.
The man headed back into the chicken shed and closed the door. We returned to the car, and eventually, made our way back into town, guided by a sandy, twisting road, and bright moonlight.
Melissa Wabnitz Pumayugra is a writer based out of central Texas who enjoys a great tall tale and a medium iced coffee. Her work centers around identity, cultural phenomena, and embracing the past. Her photography and writing can be found in Sybil Journal, Oklahoma Today, Red Door Magazine, Vox Poetica and in many obscure publications scattered throughout the globe. Find Melissa on Twitter at @Mel_the_puma.
Photo by Arib Neko on Unsplash.
