When I thought we were going to have problems casting my new play—you don’t
find an Eisenhower and a Churchill on every street corner—I made the mistake of
mentioning my worries to the chickens. They seemed to think I should have cast
them.
“Of course,” said Mimo, “I should have to check on my availability.”
“You have a busy calendar?” I asked.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
I turned to Cheddar, “Do you have an agent?”
“Not as such,” she said. “I’m the shy one.”
“Meaning that the others do?”
Pecorino came running up. “Is this a meeting? Have we sold film rights to our
story?”
Appenzeller was close behind, “I want to be played by Carmen Miranda.”
I gently broke the news that Miranda died in 1955.
Cheddar observed that some people might understand this to be a warning.
Eisenhower will be played by a guy with a lifetime of New York acting
credits—his website has a photo of him onstage with Meryl Streep and lines of
thanks from Arthur Miller and Joe Papp— and an MFA in theater from Yale.
Churchill is also an experienced actor. First rehearsal this afternoon,
performance this coming Saturday, West Slope Library, at one. I’ll save you a
seat.
The two chickens that have gone to meet their maker started their decline by
exhibition of messy butt. Mimo now has this too but she is currently showing
no signs of decline. Aux contraire, she seems more red henish, more
revolutionary than ever. Go to put something in the garbage and there she is,
at your feet, with Views. A visitor who doesn’t speak chicken interpreted her
attention as charm. More, “when is the grub going to improve?”
I asked how life was treating her.
“We’ve been making indentations. Underneath the sleeping area.”
“I’ve noticed. They remind me of shell holes.”
“Underneath the sleeping area. I don’t know if you’ve noticed?”
“I’ve noticed.”
Appenzeller joined in, “We’re re-enacting the battle of the Song.”
“Shouldn’t that be Somme?”
“Does the Somme sing?”
“No.”
“Well then. Listen more carefully is my advice.”
“My advice too,” said Cheddar.
Mimo explained, “We thought it might be fun.”
Appenzeller, “A sing-off.”
“And?”
Pecorino, “We may be missing something.”
Appenzeller, “Little birds advise calling Simon Cowell. Do you know him?”
“Not personally.”
“Well if you see him, suggest he get in touch.”
I agreed and then, to wind them up, advised them to watch out for shrapnel.
“Who’s he?”
“Henry Shrapnel, ninth child of Zacharariah. The exploding shell is named
after him.”
“Oooh,” said Cheddar. “Don’t like the sound of that. Do eggs often explode?”
“No,” I said.
“Well why not?”
“I have no idea.”
“So it’s not the egg qua egg that explodes, but just the shell?”
“A different kind of shell explodes.”
“Where?”
“On the Somme, for example.”
“We’re not doing the Somme.”
“Well then,” I said, “you’ll be fine.”
As I walked away I couldn’t help but overhear someone mutter, “Bit slow that
god.”
“Another chorus of ‘I Yi, Yi, Yi,’ girls?”
And off they went. As did I.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
