The daring poulterer 1

The business of chicken

5 ante meridiem, the crowing of the cockerel wakes thee up, that electronic crowing that sounds every morning to take thee out of the wonderful world of dreams and bring thee back to this one, the world of labour, the world of feeling tired for hours, then having fun for a few more, and then falling exhausted into bed, until the digital cockerel crow again, and the cycle repeat itself.

Through thy mouth slips thy breakfast, so fast that thou canst not savour it, thou knowst that if thou dost not hurry thou shalt not arrive in time to the central market of the city, the other poultrymen will hoard the best produce and only the chickens at the bottom, the smashed ones, the ugly ones, the difficult to sell, will be left.

Thy chauffeur, who arrived early, has already been waiting 15 minutes for thee, thou canst see his car from thy window, a rickety car that in little more than a decade has had more occupations than thee, and has also travelled much more. Thou dost not even remember when thou wast not a poulterer, and the longest trip that thou ever didst was when thou movedst from thy village to the city, a trip of 3 hours of vertigo that has become one of 3 hours of routine, every couple of weeks, when thou repeatest it to visit thy parents.

Thou boardst the car, greetst the driver, a gentleman older than thee, whom thou metst because some other poultrymen had recommended him to thee. «Good morning», thou sayst to him, «excellent morning, sir!» he replies to thee. Thou sitst down and rememberst how when thou first hiredst him thou treatedst him like any other poulterers’ chauffeur, in thy mind they were all the same, in thy mind they were all chauffeurs always, all their lives were like thy life, always homogeneous, always the same, always chopping chicken. But this man was different, he did not open his mouth just to tell thee some joke or some gossip, he told interesting stories that he himself experienced during his life, a life much longer and more varied than thine, and that fascinated thee, it made thee feel respect for him, for he was a faint spark of wisdom in thy world of monotony, one so dark that the splendour of ember dazzles thee as if it were a star of philosophy.

He ignites the engine and drives to the corner. A red light makes you wait for a minute, idling, although it is not likely that any cars or pedestrians will cross the intersection. Then he starts a conversation, with the same question as always:

—How are you feeling this morning?

—A bit tired, I could not sleep early.

—Why not?

—I went to the cinema with my wife, we saw a film in which a couple of millionaires conceived a pair of beautiful twin girls, only to later divorce and separate them, until years later the girls accidentally met. The film was meant to be funny, my wife left the cinema laughing, I did not laugh once, I even took a nap at one point.

—Then the film ended late?

—No, it ended just in time to go home and get a proper night’s sleep, which I thought we would, but as I laid down in bed, hoping to finally fall asleep, thanks to the tiredness that that film had provoked me, my wife, who was still enchanted by it, told me that it was time to do it…

—To do what?

—To have kids.

Hearing this shocks him; although he would usually answer thee immediately, this time he requires some minutes of reflection. But thou dost not want even a second of silence, after having mentioned such a sensitive subject, so thou continuest on, telling him what happened.

—She told me that she wanted at least 2 girls, and if possible, that they should be twins, cute and red-haired, like the ones in the film. I told her that it did not work that way, that if we had them they would probably look like us. She assured me that that was fine for her, and tried to get me to proceed immediately with their creation.

—And then you proceeded?

—I then proceeded to explain to her that money is scarce, that we have not a house of our own, nor a family car, that we can not afford a child now.

—How did she take it?

—Badly, she brast into tears, tears of furious frustration. What do you think?

—That she should not be so preoccupied with that issue…

—That is what I thought too…

—…and that you should know that this shall be inevitable.

—What?! What shall be unavoidable?

—That the children shall come. Regardless of how much it be avoided, no matter how hedonistic or self-centred people be, even the most frivolous are eventually blessed with some offspring.

—Do not scare me.

—I do not want to scare you, only to warn you, and perhaps to amaze you, with these marvellous events: from the least elegant and pulchrous acts, full of secrets, of domination, of absurd cravings, and sometimes of vices, of abuses, of lies,,, the new human beings originate. It is all so abrupt and so wild that it is frightening. That is why the embarrassment is usually cushioned by a loving relationship, which compensates for the brutality of the process. That is why it is so difficult to explain the process to the children, because we ourselves do not understand it, nor can we brook it.

—I do not know, I never think about all those things in my intimate moments with my wife.

—And that is why the children come, because none thinks with brilliance while fornicating, whoever would do so would instantly stop.

You arrive at the enormous marketplace: thousands of square metres of commercial warehouses dedicated to specific classes of alimentary products: one for bovine products, another for the caprine ones, although cheeses, yoghurts and milks are all in the dairy warehouse; there is also one for fish, another for crustaceans, and many, many others. There is not a logical or a practical order, so the poultry warehouse, where they sell meat from all kinds of poultry —except chicken— is far away from the gallinaceous warehouse; the latter is right between the apicultural warehouse and the frutal warehouse. Thou admirest them all, even though their architecture is grey and unadorned, thou art fascinated by their immense size —in thy village they would never build such a huge building—, but thou art, at the same time, annoyed to notice that the parking areas —which are even larger than the buildings— are already full of cars and trucks: the others have already arrived for their goods, and thou shalt have to cope with them.

There is not space near the gallinaceous warehouse, so you park in front of the apicultural one, which is not usually so crowded, but whose floors are always very sticky from the honey that inevitably spills in that area. You walk, outside and then inside, as fast as you can, although every time you step on the ground, the ground slows you down, as if it were the honey lips of a maiden in love, that, when she achieves to kiss, never wants to detach her lips.

Thou seest the trolleyers carrying barrels of honey and wax, although, given the disorder of the warehouses, there are others who pass by with very different products, all leaving their own particular traces, sometimes a scent of the sea, other times a forest aroma, or even a few drops of blood on the floor. All substances with which the cookesses will later experiment in their chemical laboratories, in their kitchens… and which will eventually be swallowed by everyone… So much hassle just to provoke specific sensations in the mouth for a few seconds!

Thou reachest the gallinaceous warehouse, and seekst the premises of the merchant who, for no other reason than the superstitious faith of sympathy, thou deemst to be the most honest and the least miserly. He is not present, but only is his son, who attends thee with disinterest, and, without the least effort of salesmanship, shows thee the produce. Thou noticest that the only cheap breasts available are already crushed and misshapen. Thy face reveals thy frustration, but thy chauffeur, ever so positive, does not want thee to feel that way:

—Do not worry! At least then you shan’t have to flatten them any more when you cut them into fillets.

Thou callst a trolleyman to transport a few dozen kilograms of the squashed breasts to thy chauffeur’s car. You walk towards the car, slowly, for dragging a heavy load hinders the pace too much. When you reach the small arch bridge that leads to the apicultural warehouse, the trolleyer is no longer going straight to the top, but from one side to the other, gradually climbing up, to make carrying thy heavy chicken up the slope humanly possible. Although this spectacle usually entertains thee, thy attention is stolen away suddenly by the march of a young girl in a mini-skirt, a nymphette so light that she climbs that same bridge without any difficulty. Not only do thy eyes turn towards her legs like the pointer of a compass turns northwards, but also the eyes of the others, including those of thy trolleyman, who gets distracted and abruptly dumps thy chicken on the ground. Do not agitate! It has not been contaminated, it has only been squashed more.

—Pardon me, sir! I will pick it up for you, just give me a minute.

While thy trolleyman kneels down to ruin even more his herniated spine by carrying thy poultry meat, thou triest to calm thy shock by ogling again at the body of the girl, who has stopped and turned to observe the disaster. Thou noticest that only thy breasts are the ones flattened, for nubility endows the nymphettes with quasi-sinusoidal quasi-spellbinding forms, which undulate the plains of thy spirit too. Thy chauffeur watches everything, the trolleyer, the vestal and thee, and attempts to make thee regain thy concentration.

—Look! He finished picking up the chicken, we can continue our way. Do not worry about the girl, her parents probably work here and she will walk from here to her school, which must not be far away: perhaps she will pass by here every day, so thou wilt have many more opportunities to stare ecstatically at her, but now let us go, as it is already late and the commercial operations of thy cherished poultry shop must urgently commence.

Thou boardst the car, it begins the languid journey to thy store. Thou openst the window, while the driver says something to thee, but thou dost not hear him anymore,,,
THOU LETST THE WIND DISSOLVE
WITH ITS BLOW THE WORDS,
AND AGITATE THY HAIR
INVOKING IN THEE THE MEMORY
OF THE FINE LOOSE CURLS
OF THAT VENUST WOMAN:::
THOU CANST SEE THEM AND FEEL THEM,
THOUSANDS OF SPIRAL THREADS,
THAT THOU, CONVERTED INTO THEIR AURA,
LAUDEST WITH PLENTY OF CARESSES.

—Wake up! We arrived. Thou mustest open already, and we still have not unloaded the chicken.

Thou carriest, dragst or throwst the sacks of raw chicken, which, as it has been thawing for some hours now, emits a sanguinary aroma, to which thou hast become accustomed. Yet today some of these sacks surprise thee with a subtle mel perfume, as they got impregnated with residues of honey and wax when thy trolleyer dumped them at that bridge

Once everything is unloaded, thou preparest a few pieces, hurriedly, trying to finish before the early clients arrive.

THOU SECTIONST A CHICKEN WITH THE SCISSORS,
BY THE HINDQUARTERS THOU BEGINST:
THIGHS, LEGS AND FEET;
THEN THE FOREQUARTERS THOU CARVEST:
NECK, BREAST AND WINGS.
THOU DOST NOT EVEN THROW AWAY THE VISCERA,
THOU PUTST THEM INTO A SEPARATE SACK,
THOUGH NOT TO SELL THEM,
FOR NONE BUYS THEM,
BUT TO OFFER THEM
TO THE BLESSED STREET DOGS.

But thou art not fast enough, the first customer is already here, an elderly lady.

—Good afternoon, kind poulterer. Look how full my cart is, I am only lacking a chick for today’s broth. Please provide me with two hundred and fifty grams of leg, another two hundred and fifty grams of thigh, and five hundred grams of breast.

—Very well, madame, I shall have it ready in a moment

DEXTEROUS A CHICKEN THOU CHOPPEST:
THIGHS, LEGS AND FEET;
NECK, BREAST AND WINGS.

—How are you today, mister poultryman?

—Very well, madame, thank you for asking. And you?

DEXTEROUS A CHICKEN THOU CHOPPEST:
THIGHS, LEGS AND FEET;
NECK, BREAST AND WINGS.

—Ay! I am very well, mister poultryman, did you know that…

THOU LETST THE SCISSORS CUT
HER OH-SO-SHALLOW WORDS.

DEXTEROUS A CHICKEN THOU CHOPPEST:
THIGHS, LEGS AND FEET;
NECK, BREAST AND WINGS.

THEN, FROM AMIDST THE MONOTONOUS NOISE
OF THIS HIGHLY REPETITIVE WORK,
SHE EMERGES RUNNING, TOWARDS THEE, CONTENT,
WITH HER PERFECT JOINED EXTREMITIES.

DEXTEROUS HER BODY THOU KISSEST:
THIGHS, LEGS AND FEET;
NECK, BREASTS AND PALMS…
AND HER HONEY SAVOUR OBNUBILATES THEE.

YET THE WORLD CONTRADICTS THY HARMONY,
CHASTISES THY EYES,
ENDS THY WORLD.

—And your wife, how is she doing, mister poultryman?

Not even the aggressive force with which thou swingst the pounder against the already overly squashed breasts —trying in vain to give them an appetizing shape— is as intense as the punch that this question has given to thy spirit, suddenly interrupting thy fantasy.

—Very well, madame, thank you for asking.

—What a joy to hear that! Take good care of her! Do not forget that marriage is the basis of the family, and the family is the basis of the society. Without couples together and happy there is not any society.

—That I will do, do not worry… And your husband, how is your husband?

—Eh? I guess well… Anyway, hurry up with the chicken, I am in a hurry.

THE HOURS PASS, ARRIVE THE CLIENTS, LEAVE THE CLIENTS.
THE BROKEN YEARNING AGONISES ETERNALLY,
FOR IT CAN NOT DIE, BUT ONLY SUFFER, FOREVER.

DEXTEROUS A CHICKEN THOU CHOPPEST:
THIGHS, LEGS AND FEET;
NECK, BREAST AND WINGS.

The urban panorama turns from cerulean and luminous to lugubrious and tenebrous. With thy remaining forces thou countst the last coins, and putst them in thy pocket; they never seem to be enough, they never are, but today that is of little importance, today is a day of honey. Thou walkst home, almost wandering, like a bee that turns as it perceives the aromas of the flowers, trying to imagine once again the pulchrous face and the divine gaze of that girl.

Thou arrivest home, and crossing each threshold costs thee several minutes of silence and stillness. Everything is silent, thy spouse is asleep, thy spouse does not notice how slowly thou art walking. How lucky thou art! She will not ask thee to reproduce today! Thou liest in bed with her, embracest her tightly, triest to concentrate on the warmth of her body, but thy intranquil imagination rapidly makes thee perceive a perfume of honey, and feel that in thine arms thou art squeezing a slenderer and tenderer body. Only then dost thou fall asleep, taking the maiden of honey with thee, into thy dreams.

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