Chickens in Love
Of all the gin joints in Vegas, Fay has to strut into the Flamingo. A beauty from Delaware, her feathers are pure white, and her legs are long, thin, and yellow. One glance her way and I’m in love. Our eyes meet; we smile. On stage, a bantam Livorno sings his last song of the show, “All of Me.” He won’t take his blue eyes off her, and she blushes as crimson as her comb and wattles. I’m sitting at the best table in the house with the boss, Bugsy, and the singer’s pals. It’s late, and we’re feeling no pain. All of our eyes are bloodshot—except, of course, for Smokey’s glass left eye.
The show is over, and the singer, drunk with whiskey and lust, invites the pretty hen to our table. The Voice is smitten, woos her with all his charm. She is star-struck and scared as she pecks nervously at her champagne. Desperate to impress the dame, I foolishly challenge the Chairman of the Board to a game of chicken in the Nevada desert. He agrees. As we’re leaving, Fay’s look is grateful but also worried. I know her concern is for me, not him.
Fay, her wings upraised, is standing on an outcropping between the two cars. She drops them, and we gun our engines, racing toward the cliff edge a half mile away. She jumps to the ground and watches the receding taillights. His sleek Caddy accelerates powerfully and pulls ahead of my jalopy. He zooms over the cliff. Frank wins the challenge, but I win the girl.
She runs to my car. We lock beaks and kiss passionately. After declaring our love, we return to Vegas and get married at the Graceland Wedding Chapel by a young Wyandotte rooster from Mississippi with a dangerous strut and slick, black, wavy feathers. With his guitar slung low, he dreams of becoming a rock-and-roll singer. I don’t like the way he looks at Fay.
After/Thought Literary 