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It began innocently enough. First the missing coffee mug, followed soon by the non-functioning septic system. It seemed, at least to me at the time, that there would be no end to the troubles, and I will admit, I was beginning to have doubts concerning my own sanity, or at the very least, my own memory. Hadn’t the septic system not functioned properly for years? I’d ask myself, but couldn’t for the life of me remember the answer. And then the thief broke in, stealing all the tools (although I do recall this taking two, separate break-ins, not just one), the bank account looking drier than the skin on my scraped and bony shins, and on top of all this, Delmer showing up to cut and bale the far field. Who has time for hay? I wondered, or maybe said out loud, but no, there was Delmer across the way, looking wavy and distorted through the heat waves, his tractor raising up a small cloud of dust as it passed slowly up and down the long field, the repetitive sound of the cutting blades lulling me even further into whatever fog this was I’d wandered into.
The septic, the chicken had said. Try the septic. She’d appeared out of nowhere just two days ago at my back door, trying to tell me, it ended up, the whereabouts of the coffee mug, although at first I couldn’t understand anything she said, try as I might.
Bend down, closer, she said. Lower, no, lower still. There you go.
From down on my knees I could hear the chicken’s words quite clearly and wondered why I hadn’t taken the time to listen to the chickens more closely before. Thank you, I told her. Of course the mug has been accidently flushed down the toilet. Yes, of course, why hadn’t I thought of that. Yes, yes, you’re very kind to share this with me, I told her, my gratitude for the bird growing, but not so much that I felt like opening the screen door and inviting her in. I may very well have been going insane at this point, but as even the worst psychiatrist can tell you, there is a huge, dark abyss lying directly between going insane and being insane, and as far as I could tell, listening to a chicken was not enough to get a person across that particular chasm.
Yes, we’ll begin digging right away, I told the chicken, but thinking, to myself, that maybe it might be better to wait, at least until the record breaking heat passed, which ended up as a passing thought, I guess, because we set to work with picks and shovels, digging our way towards our troubles; towards the missing coffee cup and whatever else lie hidden beneath the hard, under-watered layer of tough, weedy turf; toward, we would find soon enough, an unforgiving, nostril-offending river of shit that would erase all thoughts of a missing coffee cup from our minds.
The trench was just shy of four feet deep when Carlos’ shovel hit the forty year old drain line --a shit-weakened concrete pipe, laid in small, one-foot sections, pieced together long before the popularity, perhaps even the invention, of plastic pipe-- and broke out a section of the pipe. Without knowing it, we had become doctors, septic doctors, and we had just performed our first successful tracheotomy on the dead and dying septic system. The system took one big gasp, then let loose with a stream of watery, foul-smelling shit that gushed from the broken pipe, the stream rising a foot or more into the air before falling back into the trench, the bottom of which was quickly filling. The septic system could breathe again, even if we suddenly could not, and was taking advantage of the moment. It stretched its lungs and poured gallon upon gallon of the foul sludge into the trench, forcing us all to scramble for safety.
Close one, the chicken said, who’d been watching us from atop a nearby pile of dirt. She scratched, then pecked something up that I couldn’t see. She’s friendly, I thought, but disgusting all at the same time. I watched her beak, looking for some sign of something. With people, you can watch their lips and they’ll give things away. They’ll smile slightly, or a lip will turn down or quiver or something. Something to give you a clue of what’s going on in their head. Not so with the chicken. Her beak remained as stiff as if she had no thoughts at all. There was not even any sign that she chewed whatever it was that she’d pecked up from the pile of rather nasty septic dirt, and I found myself wondering, Can I trust someone who swallows things whole without giving it a thought? Aren’t these just the sort of people who have no conscience, and are happier for being that way? I was, of course, not dealing with a person here, but a chicken. I was on shaky ground here, new territory. I stared down into the trench, now half-full of raw sewage water. Shaky, I thought, but at least dry.
Let’s take a break, I told the guys, then walked over to sit in the shade of the sequoia. Maybe a bit of perspective could be found in the cool shade of Little Cooper’s Grove, I thought. The guys headed back to the shop to get their lunches and the chicken, I noticed, was suddenly nowhere to be seen.