A dozen Baby Chicks
BY: LINDSAY HIRSCHMAN
On Sunday, the young woman and the young man went to the park for their first date. They walked down the gravel path lined with light posts which were littered with fliers for pet grooming services, baby bird delivery services, and used car purchasing services. When they made it to the top of the arching stone bridge, they tossed handfuls of peas into the narrow river below. The swimming mallards hurried over, snapping the tiny vegetables between their beaks.
“I do not like it when you throw the peas like that,” the young man told his date.
“How should I throw them?” she asked.
“Like this.” He jerked his wrist and sprinkled the peas from between his fingers.
“Why would I do it like that?”
“Because it makes the peas taste better.”
His peas plunked on the surface of the water. The ducks quacked and chased each other by their tail feathers to reach the sinking peas first. Those who outswam the flock swallowed mouthfuls of river water and peas, which indeed tasted better. The young woman and the young man leaned over the bridge, jerked their wrists, and sprinkled the peas from their fingers into the river.
“I do not like it when you lean over the bridge like that,” he told her.
“How should I lean over it?” she asked.
“Like this.” He pressed his pelvis against the stone wall and tilted his torso forward, looking down at the ducks in the river.
“Why would I do it like that?”
“Because it makes the ducks remember you.”
She pressed her pelvis against the stone wall and tilted her torso forward, looking down at the ducks, who looked up at her and quacked, indeed remembering her. They fed the ducks like that until they emptied the flimsy bag of peas. The pair said goodbye in the parking lot, the young woman smiling especially wide. She could not wait to see the ducks remember her again on her second date the next weekend.
***
On Saturday at noon, her landline rang. She picked up the phone and heard the young man tell her that he did not like the way she did things and he would not see her again. The disconnect tone sounded before she could part her lips.
If she got better at feeding ducks, perhaps he would give her a second chance. She could not practice at the park on the weekend because she might see him there, and it was too soon for that, so on Saturday night she called the number she had seen on one of the light post fliers, 1-800-BABY-CHICKS, and asked for a dozen baby chicks. The telemarketer told her they would be delivered to her home in three to five business days.
***
Her doorbell rang on Wednesday afternoon. She opened the door to a man wearing a solid blue button-down and baseball cap who held a clipboard and pen in his hand. She signed the paper in blue ink. The man then walked to the delivery truck parked on the street and unlatched the back door. Twelve hardened women in platform stilettos, body-con mini dresses, and thick eyelash extensions followed the delivery man single-file down the metal ramp and back to the young woman’s doorstep.
“I did not order those hookers,” she said.
“Yes, you did. Those are your dozen baby chicks.”
“I do not want those hookers.”
“I cannot help you with that.”
He walked away, and in walked her twelve baby chicks. The young woman watched from the foyer as the baby chicks made themselves at home within seconds of entering, clinging their hair to her shower walls, eating the leftovers from her refrigerator, and fogging up her living room with cigarette smoke. For a few moments, she stood there until she figured they would not stop unless told or unless asked to make love.
“I do not like it when you smoke like that,” she told her twelve baby chicks.
“How should we smoke then, toots?” they asked.
“Like this.” She stole a cigarette from a pack lying on the ottoman, kindled it with a lighter, forced it between her lips, and inhaled until her lungs couldn’t fill up with any more air. She held her breath for as long as she could, pursed her lips into a small “O,” and exhaled, shrouding the hookers with gray exhaust.
“Why would we do it like that, toots?” they asked.
“Because it makes the pain go away better.”
With vibrant acrylic nails, her dozen baby chicks each stuck a cig between their lips, inhaled until their lungs could not store any more air, held their breaths until they nearly choked, pursed their lips, and exhaled. Their trivial pains indeed went away better. She smiled through the haze and imagined her baby chicks smiling back, but when the puffs of smoke diffused, the taste of the cigarette stung in her throat.
“I want my real baby chicks,” she told them.
“We cannot help you with that, toots,” her baby chicks said.
“Okay. I do not like to feel alone.”
“Do you want to make love?”
“No.”
“Then we cannot help you with that.”
***
On Thursday, the young woman walked into her hazy living room wearing platform stilettos, a body-con mini dress, vibrant acrylic nails, and thick eyelash extensions.
“Why are you dressed like that?” her twelve baby chicks asked.
“Because I am alone,” she said.
“No, toots, you are too sad to be a baby chick.”
“Then I will be the sad baby chick.”
“No. Baby chicks make sad babes like you feel good.” They smoked their cigarettes as they pleased. “You cannot make love to sad babes if you do not love yourself.”
In her bedroom, she changed into her clothes, and when she returned to the living room, she told her baby chicks, “I want you to come with me.”
As the women stood atop the arched stone bridge, parents across the park shielded their hands over their children’s eyes. The young woman rationed peas between her baby chicks, leaving only the empty plastic bag in her hands.
“How should we throw the peas, toots?” her dozen baby chicks asked.
“Throw them however you like.”