A Serious Attack
It all started at noon in the park. I had just finished that Hemmingway documentary on PBS which inspired me to come out to nature and re-read the first couple of chapters of The Sun Also Rises. It was a lovely, sun-filled day, the perfect day for this sort of thing. Of course I should be in my room writing, but sometimes you have to follow your heart.
So there I am at my favorite park picnic table by the water, reading my book and feeling pretty good about things overall. And then, can you believe it, a chicken pops out from the line of trees that border the water and moseys its way right to me. I find this delightful because I’ve been to the park plenty of times and never seen a wild chicken just appear by the water. What’s more, I’ve never seen a chicken that had that red thing on top of its head like a rooster. Of course, as I think this I realize that I’m an idiot, and that red thing on top of its head means it is in fact a rooster, and not a chicken. Chuckling at how weird my mind can be at times, I suddenly feel very playful and I start calling out to the rooster like it’s an old friend.
“Hey rooster old buddy!” I cry out from my table. “What are you doing out here? Don’t you know there are alligators in the water that would love to have you for a snack!”
The rooster doesn’t seem to pay me any mind and goes on pecking at the ground at what I assume are yummy morsels of food dropped by previous careless picnic enthusiasts. I glance down at my book, thinking that not much is happening yet, Hemingway hasn’t even written the word bullfight much less shown one, and I decide the eating habits of this wild farm animal are more entertaining at the moment than this classic piece of problematic literature. So I put my book down and whip out my phone and start taking pictures of this fellow redhead. Again, not much to say about this, the rooster is moving closer and closer to me while pecking at the ground while my phone clicks away in camera mode.
The trouble starts though, when it gets about a foot away from my foot, and I start taking close up pics. That’s when I get it in my head that what I really need is a photo of it looking at the camera. I can see that its got these brilliant yellow eyes that I just know would look amazing if I could just get them to focus on the lens of the camera. So now I start trying to get its attention, snapping my fingers at it while still talking to it like an old friend.
“Come on buddy, can you just look at the camera for me? Come on, right here buddy, just right here.”
Now I believe it was somewhere around this time that I made the mistake of reaching out with my hand near its head, as if I had the intention of touching it. Which I didn’t, I honestly don’t really know what I was trying to do, just caught up in the moment of trying to get it to look at the camera, you know?
Anyway, I’m in the middle of talking to it when I did this, and the conversation went something like this.
“Come on, rooster, please, just-”
It’s at the “just” part when my hand got too close, and that’s when this creature of barns and farms turned and looked at me for the first time. And it’s here, admittedly, that I should have taken that coveted picture that I had wanted so badly just a moment ago. But I don’t. Instead, I feel my knees lock in place and a cold sweat stir just behind the skin of my forehead. Because now the rooster is looking at me, now those wild yellow eyes are staring right into mine and I discover many truths immediately. One, this is not an old friend, or a new friend, or even an acquaintance. This is a complete stranger who clearly is oblivious of me or my intentions until my hand got to close. But now it sees me. Now it knows of me. And with its pus-colored wild eyes it tells me that I’ve just fucked up, that I’ve just made an enemy capable of such levels of rage and dominance that no man can handle.
I realize this all sounds a bit silly and dramatic, and that’s exactly what I tell myself at the time. This boy chicken is one eighth my size, covered in feathers and dumber than a car. Surely my strength, wit, and size surely are enough to take this fucker down. But somewhere in the back of my head, I recall this story I had read years ago on reddit about this man who was still haunted to this day after an interaction with a rooster over at his uncle’s farm when he was a kid. Only pieces of the story stuck with me, but I remember something about scars on the back of his neck after what that creature’s claws did to him that day.
No, not claws, I thought to myself. They are called something else…
…Talons.
The word hits me just as my eyes move from his face to the ends of its legs, where those hooked feet are gnawing at the dirt floor. I can’t believe my eyes. Those fucking talons look absolutely huge, way bigger than I would have suspected. I rub the back of my neck, as if I can feel those monster hooks cutting into my flesh. My eyes go back up to his and I swear to god the yellow has changed to a darker yellow, and yet somehow, also more vibrant at the same time, and he’s got a look on his face like “yeah motherfucker, my talons are huge and I’m going to sink them into your face any second now.”
He starts cawing now. Actually, I’m not sure if you’d call it cawing, but he’s making some guttural noises with his mouth that’s terrifying and at the same time he’s puffing himself up, the fucker is growing in size and lifting up his wings like he’s flexing at me.
Internally, I’m sweating pretty bad. But I know I have to keep my cool. If I know one thing about nature it’s that you never show it fear. Stare it down until it runs away. But this motherfucker isn’t running away. With his puffed up chest, his flexed wings and his devil eyes he is challenging me to battle with his whole heart. He even begins to make quick motions toward me, then away, then toward me again, as if he’s stepping up to me, as if he’s saying, “You wanna go bro! You wanna go! I’m right here, you wanna go?!”
I’m dealing with nature’s version of a Boston frat boy and I hate it. But again, I can’t show fear. What do I do? I can’t seem to come up with a strategy. Jesus, T realize, this is turning out to be a battle between a bird that can’t fly and a human that can’t think. Wtf.
I look down and see my book on the table. I try to imagine what Hemmingway would do in such a scenario. Sure, he ran with the bulls, but did he ever fuck with roosters? If so, I’m sure he did so in a manly man way.
“Look rooster, let’s not be stupid here. I’m way bigger than you, and I have this bottle of mostly full sweet tea,’ I grip the handle of the tea while turning the bottle upside down, as if I’m holding the Hammer of Thor, “and I will not hesitate to use it to bludgeon you to death. Do you understand?”
Its vicious, stupid yellow eyes look from me to the makeshift weapon in my hand and back to me again, and let’s out a warlike cry so horrible that my legs rise up from the table on their own.
Oh shit.
Like a shark smelling blood in the water, this murderous alarm clock comes at me with all its strength. Jumping up high in the air, showing its featherless ass at me, with its two great talons in front of it, both open and hungry for human meat. In my panic, I take a swing at the beast with my sweet tea, letting out my own war cry, but my defensive strike misses completely. It has me now. I’m a goner. Its talons are close enough to headbutt.
At the last second, I reach for my backpack and use it as a shield. The rooster bounces off the pack and lands on the ground on the other side of me, where I’m most exposed. He lets out another cry and I whip around, and block him from view with my backpack. I hook my left arm through both shoulder straps of my backpack, while using my other hand to take quick swipes at him with my bottle. I am basically King Arthur, using my shield and sword to fight off a dragon.
As I am doing this, I hear this worst sound you can hear while going through this sort of trauma. Laughter. I turn toward the road and find a pair of city park officials riding on one of those electric carts, zipping down the road, laughing their asses off at the sight of this grown man panic fighting a rooster. I feel very foolish now but laugh along with them, trying to act like we’re all just having fun here. I even consider making a joke like, “just having a little trouble with my cock!” to show them just how much fun I am having here, how not scary any of this is.
But my opponent uses this opportunity to exploit my weakness and attacks me once more. Flying at me as my head is momentarily turned away from battle. Again, I let out a high pitch scream that comes deep from within my soul. The laughter from the electric cart only worsens now.
But he does not land a hit, I can say that at least. And I am able to brush off his encroachments so that I can retreat far enough away from the table so that he no longer pursues me. I turn and see the cart disappear far down the road, and as dumb as this sounds, deep down I pray they are going to get reinforcements.
The fiery red head is now pacing back and forth in front of the table I was sitting at only moments ago, strutting like a conquering hero. My pride is hurt now, and I feel more like an animal than a human, wanting nothing more than revenge.
This is stupid, I think to myself, he’s not going to leave you alone even if you take back the table. You are the human in this encounter, act like one.
Fair enough.
It’s time to be the adult in the room, get in my car and drive to a different section of the park that is yellow eye free.
BUT.
But then I realize my book, my phone, and my car keys are all still waiting for me at the table.
Motherfucker. The psycho bird is still strutting up and down the perimeter, mocking me and everything I stand for. I can’t take this anymore. The anger inside me grows. A man can only stand so much.
I grip both my backpack and my bottle and launch myself at my enemy. Round two has begun. With my speed, rage, and bottle strikes, I am able to force it away from the table, grab my belongings and sprint to my car unscathed.
Round two goes to the human.
Safely in my vehicle, I take time to catch my breath, trying to process everything that just happened in the last five minutes. As I do so, the rooster comes back to the table, jumps up to the top and begins to cockle-doodle-do like it’s fucking five am. But it’s not. It’s high noon and this rooster chased away an enemy of greater strength, size and intelligence, and he’s soaking in his victory.
The sun also rises, he seems to be saying to me, but the only thing you do is go down like a bitch.
This sentiment hurts, but like Hemmingway used to say, all that matters is that you write the truest thing you can. And right then, on top of the table, that fucking rooster is doing exactly that. And I can’t hate him for that. But he’s made an enemy for life.
