(Photo by X.A Medina http://lepoet.tumblr.com/)

I need my space. There is this urban legend that Greenpoint is hard to get to. It’s not. But I let the legend live on. Whenever someone asks me how I like Greenpoint, I say, “It’s wonderful, but it’s hard to get to.” I like my own space. I like that the bar next door to my apartment, The Black Rabbit, is oftentimes empty when I go in during the week. I like that I can sit in the same booth each time and drink my beer and read and write and not be disturbed except for when I disturb myself and want another beer.

And this is where the story starts, me sitting alone drinking my beer. A skinny kid walks in. He asks the bartender about the chicken slaughter across the street.

“Hey man, I just checked out this apartment down the street. I really like it but I heard there is a chicken slaughter house somewhere on this street.”

The bartender in the red hat, whose name I never learned because I’m shy or just don’t like people, tells him it’s across the street.

“Is it bad?” The kid asks. The-bartender-in-the-red-hat rubs his chin and says “Nah.” I poke my head out and interrupt, “It’s horrible man. When I am walking home I hear the chickens’ screams. And sometimes you see feathers floating down the street no doubt stripped from the poor birds bodies just moments before.” I took a sip of my beer refusing to unlock my eyes from the kid. “It’s sickening.” The-bartender-in-the-red-hat and the kid just stared at me. I stared back. They broke their eyes away and the kid thanked the-bartender-in-the-red-hat quietly and left the bar. I felt like he should have thanked me. I was the one who gave the most information. The-bartender-in-the-red-hat asked me why I said that. I said, “I like my space.” I admired the-bartender-in-the-red-hat’s empty bar and sat back down in my booth and re-opened my book.

A few pages and a few more beers later I walked out of the bar. The-bartender-in-the-red-hat wished me a good night and I returned the wish as I stepped into the almost Autumn but still clinging to Summer night. The air felt rusty and the sky was illuminated orange by the large city across the river. I pulled my collar up and walked towards my apartment. Standing there in a trance was the kid. He stared across the street at the chicken slaughterhouse.

“What’s up Doggie?” I asked as I stood and looked at the dark slaughter house across the street.

“Shh. I think I can hear the chickens.” I stood next to him and tried to hear. I heard nothing but my breathing and the rumble of trucks in the distance.

“I don’t hear anything,” I said. “Let’s get a closer look.” I walked across the street and the kid followed me. I put my hand on the door that read “Chicken Slaughter” next to the large gate where the trucks backed in. It was locked. I said, “It’s locked.”

A red buzz of a brick flew past my head and broke the glass in the door with a large crash. The sign read “Chick-”. The “-en Slaughter” have fallen to the ground in a pile of broken glass. I turned around to ask the kid why but he was already running down the street. He disappeared as he flew down the steps to the G train.

I shrugged and turned back to the door. I thought I heard a cluck or two. I slipped my hand in the hole that the brick left and unlocked the door from the inside and slipped inside.

It was dark and stank like the kid Justin from 2nd grade who lived on a farm and smelled like manure every day at school. I hated him and my teacher for making me sit next to him. She must have known he smelled. Therefore she must have hated me because she made me sit next to him everyday knowing that I had to breath in his toxic farm fumes.

In the darkness I felt for a wall to follow as I walked. I couldn’t find one. I thought I heard a scamper and felt something close to my feet. I walked back towards the door and found a wall. I felt the wall and found a light switch. I flicked it on.

My eyes adjusted and there in front of me was a chicken. Frozen in her tracks she looked up at me with dumb beady blinking eyes. I heard a crash, and a little Mexican man came running around the corner of the warehouse, “Hey! What you doing here man?” I didn’t have an answer so I grabbed the chicken in front of me and ran back out the door that just read “Chick” and towards the east river.

I turned around and the Mexican man wasn’t following me anymore. They probably don’t pay him enough to follow chicken stealing writers like myself.

The chicken nipped at my wrist.

“Fucker.” I told her as I turned the corner to the deli and went in with my chicken.

I asked the guy at the counter if he had a crate I could have. He looked at me and then the chicken. He wordlessly went into the back and brought out an orange crate. I put my chicken in it and thanked the man.

I left with my chicken and walked to the corner. Two cops in a cop car drove past on Manhattan Avenue. I turned my back to them.

“Neighborhoods hot Chick. Gotta get you out of here.” I whispered to my chicken. I took her down the steps of the G train and past the turnstile. We waited for the train. My chicken seemed hungry so I dug in the trash can and found a half eaten doughnut. I fed her blindly as I read my book on the bench. She seemed grateful as she plucked at the crumbs in the bottom of her cage. I told her it was my pleasure.

The train came and we took it to Queens. We then transferred to the 7 and took it to Grand Central. I bought a ticket at the window to Montauk. I asked the woman, “Do you charge extra for Chickens?” She said, “What do you mean chickens?” I said never mind and thanked her for my ticket to Montauk.

We rode the mostly empty train. I held Chick’s crate on my lap so she could get a good look of the passing country side. The train conductor punched my ticket and didn’t notice Chick. Chick didn’t notice him either so I thought it was fair.

I fell asleep to Chick nipping at my arms through the orange crate. I awoke a few minutes before Montauk, Chick still nipping at my now bloody arm. I cursed her. Then felt bad and apologized.

We got off at Montauk and walked to the beach. My arms were growing tired. I wished I had a leash so Chick could walk with me. I told her so. She didn’t seem to have an opinion.

We got to the beach and I slipped off my shoes. I opened the crate so Chick could run around. She looked at me for a second. I told her it was okay. She jumped over the crate onto the sand. She high stepped in the sand. We spent the early morning running around, me chasing her as she clucked and ran through the sand. It was a good morning I thought. I told Chick I was sleepy and laid on my back, my head propped on the crate. I told Chick to be careful as I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, letting the smoke enter my lungs and sleep overcome my eyes. I had just drifted when I awoke to a shriek.

I opened one eye then the other. I saw a big stupid looking dog. His jaws around Chick’s neck. Fucker. I dropped my now unlit cigarette into the sand and yelled at the dog who dropped Chick and hid behind his fat lady owner.

“Why the fuck is there a chicken on the beach?” She squealed at me her hands holding her fat cheeks.

“To play in the sand obviously,” I replied as I scooped up Chick’s lifeless sandy body from the ground. I looked at the fat lady and her dumb dog, “Your dog should be shot.” My cheeks glistened in salty water that matched the ocean a few feet from where I held my bloody limp chicken. I walked to the water.

I dropped her into the ocean. I had calmed down a little as I let the waves lightly graze my thighs. I figured in the end this was a better way to go out. I let her body flow with the smooth Atlantic waves my hands dropping below her. This was much better than dieing in the stank that reminded me of Justin from 2nd grade. At least here Chick could breath the salt in as she slowly sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic. It was a short but glorious life indeed.

I took the 7:35 AM train back to Grand Central. It was full of people on their way to work. I didn’t see any chickens but I wasn’t really looking either.

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