Malcolm
Five Years Earlier
“Oh my gosh, ew.”
The young woman grimaces at the bag of mealworms the customer ahead of me places on the checkout counter. Irritation swells inside of me as she uses a ruler to scoot the bag across the scanner and rings him up.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I grumble when it’s my turn in line. She barely acknowledges me, turning her eyes to the giant cell phone in her hands. “Where can I return this?” I ask, shaking the large roll of fencing slung over my shoulder.
The look she gives me is filled with disdain as she smacks her gum. “Returns are in the back.” Sheshoosme away before focusing back on the screen in her hand.
This interaction annoys me, but I press on. I turn around, readjusting the cumbersome roll on my shoulder. As I navigate through the aisles of the hardware store, a chick runs across my path.
Not the human type of chick. An actual baby chicken.
A tiny, feathery escape artist, plush and yellow.
“I don’t have time for this,” I mutter under my breath, feeling even more annoyed that this place can’t contain their livestock. I scoop up the chick with my free hand, almost losing the wire off my shoulder in the process. Tucking the fluffy nuisance in my jacket pocket, I readjust the wire and continue toward the back.
“Hey! Hey!” a high-pitched voice shrieks behind me.
“Geez, what is with this place?” I try to ignore the voice. But it’s my lucky day, and the shrill voice persists, following me like a shadow.
“Hey, bozo, that’s my chick you’re stealing!” The voice increases an octave, nails-on-a-chalkboard level. The accusation cuts through the air like a knife. It’s also accompanied by a few disapproving glances by other customers.
“Keep it contained next time,” I retort, setting the chicken back on the ground. I have to remind myself I’m a Southern gentleman and resist the urge to snap at the lady bickering at me as I walk away.
The chicken follows me. I can hear the pitter patter of its small talons against the tile.
“Lady, get your chicken before I take it home for a meal.”
A gasp of horror follows me. “You wouldn’t dare!” I’d bet she’s clutching the poultry to her chest,protectingit, all while the bird just wants to be let free. Poor, pitiful thing.
Finally reaching the back of the store, I see an older gentleman sitting behind a large wooden counter. Heaving the wire on the counter, I glance at the floor to ensure there aren’t any other tiny creatures near my boots as I step them together and pull out my wallet.
“What can I help you with today, sir?” the older gentleman asks as he looks the wire over.
I hand him my receipt. “I need to re—”
“Don’t help him, Gary!”Lord, help me.The shrill woman is back. No longer five feet behind me either. No, now she’sstanding right next to me. I refuse to look in her direction and keep my eyes fixed on Gary. She huffs at me, as if I’m the one with the rude behavior in this situation, and begins tapping her foot at me. This is my hell.
“Miss,” I sigh, scratching my chin, “can you please take your poultry and get out of my hair?”
Lucky for me, Gary can tell I’m in a hurry. Or maybe he just has sympathy for the man getting harassed by a psycho chicken lady, because he spares me from the assumed customer service banter.
“Gary, this man eats chicken!” Her shriek grates my nerves even more—didn’t think that was possible at this point.
I pinch my eyes shut, feeling the pressure build between them, when I hear Gary say, “It’s either him or me, girl.” He chuckles under his breath. Chicken Lady gasps in disgust, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at Gary’s and my solidarity.
“Ya want store credit or a refund?” Gary asks me.
I keep my head down and give him a subtle thumbs-up. I can’t resist glancing to my left toward where the woman is standing. A pair of bright-pink high-top tennis shoes are pointed at my muddied work boots.
She clears her throat at me. Who does this broad think she is? I refuse to respond to anything that isn’t actual words, so I continue to wait in silence.
Throat clearedagain, she says, “So you like to kill animals, then?”
Gary whispers, “Here we go,” at the jab as he hands me the handwritten gift card with my store credit on it. I take it, continuing to ignore the gal to my left, and turn right, keeping my head as low as humanly possible as I head for the door. No reason to entertain this crazy animal rights advocate any more than I already have.
