Left-handed Luck

by Rod Michalchuk

  *

  LIGHT—A SUSTAINED FLASH—bright, bright, bright—lit the world inside my head from edge to edge. Film rolled through a projector. The first images squiggled up the screen and the countdown began—a quartered disk with the numeral 5. A second-hand swept around, erasing it. 4, 3, 2, 1....

  It was a pre-Merry Melodies cartoon in black and white, more about dancing to big band music than anything else—except, in this case, there was no band. This was drums, drums and more drums, accompanied by a rough chorus of rowdies, rejoicing their lungs out in some foreign language, something like French but turned inside out.

  I was a cartoon chicken in a cartoon chicken coop, surrounded by other cartoon chickens, and, outside the door, there was the rip-roaringest party ever: laughing and talking and all kinds of voices raised in song—that, and the all-percussion orchestra.

  There wasn’t much to it, but it was good music all the same, with a solid backbeat. It made my body want to move. I looked around and I was the only chicken not doing so. Everyone else was dancing, wings flapping, leaping into the air, smiley beaks full of big, white, Chicklet teeth. They dived into the air, somersaulting, laughing and singing, filling the room from dirt to rafters with intricate, drum-driven choreography.

  Outside, a man’s voice shouted over the din. The drums hushed and the chickens quit dancing. They stood, facing the door, straining to catch every word. The man speechified for a time, preaching up the crowd. They’d shout back, call and answer, voices rough, words unknown.

  In due time, the talk ended and heavy footsteps approached. The door opened with an exaggerated creak and a man’s shadow filled the frame. He had a homemade machete: a two-foot shank with a rag handle that looked like as if it had started out as a leaf spring in somebody’s truck.

  The chickens hopped and bounced and waved their wings—a classroom full of keeners elbowing each other aside. “Me, me, me!” they shouted, “Me!” I backed against the wall, aiming for inconspicuous.

  There was a rustle of drums and a murmur of anticipation. The man-shadow stooped under the lintel and stepped into the space. He was emaciated and shoe-polish black, with a seamed, tree-root for a face under a cap of white wool.

  He said something in his language and gestured with the big knife, indicating a hen on the other side of the crowd. She laughed and cried at the same time, tears streaming down her beak. The other chickens stroked her.

  The man stepped forward, and the surrounding chickens backed away, leaving her in the center of her own space. She straightened to her full height, meeting his gaze, and the mob shifted, blocking my view. Something happened, but I couldn’t see what. Then he was ducking out the door, holding her by her feet, swinging her like a lunchbox.

  The door slapped shut and a single snare drum went: “Rat-a-tat-tat ... rat-a-tat-tat...”

  The chickens whispered among themselves. One said: “Lucky girl.”

  Another said: “Next time.”

  Someone else said: “You wish.”

  Outside, there was a thunk—a sharp edge biting into wood—and then jubilation. The drums resumed, full-throatedly pounding out new permutations. Every chicken but me threw themselves right back into the dance, gyrating full speed ahead, just like before.

  The nearest chicken was head back, elbows pumping, dancing up a storm. I stepped into his line of vision and raised my arm to wave—except it wasn’t an arm; it was a wing, with feathers. I wiggled my fingers and there weren’t any. My feathers moved instead.

  He stopped dancing and blinked his big, googly eyes, uncomprehending, staring at me.

  I said. “That guy—he just killed…” I frowned. What was she—a woman or a hen? “He killed her!”

  The dancer backed away, showing lots of teeth, grinning big and rolling his eyes.

  I raised my wings to grab him and discovered that I couldn’t. I had no hands. No thumbs or fingers. No way of holding on. I shoved him instead, shouting: “What is wrong with you? One of you just died and you’re fucking dancing!”

  He stumbled sideways, caught his balance and straightened to his full height, staring with googly eyes. The others stared too. I was the center of attention: the last thing in the world I wanted to be. He raised his voice—surprisingly gruff—presumably spokes-chicken for all. “You’re the one with the problem, Mister.”

  “That woman—hen...” I looked around. “She...”

  The spokes-chicken looked me up and down. “I don’t know you.”

  “No,” I said. “You don’t.”

  “You’re a stranger”

  “I’m—yeah. Stranger.”

  There was a general murmur of surprise.

  He snorted. “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think I’m dreaming.”

  That generated an even bigger buzz. The chickens hubbubed while outside, drums pounded and pounded.

  Everyone stared at me.

  I raised my wings and projected my voice to the back rows. “It’s a mistake,” I said. “I’m leaving—okay?” I took a step in the direction of the door. They backed off and I kept going. When I was halfway there, the drums crescendoed to a big finish, and stopped—dead silence; pin-drop quiet.

  I stood in front of the door, in a circle of hostile faces.

  Footsteps approached from outside. The chickens shuffled right and left, backing off, clearing a space around me. There was nowhere to run and no place to hide. The skin on the back of my neck prickled—the place the knife would bite.

  Slowly—unbearably so—the door creaked open. Light poured through the widening gap, and, just then, the film ran out. Squiggles ran upward and, once again, there was nothing between me and the blinding light. The projector clattered—the loose film-end clacking around the take-up reel.