Page 20 of Mother Clucker

Heather

A text buzzed the cell phone on my desk at New Millennia Media in Burbank on Monday.

It was from David. A picture of Rowdy standing next to today’s newspaper with the caption, Proof of life.

I scowled and typed back, Ha, ha. Just keep it that way.

His reply was just a long row of laughing emojis.

I was glad David was enjoying my fear.

No, I didn’t believe he would butcher Rowdy. At least not now. But my fear had been very real before. You hand a chicken processor a bird, you had to worry it could get . . . processed.

I still wasn’t ready to accept that euphemism for anything other than what it was—a nice way of saying killed.

But David was right. Until I got my own life in order, I couldn’t judge his. I needed to stop buying leather. Stop eating meat. Probably stop buying anything from corporations that led to the deforestation in the rain forest too, while I was at it.

Until I did all that, I didn’t have a self-righteous leg to stand on.

Feeling like a poser, I glanced at the chicken, bacon and avocado wrap my coworker Lucy had brought me back for lunch.

It was my favorite sandwich. Or had been, anyway. Last week. Before my big enlightenment.

I considered picking the chicken off and just eating the bacon and avocado in support of Rowdy and his friends. Though that wasn’t being very fair to the pigs of the world.

The single slice of avocado left inside the wrap once I was done with it was enough to eat for lunch. Probably.

With a sigh I decided I was going to have to really investigate this vegetarian diet if I was seriously going to make a lifestyle change.

“Something wrong with your wrap?” Lucy eyed the chicken and bacon on the wax paper wrapper on my desk.

“No. Just thinking I need to cut down on meat.”

“More for me then.” Grinning, she snagged a piece of bacon and popped it between her lips. Still chewing, she asked through a mouth full of my tasty meat, “What brought this on?”

I laughed. “That’s a long story. You sure you’re up for it?”

“When you put it that way, now I have to know.” She pulled over the chair from her desk and sat close to me. Reaching for the chicken I’d pulled off my lunch, she said, “Do tell.”

There, in the marketing bullpen of New Millennia Media, I tried my best to explain my surreal weekend.

From the million-dollar beach condo to the rogue rooster to the hot chicken farmers I’d spent the day with, it was quite a tale. But we worked with Hollywood people, where crazy abounded, so really nothing I said surprised Lucy all that much.

It did make for an interesting lunchtime chat however.

“Hmm. You know what? Hot chicken farmers sound like they’d make for a really interesting show.”

I laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“No. I’m serious. We should pitch it.”

“We’re in marketing and public relations. Not production.”

“So? You know Joanne takes pitches from anybody at anytime. The Trash to Treasure Wedding idea came from a suggestion from one of the on-set crew on Gabrielle Lee’s decorating show. It was like a low-level assistant who came up with it.”

I considered the idea. “Drew Bowman’s farm is fairly local. He’s like an hour, maybe hour and a half away.”

Lucy dismissed the distance with a flick of her hand. “More importantly, is he good-looking?”

---