“Couple of niggers hired by our competition, and I won’t even show the company the respect of saying their name.”
“What did these spies do?”
“They took photographs of our equipment.”
“No shit.”
“And of our chickens.”
“Doesn’t one chicken look like another?”
“Not when they’re raised the way we raise them. We slap the juice to them, Collins. We got the biggest, fattest chickens you ever seen. Big fat juicy drumsticks. That’s ’cause they don’t walk on ’em. Can’t. Our chickens can’t walk. We’ve bred them that way.”
“Hope you haven’t just given me one of your secrets.”
“No. That one’s out. Darn animal-rights people been all over our rear ends about that one. Let me tell you, Collins, we’re the envy of every chicken-processing plant in East Texas. Possibly Oklahoma and Louisiana as well. You can even throw in Arkansas if you want.”
“Why not,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“I said why not throw in Arkansas.”
“Is that some kind of remark, Mr. Collins?”
“You said we could throw in Arkansas. I’m saying it’s okay with me.”
Shit, I thought, don’t do it to yourself, Hap. Waggoner is an officious, fat, rednecked prick in an expensive suit with a tie that doesn’t match, but hold back, baby. You need the work.
Waggoner studied me to see if I was being humorous. I could tell this was a guy didn’t like humorous. He saw humorous, he’d shoot it and fuck it in the ass and bury it in the chicken shit at the plant. That’s how he felt about humorous.
“We need a man who is willin’ to put his life on the line, if need be,” Waggoner said.
“For chickens?” I said.
“For the business, Mr. Collins. And yes, chickens. We take this business very serious, and I need a man who is serious.”
“I think I can be serious about chickens,” I said.
“No thinking to it, you are or you aren’t.”
“I can do the job, Mr. Waggoner. I can keep people out. I can patrol the area. And I don’t think there’s really that big a threat to the chickens or your industry from industrial spies, but I see one of those sonofabitches, I’ll be on him like stink on shit.”
“I’d prefer you not use that language, Mr. Collins.”
“All right,” I said.
“I’m a churchgoing man myself.”
“Which church?”
“Methodist.”
“Dancing Baptist.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s what they call Methodist. Dancing Baptist. You know, they’re allowed to dance. Baptist aren’t supposed to. Sometimes, they call Methodist Baptist that can read.”
“I’m not sure I care for that sort of thing, Mr. Collins.”
“It’s a joke, Mr. Waggoner. I’m a little nervous. I’m tryin’ to warm us up.”
“Well, you’re not. I don’t care for humor in job interviews.”
“Sure you’re not a Baptist?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“You know, we got some other jobs here might be better for you. Chicken reproduction, for one.”
“Come again.”
“Chicken reproduction. We need people to help us stud chickens.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that. How would I stud a chicken?”
“I think you’re tryin’ to be humorous again, Mr. Collins.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Obviously, you would be required to stimulate the roosters and preserve their sperm.”
“You’re kiddin’?”
“I am not.”
“You’re sayin’ you’d want me to jack a rooster off into a test tube?”
“Something like that.”
“You really do that?”
“Have you heard of such a thing for bulls? Horses?”
“Well, yeah. That’s bad enough, but you want to offer me a job jacking off chickens? You got to be out of your mind, man.”
“People do it.”
“Not me. I came to see about a night watchman job.”
Waggoner took my application, opened a drawer, and slipped it inside. “I believe that’ll be all the questions I need to ask, Mr. Collins. Something comes up, you fit the qualifications, I’ll give you a call.”
“You’re not going to call me, are you?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. That being the case, let me tell you something. I think your fuckin’ chickens are second- rate. I wouldn’t wipe my ass on your chickens, let alone jack one of the sonofabitches off.”
“Good night, Mr. Collins.”
I drove home, sat around in my kitchen with a glass of milk and a Moon Pie, nibbled at it, felt blue. I couldn’t even get a job at the goddamn chicken plant being a night watchman. All they had for me was a position jerking a rooster’s dick. It didn’t get much worse than that.
I looked through my old record albums, my audiotapes, and the handful of CDs I owned. ’Course, I didn’t own a CD player, so I just sort of pretended I could play those if I wanted to.
Finally I found a tape Leonard had given me. It was Junior Brown. Junior Brown played an instrument of his own devising, a cross between a guitar and steel. He sounded like Ernest Tubb singing to music played by Chet Atkins, Jimi Hendrix, and a honkie-tonk drunk.
I listened to that a while. Took a shower. Went to bed. Looked at the ceiling. Squirmed in the covers. Listened to the rain outside. I kept checking my. 38 on the nightstand.
I tried to figure if Jim Bob was right, and this King Arthur was the mastermind. He seemed the most logical, but Big Man hadn’t said he was behind it. He hadn’t asked for videos. He had asked for a video and the book.
I churned all of this around for a while, got up, turned on the box fan, put a chair under the back doorknob to reinforce the lock. I put a chair under the front doorknob. I checked all the windows to make sure they were locked. I wanted them open to let in the cool, wet wind, but I was afraid. I kept visualizing Big Man Mountain slipping through one of the windows, that goddamn battery and crank generator under his arm.
I wished I had a vicious dog. I wished I was at Brett’s place, in bed with her, holding her close. I wished I’d win the lottery. I sort of wished I’d gotten the job at the chicken plant, even if I had to jack off roosters. I wished I was a thousand miles away.
I felt as if I had just closed my eyes, then morning light was in my face and I got up.
It was early yet. Brett was not off work. I decided to dress and drive over to the hospital, catch her as she came out, see if she wanted to go somewhere for breakfast.
The day had cleared, the air was almost sparkly, and the birds were out in force, singing various operas. The streets were shiny-slick with water and there were few cars moving about.
As I drove off the highway and into the parking lot, I saw a cop car. There were medical personnel rushing about. My stomach sank. I parked and leaped out. I started walking very fast toward the sirens, the lights, the commotion. Another cop car whipped into the lot and whirled over there. People were coming out of the hospital,
