leetle thought.
I think sometimes about sexing chickens. Not the sexual congress of man and poultry - like any Congress, I suspect this is the refuge of the desperately untalented - but rather the early determination of a chick's sex.
Thrust from dreams by a screeching alarm at four in the morning. Drinking coffee in the kitchen, leaning on the stove. The house disturbed by the noise, but settling back down around me, its old bones creaking. I put my cup in the sink and close the door softly, so as not to wake it.
And then the elevated. The car sways on its rails. The conductor doesn't bother to name the stops; if you're awake at this hour, you already know where you're going.
Then the warehouse, the narrow dim corridors, the row of lockers, the breakroom with its inspirational poster and mildewed refrigerator. Punch the clock, trade jacket for apron, and walk to my space. It is a small room - this is a small operation - and when he arrives, the man who stands next to me will brush against me with every move he makes. We are forced to be friendly, and I know the names of his children, his favorite TV show. Mostly, though, we do not talk. We are focused on our job.
Which is this: a pan full of chicks. They are downy creatures that struggle over one another, making thin high sounds of alarm, their feet scrabbling on the plastic. A coffee can, already stained green, and two baskets on either side. The masking tape on the baskets is peeling, and the lettering is faded: male and female.
I pick up the first chick of the day, still surprised by how light it is, how warm. A gentle squeeze, a tap against the edge of the can, and green shit squirts from the chick, hits the side and drips down to the bottom.
There is a skill to this. Very few people can see it right off; the cloaca is pink and shiny, and it seems at first that every chick is female, that none have the tell-tale bump of the male. Today the first chick is female. It's good luck, I think, and toss her into the female basket. She wobbles, catches her balance, glares at the walls of the box with her oblong eyes. I take up another chick; squeeze, tap, male, toss.
There are benefits to this job. The job security that comes with a difficult skill. The conversations at a high school reunion, classmates' bright eyes darting to my face, their surprised clucking at my occupation. The first date, the ice-breaker that nets me a good-night kiss. Reading a Jeanette Winterson novel with a laugh caught in my throat.
The most pleasing, though, is the power. I won't lie, not to you. I love having their tiny warm bodies in the pan, waiting for me to decide which way they'll go, how fast their lives will end. You know they kill the males, right? They're worthless to a breeder, unless they fatten them up for meat. Goodbye, I tell each little boy, good riddance.
Thrust from dreams by a screeching alarm at four in the morning. Drinking coffee in the kitchen, leaning on the stove. The house disturbed by the noise, but settling back down around me, its old bones creaking. I put my cup in the sink and close the door softly, so as not to wake it.
And then the elevated. The car sways on its rails. The conductor doesn't bother to name the stops; if you're awake at this hour, you already know where you're going.
Then the warehouse, the narrow dim corridors, the row of lockers, the breakroom with its inspirational poster and mildewed refrigerator. Punch the clock, trade jacket for apron, and walk to my space. It is a small room - this is a small operation - and when he arrives, the man who stands next to me will brush against me with every move he makes. We are forced to be friendly, and I know the names of his children, his favorite TV show. Mostly, though, we do not talk. We are focused on our job.
Which is this: a pan full of chicks. They are downy creatures that struggle over one another, making thin high sounds of alarm, their feet scrabbling on the plastic. A coffee can, already stained green, and two baskets on either side. The masking tape on the baskets is peeling, and the lettering is faded: male and female.
I pick up the first chick of the day, still surprised by how light it is, how warm. A gentle squeeze, a tap against the edge of the can, and green shit squirts from the chick, hits the side and drips down to the bottom.
There is a skill to this. Very few people can see it right off; the cloaca is pink and shiny, and it seems at first that every chick is female, that none have the tell-tale bump of the male. Today the first chick is female. It's good luck, I think, and toss her into the female basket. She wobbles, catches her balance, glares at the walls of the box with her oblong eyes. I take up another chick; squeeze, tap, male, toss.
There are benefits to this job. The job security that comes with a difficult skill. The conversations at a high school reunion, classmates' bright eyes darting to my face, their surprised clucking at my occupation. The first date, the ice-breaker that nets me a good-night kiss. Reading a Jeanette Winterson novel with a laugh caught in my throat.
The most pleasing, though, is the power. I won't lie, not to you. I love having their tiny warm bodies in the pan, waiting for me to decide which way they'll go, how fast their lives will end. You know they kill the males, right? They're worthless to a breeder, unless they fatten them up for meat. Goodbye, I tell each little boy, good riddance.