by C. McGee
“Oh, get off it!” I interrupted. “You know damn well what you do. You’re doing it right now. By acting appalled by the death of those chickens, you are tacitly asserting your ethical eminence. You know that basically everyone other than yourself eats fucking chicken, and you know that the chickens that all of us eat are raised in bad conditions and killed in harsh ways—harsher than the way those chickens on the video were killed—so, by saying that the death of those chickens is a tragedy, you are saying that everyone that eats chicken willingly contributes to tragedy. But not you, oh no, you don’t contribute to tragedy because you don’t eat chicken. You eat fucking fruit that has fallen off the tree naturally or some other nonsense. That’s probably why your hair looks so goddamn awful. You’re missing out on protein and nutrients and other important shit, because you eat fucking algae instead of meat. Guess what, Sage? We’re humans. We’re fucking omnivores. We’re supposed to eat meat.”
As I paused for a second to breathe, I was struck by the reality of what I had just done. I should probably stop, I thought. Then I thought, Fuck it, and continued unloading, calling Sage out on all of her bullshit, or at least all of her bullshit that came to mind.
“And you know what else, Sage? Modern medicine is not some great evil. It’s a fucking miracle! I know you don’t take the pill because it gets in your urine, and your urine gets in the stream, and then the stream becomes tainted, and then the fish in the stream have to live in the tainted water, and then the fish living in the tainted water end up hermaphrodites or whatever, but honestly, I don’t give a shit. I don’t care that a handful of fish end up hermaphrodites. I do, however, care about unwanted sperm sneaking into my ova. And you know what? So do the vast majority of other women. And here’s another thought. You should stop telling your sister that your nephew is better off without his shots. That’s fucking moronic. Vaccinations are good. They stop people from getting diseases, and in case you didn’t know, you ignorant crotch-goblin, diseases are bad. Plus, when you don’t vaccinate one kid you put all the others at risk, so in addition to being a stupid decision it’s also a selfish one. Also, flush the fucking toilet after you pee. I know you save like a gallon of water or whatever by not flushing, but it’s revolting. Your urine reeks, and sometimes I don’t see that it’s sitting there in the toilet and then I sit down and go, and the water that’s polluted with your stank piss splashes up on my butt, and that’s fucking sick. It might give me gonorrhea or something. I don’t know, I have no idea what you got going on down there, but I can’t imagine it’s good. I mean heaven only knows the last time you used a legitimate soap. You know, one that’s not made from plant oil or whatever the fu—”
“You’re fired,” Sage interjected through gritted teeth, her face bright red. After looking over her shoulder at the huge number of people patiently waiting a few hundred yards away, she added a caveat. “As soon as you help me with this tour, you’re gone.”
I didn’t know if Sage had the authority to fire me but I didn’t care. I was done.
“Sounds good!” I said brightly. It did.
I enjoyed that final tour. Sage did a poor job of concealing her anger and her tips suffered accordingly. I, on the other hand, openly shared my delightful mood and ended up receiving the best tips of my tour guide career. As an added bonus, toward the end of the tour, the child of a hedge fund manager accidentally gave me a bloody nose—I’m not being sarcastic, it really was a positive. My nose didn’t break so there was no serious damage, and the wealthy financier handed me a five hundred dollar bill for my troubles. A five hundred dollar bill! I didn’t even know those existed, and as it turns out, they don’t, at least not anymore. Nixon discontinued them because they enabled organized crime (oh, the irony). I ended up getting nine hundred for it on e-Bay. Nine hundred dollars for a bloody nose! Fantastic! And to be honest, the kid was not completely at fault. At least part of the blame should fall on my shoulders. I was the one that showed him Chicken-ocalypse, and Chicken-ocalypse was the reason that he reared back in fear and hit me in the nose. Had he not seen the video, I doubt his reaction to the sudden appearance of a hen would have been so severe.
Chapter 11
Pro and Cons
I came by my love of lists and bullet points honestly. Every morning, snow or shine, vacation or workday, my mother sits down with a cup of coffee and makes a to-do list. The bitchy part of me wants to be critical of this anal-retentive ritual, but the begrudgingly candid part of me has to acknowledge its usefulness. I don’t think my mother has ever forgotten or missed an appointment, and, as a result, neither did my sister nor I.
My father also contributed to my affinity for lists, albeit in a significantly less type-A fashion. Whenever he is out to dinner with a group of people, and the conversation lulls, he asks the table at large to name their top three _____. Books, bands, movies, adjectives, moments in history, foods that are better grilled, whatever—the things that he asks are all over the map. When I was younger, I thought that this was a way for him to avoid real conversation. As I have gotten older, however, I have come to realize that the exact opposite is true. It is, in fact, a way for him to engage in real conversation. Typically, people that respond to his query receive a follow-up question, and then another, and another, until suddenly something interesting and substantial has been shared (e.g., Johnny likes grilled asparagus, he likes it because that’s the way his grandpa used to make it, the grandpa that taught him to grill, the grandpa that was a father figure, the grandpa that helped raise him after his parents passed—that sort of thing). It’s actually fairly remarkable.
In addition to Mom and Dad, a fair number of my teachers also deserve credit for encouraging my propensity for bullet points/list making. However, their contributions were less positive than my parents’. Looking for any way to make grading easier, and caring little about the development of their students’ writing skills, the vast majority of my high school’s faculty encouraged kids to respond to questions in bulleted rather than essay format. This has undoubtedly had a lasting impact on me, and, I would have to assume, a large number of my peers. Sometimes, when I’m having difficulty getting my thoughts down on paper, I still resort to bullets. It’s kind of pathetic but also really handy.
I woke up at nine to the sound of nothing. It was sublime. When I walked out into the kitchen, there was coffee waiting for me as though it were spontaneously brewed. It wasn’t. It was brewed the normal way, by a drip-style coffeemaker that was programmed to auto-start at eight thirty. It seemed supernatural because I had never had the auto-start kick in; a torment of chickens had always woken me up well before then. Deducing this, it quickly dawned on me that the existence of the automatically brewed coffee was, in fact, evidence that my plan had worked—at least in the short term.
With two hands wrapped around my warm mug, I walked over to the window, pulled back the curtain, and looked out. There was nothing, just a quiet residential street in the heart of paradise. No children, and more importantly, no chickens. Smiling, I gave a blissful sigh, looked up toward Mount Waialeale, and let the sun wash over me. With the cheery light crashing down on my face, I brought the toasty mug to my lips and sipped the coffee. It tasted like ass. I knew it would, the auto-start had run the water through the previous day’s grounds creating a product that was nearly undrinkable. It didn’t matter. I swallowed it down anyway. It might have tasted awful, but it was still good.
Having taken fifteen minutes to bask in the sunlight and enjoy my shitty coffee, I sat down at my kitchen table and began composing a list: “The Pros and Cons of Getting Fired from Lahahana’s Eco Tours.” Liking to finish on an up note, I started with the cons.
CONS:
• No more income.
— Yes, you have a fair amount of money, but that won’t last forever in Kauai.
• No more zip-lining.
— Not the end of the world. It’s fun but not that fun. It’s like an extreme sport for those that don’t want to actually do an
extreme sport. Also, the harness gave you ingrown pubic hairs. Gross.
• No more structured time.
— Although potentially a positive, this is more likely a negative. You know yourself, Ingrid. You will probably end up watching far too much trashy reality television. Remember, observing someone else’s crappy life does not make yours any better.
• No more free lunches.
— Exacerbates problem #1.
• No more free stuff from the lost and found.
— Also exacerbates problem #1.
• No more free sunscreen.
— Also exacerbates problem #1, plus increases likelihood of skin cancer. You’re Norwegian, honey, not Filipino. Remember that.
• Parents will freak out.
— True, but they don’t have to know.
Following a brief perusal of the “cons list,” I moved on to the “pros.” It was a shorter list, but only because I stopped after point one.
PROS:
• No more Sage!
— God, what a pap smear.
Chapter 12
Planning and Pluralizing
I have woken up naturally six out of the last seven mornings. The only exception came on Thursday when a nosebleed forced me to greet the day a little early. It was the third one I’ve had since the rich kid slammed his head into my face, but the first one that came unprompted (the other two were the result of my accidentally blowing the blood clot from my nose). Although the nosebleeds are inconvenient, they are not a serious problem. Actually, they kind of remind me of home. Winters in eastern North Dakota are dry, and, consequently, nosebleeds are commonplace, like wind chills of negative sixty and snickers salad at potlucks.
With a week’s worth of chicken-free wake-ups now complete, I feel confident in asserting that my plan was a definitive success. I have not seen a single child feed a chicken, and I have not seen a single chicken within two hundred yards of my place. Additionally, the incident lost traction in the local media the day after it happened so I never felt “the heat,” as they say in those horrible procedural crime dramas my parents watch. Thankfully, another protest by the Hawaiian Liberation Front supplanted Chicken-ocalypse on the six o’clock news rendering the entire incident passé.
As soon as the fervor died down, I went back to where the multi-chicken guillotine was hidden, broke it down, brought the pieces home, and burned them. It didn’t need to be a clandestine mission, but I made it one anyway. Going at night and dressing in black made it more fun.
You know, I thought, as I sat on my back porch watching the guillotine remnants burn, this whole thing was pretty fun. Not to mention effective. Maybe I should be more proactive in addressing the larger chicken problem.
I sat and considered the issue until the fire turned to coals. It was time well spent.
Mongooses. Not mongeese. Not mongoose. Mongooses. In order to achieve the plural of “mongoose” one does not replace the o’s with e’s (as in goose to geese), and one does not leave the word alone (as in moose to moose). Instead, one simply adds an “s.” I am certain about this. As soon as I came up with the idea I googled, “What is the plural of mongoose?” Verifying the answer on three separate websites. I like that you just add an s in order to achieve the plural. It makes the mongooses seem less pretentious, more working class. The type of animal you want on your side when the shit hits the fan.
Mongooses were a simple and unoriginal idea but also a brilliant one. It would take decades to defeat the feral chickens on my own, but with mongooses on my side, Kauai might be rat-bird free in a matter of months. They would be like mercenaries—furry, slinky mercenaries. I loved them already.
Having reached a firm conclusion regarding the next offensive move in the feral chicken war, I turned my attention toward the practical matter of getting the mongooses onto the island. It was a significant problem.
Chapter 13
Penis Size and Mudslides
“Dat moke talk stink, eh?”
That’s what I overheard Koa say as I walked into the bar alongside Lana and the boys. I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about, but I doubt that it was anything positive. His tone was one of distinct anger. Not the irate, yelling sort of anger, but rather the composed and calculating brand. Intrigued, I tried to eavesdrop on his conversation. As my friends stood at the bar awaiting their drinks, I took a couple of covert sidesteps toward his table. No one noticed. It was a stealthy move that successfully placed me within earshot of the conversation. Unfortunately, hearing Koa and his friend did not equate to understanding Koa and his friend. Their entire conversation was in pidgin, and I know virtually no pidgin. It might as well have been in fucking Dothraki. In the three months that I’ve lived in Hawaii, the only pidgin words I’ve learned are “pau,” “ono,” “haole,” and “brok da mout”; so unless they decided to talk about being done with something, eating something delicious, doing something with a white person, or eating something very delicious, their conversation would remain incomprehensible to me. Recognizing defeat, I rejoined my friends. It was a decision that I immediately regretted.
Ethan, Charlie, and some guy I didn’t know were standing around a high top table talking about penis size.
Again, I thought. Why can’t you idiots talk in pidgin? Save me from this tired conversation.
Lana was standing as far away from the guys as she could without completely removing herself from the group, an expression of amused exhaustion on her face. I slid in next to her.
“Seriously?” I said quietly to Lana. “The penis size conversation? Again?”
She smiled, “I know. It doesn’t seem to matter what type of guy it is eventually this conversation comes up. Sometimes in a crass macho way while they’re talking to other guys, sometimes in a self-conscious way while you’re alone with them.”
“Or my personal favorite, the I’m-an-intellectual-that’s-above-being-concerned-with-the-size-of-my-dick-but-I’m-curious-about-the-societal-forces-that-make-guys-obsessed-with-the-size-of-their-dicks.”
“Yeah,” Lana laughed. “And the entire time that they’re discussing those destructive societal forces they’re also asking probing questions in order to gauge how you feel about their manhood.”
“Nailed it,” I said, clinking Lana’s glass, acknowledging the validity of her insight.
“I suppose if they’re going to talk about it then this is the best way,” Lana added, gesturing at the conversation that was taking place in front of us.
“Agreed. If it’s an inevitability, then they might as well be unapologetically obnoxious bros about it. Better that than self-conscious whiners seeking reassurance or self-deluded sophisticates acting superior.”
“True,” Lana concurred. “Sad, but true.”
“What?” Ethan said, suddenly aware of the lack of participation from Lana and I. “Are you ladies above such topics?”
“No,” I replied. Then, after a second’s pause, I decided to capitalize on the opportunity being afforded to me. Guys in general would continue to talk about the size of their dicks, but perhaps I could get my boyfriend to lay the issue to rest. “I’m not above having the penis size conversation,” I said. “In fact, the first time I talked about it, when I was sixteen, I thought it was pretty interesting. I even enjoyed myself the first few times that I discussed it in college. But by the end of undergrad it was stale, and at this point it’s just obnoxious. Seriously, every time a girl gets a new boyfriend she knows that the conversation will come up sooner or later, in one form or another. Plus, we have to put up with guys randomly bringing it up when they’re out drinking with their friends. Not to mention all the ads for male enhancement pills that litter every form of media. The whole topic is tedious.”
“Tedious!” Ethan exclaimed, he was enjoying my diatribe.
“Yeah, it’s fucking tedious,” I continued. “It’s the same old shit over and over again, and it’s not even that complex of an issue. Actually, it’s a pretty simple one. I can tell you in t
hirty seconds what I think, and what I’m pretty sure ninety percent of women think.”
“All right then,” Ethan said, grinning. “Have at it.”
“I think guys are way too concerned about the size of their cocks. Yes, it matters, but it doesn’t matter that much. If you’re between four and eight inches, you’re fine. If you’re closer to the small end of that scale, you need to devote a little more time to mastering the right motion and mixing in your fingers. If you’re closer to the big end of that scale, then you need to work on easing that hog in slowly, don’t just jam it up there. My vagina is not Hermione’s beaded bag. There is no undetectable extension charm cast upon it. You have to let that girl warm up. Also, no matter who you are, you should learn how to use your tongue. A good tongue will give me more orgasms than even the most finely honed penis.”
“Who is this girl?” inquired the guy I didn’t know. He seemed both amused and baffled.
“My girlfriend,” Ethan asserted proudly, then gave me a swift kiss on the lips.
“Yeah I am, you lucky son of a bitch,” I added assertively. “Now who wants another drink?”
Everyone responded in the affirmative.
Smiling, I made my way to the bar.
“Goddamn she’s awesome.” I heard Ethan say, partly to himself, partly to the table at large.
My smile broadened.
Although Ethan has repeatedly demonstrated his fondness for my outspoken nature, I still enjoy it when he verbalizes the sentiment. In the Upper Midwest opinionated and blunt women are not highly prized (for that matter, neither are opinionated and blunt men), so I am unaccustomed to positive responses. They’re nice.
Arriving at the counter, I was immediately greeted by the bartender. He was making a concerted effort to ignore the two men and the chubby woman that were already waiting.
