When My Heart Joins the Thousand(64)

She slides a package across the table; a yellow uniform wrapped in transparent crinkly plastic. “Welcome to the crew.”

I change in the bathroom. The uniform feels stiff and starchy against my skin, and the hat is bright yellow with a red chicken’s comb on top. When I come in, Linda walks me through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, into a steam-filled kitchen. There are apron-clad men and women working in back, frying chicken in vats of bubbling orange grease. One of the men grins at me, showing a flash of very white teeth, and says something in rapid Spanish. The others laugh.

A schedule hangs on the wall. Someone has scrawled the words FUCK CLUCKY’s across it in black marker.

Linda glances at it and laughs again. “That’s probably from Rob.”

I assume Rob is the one who quit today. I’m not sure how to respond.

She gives me a quick tour and shows me how to operate the register. “I’ll try to train you as we go, but we’re understaffed right now, so it’s going to be a little hectic. You take the orders, I tray them up. Just remember, after you repeat back the order, ask them if they want potato fingers with that.”

“What are those.”

“Fries. But don’t call them fries.”

Customers start filtering in. For the first hour or so, things go reasonably well. All I have to do is repeat their orders and hand them their change. Then more and more people crowd into the lobby, and it becomes harder to keep up. A long line forms. The clatter of dishes fills the kitchen, distracting me. Every sound is magnified.

“Do you want potato fingers with that,” I ask.

A man in a business suit scrunches up his forehead, and his toupee slides back. “I just ordered some.”

“I have to ask that every time. It’s a rule.”

“So . . . are you asking me if I want another order of them, or what?”

I freeze.

“Just give me the damn fries,” he says.

Linda, who’s been traying up food, has to go take care of an angry customer on the phone. I’m left alone. Each time I take an order, I have to turn around and scoop pieces of fried chicken, thin wedges of potato, and dollops of macaroni and cheese onto Styrofoam plates.

“Hey, hurry up!” someone shouts. “I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes back here!”

I give a start and drop a piece of chicken on the floor.

The phone in the office is ringing again. I don’t know where Linda is. The oven keeps beeping, which means whatever’s inside it is done, but there’s no time to go back and get it. The smell of burning biscuits fills the air. My hands start to shake, making it difficult to scoop the right change out of the register.

At Hickory Park, whenever I got overwhelmed by crowds or noise, it was easy to find a secluded spot where I could get myself under control. Here, there’s nowhere to hide, no space to breathe. Things start to blur together as my body moves on autopilot. Clucky, the chicken mascot, grins at me from a poster on the wall. His face starts to melt, eyeballs dripping from their sockets like runny paint. Or maybe it’s my brain that’s melting. The people in front of me wiggle and warp, as if I’m looking at them in a fun-house mirror, and the walls bleed into a swirl of red and yellow. My skull has become an echo chamber, distorting every sound. Someone is shouting. Then lots of people are shouting. I’m falling, collapsing into myself.

My body moves of its own accord as I climb over the counter and push my way through the crowd, toward the doors. My own rapid breathing echoes in my ears, drowning out the noise. When my head finally clears, I’m huddled in a ball behind the Dumpsters out back, surrounded by soggy, crumpled balls of wax paper.

A few hours later, I give back my uniform, and Linda pays me in cash for my single night of work. Thirty-five dollars.

When I get home, there’s a note on the door: Several other tenants have told me there are strange noises coming from your apartment. They said it sounds like an animal. As you know, pets are NOT allowed. Please deal with this IMMEDIATELY. If I receive one more complaint, I’m shortening the rent deadline to NOW.

Lots of capital letters. That’s usually not a good sign.

When I open the door, Chance is sitting in his usual place on the back of the couch. He tilts his head, and for a moment, he looks almost concerned. His beak opens, like he’s about to ask me a question, but he just croaks. Gah-ruk. I have the sudden urge to clutch him tight and bury my face against his feathers, but I’d probably just get scratched.

I collapse into the chair.

I know what I should do. I should take him to a wildlife rehabilitation center, somewhere he’ll be truly safe. Expecting Chance to fill the void in my life isn’t fair to him.

“I have to let you go,” I whisper.

He yawns and preens his breast feathers. Hawks are immune to sentimentality.

Slowly I reach out. Stop. Then keep going. He fixes one brilliant copper eye on me as I hold out an arm. A current of recognition passes between us. Casually—as if he’s done it a thousand times—he hops onto my arm and grips it with strong talons. When I lower him into the carrier cage, he doesn’t struggle.

Chance’s thoughts and feelings may be different from mine, but I have no doubt that his inner world is as rich and complex as any human’s. In some way that I don’t have the words for, we are the same.

During the drive, he’s surprisingly calm and quiet.