El Pollos de Bite-o
a story by Kate LaDew
“It is not vicious.”
“It is more vicious than most. This I know.”
“You know nothing.”
“This I know.”
“It is not for viciousness they maim.”
“If not for viciousness, Ernesto... If not for viciousness, then I ask, for what? For what do they maim, Ernesto?”
Ernesto shook his head. “It is an inflated sense of pride.”
“It is proud to be vicious? It is proud to bite and mangle?” Bolivar put a scarred hand over his heart. “Am I not proud? Am I not a proud man with much to be proud of?Am I not, Ernesto?”
Ernesto nodded. Bolivar was a proud man.
“Do I bite, Ernesto? Do I mangle?”
Ernesto agreed Bolivar did not bite, Bolivar did not mangle. “You are a proud man, Bolivar. You have done much. But little you know. Little you know of creatures such as these. It is a especial. It is unique in its decorum and manner.”
“You say these things to me, and yet call me friend.” Bolivar’s fingers pressed over his beating heart like struts. “Little I may know indeed. But one thing. One thing I am sure of, Ernesto.” He hooked a callused thumb at Flavio, who was scratching the ground lazily and did not look up. “This thing that I know, Ernesto,” Bolivar breathed deeply. “That is one bad chicken.”
It was a Jungle Fowl. Flavio. A Jungle Fowl from the jungles of South America. A throwback to the earliest birds. A bird with teeth in its beak. Bolivar was grateful for these teeth on numerous occasions, just as he was thankful for eggs and feathers. Bolivar was not thankful when these teeth were piercing his flesh. Bolivar was not and would never be grateful for this and would never consider his skin being ripped a happy occasion. He said as much to Ernesto.
“I do not care for my skin being ripped.”
“None do.” Ernesto could argue with Bolivar endlessly about a great many things. He could not argue with Bolivar about skin ripping. This fact did not dissuade Ernesto from making a vital point. “You may say you find Flavio’s ripping of your skin unpleasant. You may not Bolivar--dear friend of mine-- You may not questions the Jungle Fowl’s tenacity and strength of character.”
“I do not questions the Jungle Fowl’s tenacity and strength of character. I do not as a whole. I do question Flavio. He I question.”
“He is above reproach.”
“Flavio is not above anything.”
“I must disagree.”
Bolivar was not surprised. Ernesto was very sentimental when it came to Flavio. “You are sentimental about this bird especially. It is a fault.”
“If it is a fault, I welcome many more.” Ernesto would not be made fun of. He cared deeply for Flavio and Bolivar would not make fun of him. “You jest though you have no deep connections. None such as this.”
“Such as you and Flavio? No indeed. A Jungle Fowl he may be, a good chicken he is not.”
Ernesto was silent for more than a few moments. What response could be given? Bolivar was a dear friend. Ernesto felt much affection towards him.Almost as much affection as he felt towards Flavio. And this was precisely the problem. What is a man to do when his heart is torn between a chicken and a friend? A heart is so cumbersome. Would it beat chicken? Would it beat friend? Would Ernesto hear Flavio? Would he hear Bolivar? Ernesto listened. There was nothing but the wind in the trees, the movement of the earth and Flavio’s scratch scratch in the dirt.
“It is absurd, you know, to feel such a way.”
Ernesto was shaken out of his listening. “Such a way? To feel what way, Bolivar? To feel what way?”
“It is absurd to love a chicken. It makes one wonder. It makes one say, ‘Why?’ And so I ask, Ernesto...Why?”
Ernesto was perplexed. Had not Bolivar met Flavio? Had he not spent many a day with the blessed bird? Anyone who lived a moment with Flavio...they would not ask such a question. Flavio was the funniest of any bird Ernesto had ever known. So clever, so full of sprightly humor. Oh! How little Bolivar knew! "Why you ask? Why love a chicken? How could you not love a chicken with such a sense of humor?” Ernesto pointed, a laugh spilling into the air. “Look at the funny character he just drew in the soil of our nation with his beak of teeth.” Ernesto was overcome with joy and all but forgot himself. “Hey...maybe it looks a little like you, Bolivar."
Bolivar knew it looked like him. Flavio had been tracing unflattering images of Bolivar in the dirt for weeks now. He never admitted aloud, but-- yes. The characters did look like Bolivar. They did indeed. But Bolivar would not say. No. Bolivar would not. “These characters Flavio draws in the dirt, Ernesto-- They are not of me.” And Bolivar was silent.
Ernesto’s brow furrowed into lines as he looked again at Flavio’s marks. Why, it could be no one else! It was Bolivar’s chin, the one scarred from a pecking incident. It was Bolivar’s nose, the one that crooked to the side from a pecking incident. It was Bolivar’s eye, the one that drooped to the side from a pecking incident. It was Bolivar’s other eye that crossed wildly from a pecking incident. It was Bolivar’s chin, it was Bolivar’s nose, it was Bolivar’s eyes. It was Bolivar Flavio drew. Maybe due to his many old injuries Bolivar did not correctly see Flavio’s art. Maybe it should be pointed out. “You see the markings?”
“Yes.”
“You see the chin and nose and eyes?”
“I see them.”
“You see how they look like you?”
“I do not.”
Ernesto was more than confused. He was perplexed yet again. If Bolivar saw the markings, and saw them as a chin and nose and eyes, then surely Bolivar must in turn see the character Flavio drew was Bolivar himself. “You see the markings, and yet you do not see them as you?”
“I do not.” Bolivar shook his head from side to side. “I do not. But, Ernesto, I see much you do not.” He crossed his battered and beaten arms, thin blue veins trembling.
And what that might be Ernesto was afraid to ask. He built up courage by breathing in and looking at Flavio. The bird looked back with smiling eyes, eyes that seemed to say, I am with you, Ernesto. You are afraid but dear Flavio is always here. Ernesto’s spirit swelled and he spoke directly to Bolivar. “What is it that you see?”
“I see a bad chicken.”
Ernesto felt as if he had been slapped roughly across the face. As if a machete had pierced his skin and left him bleeding. Again he calls Flavio bad? Once, a mistake. Ernesto could forgive a mistake. Twice... Ernesto was a kind man but he did not have the patience of Job. He could not be expected to forgive this slight against his chicken. “You have slighted my chicken not once but twice, Bolivar. Do you expect me to forgive?”
“I expect you to do nothing. I expect you to turn a blind eye as is your way, Ernesto. This I expect.” Bolivar was sad and defeated and again silent. Ah, what Ernesto did not know. What Ernesto did not know, and Flavio, looking at him now and still scratching. Still tracing rude images in the dirt. Rude images that resembled Bolivar horribly. “That is a bad chicken out to get me and this is true. This is the one true thing I know.”
An outrage, these words! Ernesto felt the urge to pummel Bolivar with his fists and thus teach him the proper way to conduct himself. But was Bolivar not his friend? Did he and Ernesto not spend many a day together, dreaming and talking and dreaming some more? Did Bolivar not encourage him to buy this acre and create a farm--though humble--a working farm to enrich the soil of their nation? Did he not encourage many vegetables and beans and fruits to be planted? Did he not encourage a chicken? Did Bolivar himself not encourage Ernesto to invest in a chicken, bringing Flavio into their lives and enriching their nation more than any plant could? Why, it was. Bolivar had done these things.
But what he said! What he said to the detriment of Flavio’s character! Ernesto felt his hands grow clenched. Out to get-- Could Flavio be capable of such a thing? No. No, Flavio was Ernesto’s best good friend. He visited him in the evenings, bringing him water and tales of the city-- for Flavio was once lost in Juarez for a night. It might be hard for some to make a few moments of rambling more than half a dozen years ago new and interesting, but Flavio succeeded every time. Could such a story teller be the bad chicken Bolivar claimed? He and Flavio would love each other, always, and when Ernesto finally left the earth to traverse the stars, the nation might continue on, the flowers might bloom and the insects scuttle without ever knowing Ernesto was missing, but Flavio--Flavio who secretly understood his heart-- Flavio would crow Ernesto’s name every morning from loneliness. It was Bolivar with the problem.
“It is you with the problem, Bolivar.”
“I do have a problem. This cannot be overstated. My problem is the chicken you have deigned to curse me with.”
Ernesto narrowed his eyes. He could not help but think the chicken to which Bolivar referred was Flavio. Bolivar-- He does not like Flavio. Ernesto was struck with knowing. He does not like Flavio. It hurt his soul to admit, but Ernesto could be blind to the fact no longer. His eyes searched Bolivar’s. Was Bolivar a man capable of getting someone? Was Bolivar out to get Flavio? Ernesto found himself nodding. Bolivar did not like Flavio and Bolivar knew very well Flavio’s caricatures were of Bolivar and he was out to get Flavio. It was more than his heart could take. He listened for the beat. Flavio? Bolivar? The smiling eyes blinked, It is me, Ernesto. It is me, your chicken, Flavio. I alone care for you. I am not bad. I am out to get no one. Look at Bolivar! It is drawn for you! And Ernesto could hear his heart beat clearly, Flavio, Flavio.
“Though I am loathe to admit, Bolivar-- You and I may not be friends much longer. I feel you do not appreciate my most important ally and this troubles me greatly. If you do not like Flavio, say so and let the truth finally out.”
It was also troubling to Bolivar-- that Ernesto could be so unaware of Flavio’s obvious badness. Did Bolivar not have a mangled, broken body due to this badness? Of course the markings looked like him! Bolivar was the only lazy-eyed, chin scarred, nose cracked man in town! Ernesto was clearly lunacy-ridden and something had to be done. “It is not ‘I do not like’ this chicken, Ernesto. I loathe and despise him with every fiber God has made in me. I find myself devising ways to rid the days of this bad, bad chicken. You may have noticed the new machete and heavy ropes I have stored near the coop.”
Ernesto had noticed.
“These were purchased not for nothing, Ernesto. I do not wish to obscure my meaning. I have purchased and stored the new machete and heavy ropes in order to murder Flavio. I have studied his movements and know when I shall strike.” Bolivar held up his hands. “If the news displeases you Ernesto-- I can only say I have not lied. I have made my true feelings known, and you may do with them what you will.”
Ernesto knew not what to say. Yes, he had discovered Bolivar’s dislike for Flavio, even his hatred, but-- murder? Why, it was unthinkable. And yet, did Bolivar not purchase a new machete? Did he not store heavy ropes next to Flavio’s coop? It was evidence and overwhelming but Ernesto’s own shock led him to say but meekly, “I wish you would not murder Flavio.”
“I am aware of your wish, Ernesto. And though I think of you as my own brother-- My own brother, dear, dear Ernesto-- my plans have been made and Flavio’s fate is sealed. I can take no other course. This road I have mapped with the purchase of a new machete and heavy ropes and stealthy late-night followings must be walked. It is not in me to change once I have decided.”
Ernesto’s gaze drifted sadly to Flavio, the bird scratching in the dirt. But it was not just scratching, Ernesto saw, no, it was Flavio’s novel, the one he had been toiling over for much time. Up to three chicken-size pages now. Flavio seemed to be reading over his work, and nodding, looked up. Looked up at Ernesto. Looked up at Bolivar Looked up with his chicken head and walked towards them, claws confident and sure.
Bolivar blinked with speed, his own feet unsure and wobbly. Flavio gave Ernesto a friendly grin, wing patting his knee affectionately. He meant to do the same to Bolivar but the man jumped back, hands up, knuckles white, scars puckering. Flavio shook his chicken-head-- sadly Ernesto thought, so sadly. He opened his beak and spoke quietly.
“It is a shame you have not understood my prodding, Bolivar. I thought you realized my feelings for you. I wish only for your happiness and well being. My peckings were out of love. My peckings were only to make you a better man. We always hurt the ones we love, do we not?”
Bolivar’s face became as red as a wild Mexican tomato, and despite his uneasiness declaimed wrathfully, “Then how much, may I ask, do you love me, chicken? Do you love me so much I should dare not sleep for fear of your sharp claws and beak of teeth? For fear I will not survive 'til the sun in its glory pierces the sky? For fear my face and hands should become bloodied and useless? Is that how much you love me?”
Flavio smiled and Ernesto smiled. Bolivar really did not understand. Of course Flavio only had his best interests at heart. He was an extraordinary bird as were most Jungle Fowl.
“It is love that makes him do these things, Bolivar. It is but love.”
Bolivar did not give Ernesto his attention, focusing instead on Flavio with thin eyes. “I have made a decision. I do not know what your chicken ears heard of our conversings, but it is a decision. It is unalterable.”
“Nothing is unalterable.”
Ernesto nearly laughed. Flavio was so insightful! He could take in for hours his musings that always became truth when listened to closely.
Almost as if hearing Ernesto’s thoughts -- how connected they were! -- Flavio uttered the wise words again. “Nothing is unalterable, Bolivar.” He began scratching markings in the soil of their nation. Whirls of dust rose as the markings took a familiar shape.
“You draw again our dear friend, Flavio.”
“I do Ernesto. I do.”
“It is a perfect representation.”
“It is close, yes.”
Bolivar tread lightly, examining the marks. It was Bolivar’s chin, the one scarred from a pecking incident. It was Bolivar’s nose, the one that crooked to the side from a pecking incident. It was Bolivar’s eye, the one that drooped to the side from a pecking incident. It was Bolivar’s other eye that crossed wildly from a pecking incident. It was Bolivar’s neck, cut from ear to ear. It was-- Bolivar’s droopy crossing eyes grew fatter. He breathed in deeply, a rushing sound audible through his nose. Slowly his fat eyes met Flavio’s. The chicken gazed back, beak set firmly but calmly. Bolivar looked again at the markings, and again at Flavio. “My neck, I see.”
“You see your neck.”
“I see it cut from ear to ear.”
“You see it cut from ear to ear.”
Ernesto cocked his head. “It is. I had not noticed this about you, Bolivar.”
“I had.” Flavio nodded. “I had.”
Bolivar’s Adam’s apple rose and fell. “These markings. These markings Flavio. Are they-- Are they unalterable? Or might they,” Bolivar’s lip trembled slightly. “Might they be erased? Brushed away like so much dust of the soil of our nation?”
“Nothing is unalterable.” Flavio raised the fold of skin where an eyebrow would be. “That was my conviction, anyway. After looking at life and all its mysteries. Yes. That was my conviction.”
“It is a good conviction.” Bolivar nodded. “It is good.”
“Is it?”
“The best.”
“I should not change this conviction?”
Bolivar shook his head vigorously. “You should not. You should keep it. Always.”
“I may. I may.” Flavio looked at Ernesto who smiled back. “Dear Ernesto, my friend. Want that I should tell you of my lost night on the streets of Juarez?”
“Very much so. I never tire of the tale.”
“And so this tale you shall hear.” Flavio’s eyes became foggy with remembrance. “It was a night darker than the giant black king snakes we see so often in the fields. It was a night blacker than Esperanza’s big, big eyes and long, long hair. You remember Esperanza?” Ernesto laughed in such way as to confirm he did indeed remember Esperanza and as they turned to go, side by side, Bolivar coughed shortly.
“I-- If you--When you say ‘may,’ chicken-- Eh-- Flavio,” Bolivar wiped his brow. “When you say may, is this not the same as yes? As in ‘yes, these marking can be altered?’ ”
“I think so.” The chicken put a wing on Ernesto’s knee, ushering him to the coop. As the friends walked on, a burlap mound shaped much like heavy ropes came into view. Flavio glanced back at a sweating Bolivar. “Maybe,” the chicken smiled, teeth shining.