Working at the egg farm wasn't bad. My first job. I was only fourteen. $4.00 an hour cash at the end of the week. Can't argue with that. Mr. Ross was a cool guy. Not much of a boss though. Let you do whatever you wanted. Maybe it was the alcohol. Mrs. Ross was the one you had to watch out for. Even Mr. Ross said that. Called her an old bird. Among other things. But I did okay. Stayed out of trouble.

They put me with a kid named Heath. First week on the job I had to stretch some necks. The runaways. Couldn't let them get any ideas. Cause an idea to a chicken is a lot. And they run with it. So we ran after them. Chased them down. Damn hard to catch. All legs and feathers and squawk. Stupid birds. But when we'd finally grab them it was our turn to let fly. Zip. Like a rip cord. Then we'd toss them in the barrel. Bodies drumming against the inside. Too stupid to know they're dead. We'd burn them later.

Once a month the inspector came. Asked us to round up a couple dozen. Samples the guy called them. Damn stupid to me. Heath would do the rounding. I'd do the holding while the inspector stuck his needle. The blood would spurt like a drinking fountain. So hot it felt like wax dripping on my bare arms. But I'd hug them real good like I loved them. While the inspector took his time. I didn't want him to see I couldn't handle it.

Most of the time me and Heath just screwed off. Took the tractor out into the field. Drove it like mentals. Nearly tipped it over a couple of times. Other times we'd smoke a joint or two. Heath was cool. He was also crazy. He seemed to enjoy the killing. He'd make a game of it. Chase the chickens around until they were stumbling in the dirt. Then he'd calm them down. Stroke their gullets like he was jerking off. Then yank. Once he tore one's head clean off.

Then there was the day in the coup. Drove Heath over the edge. Would drive anyone over I guess. All those cages rattling and the birds pluck-plucking. It became like a buzz in your ears. Like a fly trapped in your head if you stayed in too long. And this time was too long for Heath I guess. One chicken was squawking real loud. Too loud. And Heath just spazzed. Searched and searched. Up and down like a Gestapo leader looking for an escape tunnel. Until he found it. Opened the cage and fished it out by its legs. Then slammed it up against the nearest wall. Wham! Wham! Wham! Three times and you're out. Then he tossed it good and hard into the barrel. That one didn't drum like the others. Like we'd come to expect. Heath didn't seem at all disappointed. Like maybe he'd just found a better way.

My last day at the egg farm came when I got my bloody nose. Couldn't explain why. Maybe it was the fertilizer. Or the feed dust. Or maybe it was all that taking of all that blood, and now it was my turn. Anyway I was stacking crates and there it was. Drip-drip. On my hands. In my mouth. Down the back of my throat. Couldn't make it stop. Couldn't work either. So I went to Mrs. Ross. Told her I had to go home. Three months on the job. Never missed a day. She just started squawking. Saying shit like we're all just a bunch of lazy ass babies good for nothing if you go home now don't come back. So I did. Go home, that is. And I didn't come back. Said goodbye to Mr. Ross on my way out. He said he was sorry there was nothing he could do. Heath wasn't surprised. Asked me if I wanted to stretch one for the road. He was in the coup smoking a cigarette. The barrel was nearly full. I said I'd see him around. But really I hoped I wouldn't.

Later that summer Mr. Ross got arrested for killing Mrs. Ross. Strangled her they said. There was a picture of him in the paper being led out of the courthouse. He didn't look all that unhappy. I just can't imagine Mr. Ross doing such a thing. The following year the egg farm was sold to new owners. As far as I know Heath still works there.