LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth Your Masculine Chicken by Emily Lloyd (and other Suburban Surprises) "Ogodhoneyhoneypleasehelpme. Em! I'm being attacked by a rooster!" "Well. Um. My!" I logged out
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
Your Masculine Chicken |
by Emily Lloyd |
(and other Suburban Surprises)
"Ogodhoneyhoneypleasehelpme. Em! I'm being attacked by a rooster!" "Well. Um. My!" I logged out of hotmail. Unlike most D.C. couples, Mel and I didn't wait until we could swing a place in Rehoboth. We bought north, in Milford, home of the chicken factory. Sometimes there are strays. By the time I made it outside, the bird was just sitting there, calm, while Mel cowered. I rolled a tiny rock towards it; it didn't budge. I moved in close; it erupted, wild feathers and gnarled feet, sending Mel and I running to another corner of the yard. I'd seen one of my across-the-street neighbors, Mexican-American factory workers, toting what looked like a live chicken the day before. So I crossed the road (har har), murmuring "gallo" under my breathwhat I seemed to recall as the Spanish word for "rooster." I hoped he was theirs. I knocked. "Su gallo?" I said. A woman smiled encouragingly. I couldn't tell if I'd been right about "gallo" or not. "Su pollo masculino?" I tried. ("Your masculine chicken?") A second woman nodded, and both followed me back to my yard, where one scooped up the rooster casually. They waved. We slunk inside, metropolitan wimps. We were never particularly savvy, chic Washingtonians. At least, I wasn't. As a librarian, I asked Lynne Cheney for identification when she forgot her card. But it does initially jar one to find, in one's new local paper, a help wanted ad for "evisceration specialists"...especially when one really needs a job. But that was last year. We pet chickens now. Our lifetime-in-urban-apartments unease with the suburbs has found fresh reasons to rear its head. Outdoor cats, for example. In Washington, cats are like drugsfor the most part illegal, but fine to have as long as they're kept hidden deep in the recesses of one's apartment. We have a nice tabby who's never seen the sun. We woke one recent night to her growls, growls we'd never known she could make. "A mouse," Mel guessed. But no. An outdoor cat. He had shimmied in under a window we'd cracked for air. Our yard blooms with outdoor cat poop. It teems with purplish catnip, which poop apparently turns to when spring arrives. This would not be so bad if it weren't for suburban lawn care expectations. Like young Pip's expectations, they are great. One of our neighbors mows every day; most mow twice a week. Mel and I clock in every two weeks or so, when the grass starts covering up the squirrels. There's a comfort in knowing that, should a brick ever find its way through our front window, it probably won't be because we're gay. Then there are children. Mel's not a fan, butapart from the frequent wails and the shriekingI sometimes enjoy living on a street with kids. The closest thing to a trick-or-treater we'd had back in Washington was a peeping tom. I was a little dismayed, though, when visiting friends got a bit noisy over cocktails outdoors and our 5-yr-old neighbor called over, "Hello-o! I'm trying to play." Ditto when the entire sales pitch of the 6-yr-old girl peddling fundraising pies last season went, "Hi! Buy four and I get a Walkman!" (I bought two, not before she asked which one of us is "the mom.") I did take a shine to a little girl who saw me out on my scooter, which is the push kind that was big with all twelve-and-unders a while ago. When we discovered we had the same name, she shyly asked if I could come over to her house to play the next day. Feeling scummy, I declined in my best "not tomorrowbut totally sometime" voice...then scooted off, head down and trying to feel good for sparing some mother a fully-grown lesbian gliding up to her door and inquiring, "Can Emily come out to play?" Emily Lloyd is a regular contributor to Letters from CAMP Rehoboth. She may be reached at elloyd74@hotmail.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 14, No. 8 July 2, 2004 |