The time i saw a chicken trample a baby goose
Posted by reallyrelyay | | Posted On Tuesday, March 4, 2008 at 1:17 PM
On June 21st I woke up to a rooster crowing. The farm we had crashed at resembled the Fischer Price play set I had when I was three:hens were pecking, ducks were quacking, sheep were grazing, horses were prancing, and cows were moo-ing.
Earlier daydreams of being on tour did not involve farms.
I peeled myself from the bus bench and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. My skin was glazed in a layer of early morning sweat, matted like dry glue on a finger. Ian and Jordan were still sleeping. Gavin, Joey, and Justin were asleep somewhere inside with our host, Ursula. I glared at the red barn and the white picket fence surrounding it. For acres farm-land covered the ground like a patchwork quilt. We were in the middle of nowhere.
Our show in Des Moines the night before had not gone well. We were suffering from a general lack of enthusiasm. The songs were loose, lyrics forgotten, rhythms lost. We played to a crowd of less than ten people, which counts the two people working and the sound guy. A group of four foreign women danced in front of the stage. Shadowed on a bench in the back the opening act and two heavily make-uped girls listened.
On I-80 earlier in the day Gavin told us that none of our shows for the next three days were confirmed. After that night we had nothing to do until our show in Oklahoma.
“We’ll still be in Omaha the day after tomorrow, right?”
The twenty-second was my birthday. Celebrations had been planned by our friends Coyote Bones at the Citrus Lounge, a champagne bar. Gavin looked down at the between the benches of the bus. There would be no champagne.
During a break in our performance Gavin found himself looking at the floor again.
“I know this is shameless, but if anyone in the audience knows of a place where we could crash tonight we would really appreciate it. We’d really rather not sleep on the bus. “
Ursula was one of the heavily make-uped girls on the bench. We followed her half an hour north to her mom’s farm. The next morning, as I ate a homegrown breakfast of eggs and bacon I studied her myspace pictures which hung on her refrigerator with farm-themed magnets. She did not look like the kind of girl you would find on a farm.
By eleven the band was taking turns showering. The rest of us stood outside. We were discussing our plan for the rest of the day when one of the brown hens tried to trample the baby goose. No amount of kicking or chasing would prevent them from stalking us around the picnic bench. The baby goose sought harbor between our legs as we sat. Every few minutes one of us, more commonly Joey or Jordan, would chase the chickens away. There was a sadistic shine in the hens’ eye each time it raised a talon only to stomp down again. The gosling struggled to stretch its undeveloped furry wings to flap in resistance, but was no match for its fowl foe. Chickens are the villains of the farmyard.
Ursula finally fought off the chicken and held the gosling in her thin arms. It shook uncontrollably. Representatives from our record company contacted Gavin to let him know of a show we might be able to jump on in Minneapolis. I looked at Gavin and wondered how long he thought we could keep this up. If we could get on the show in Minneapolis we could work our way through the rest of this tour, one night at a time.
As we took off on the bus down the dirt road back towards more familiar civilization I reflected on the shaken nerves of the goose. Could something so small hold its own long enough until it was developed enough to defend itself? What does it take to fight the odds when you’re that out-numbered?
Earlier daydreams of being on tour did not involve farms.
I peeled myself from the bus bench and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. My skin was glazed in a layer of early morning sweat, matted like dry glue on a finger. Ian and Jordan were still sleeping. Gavin, Joey, and Justin were asleep somewhere inside with our host, Ursula. I glared at the red barn and the white picket fence surrounding it. For acres farm-land covered the ground like a patchwork quilt. We were in the middle of nowhere.
Our show in Des Moines the night before had not gone well. We were suffering from a general lack of enthusiasm. The songs were loose, lyrics forgotten, rhythms lost. We played to a crowd of less than ten people, which counts the two people working and the sound guy. A group of four foreign women danced in front of the stage. Shadowed on a bench in the back the opening act and two heavily make-uped girls listened.
On I-80 earlier in the day Gavin told us that none of our shows for the next three days were confirmed. After that night we had nothing to do until our show in Oklahoma.
“We’ll still be in Omaha the day after tomorrow, right?”
The twenty-second was my birthday. Celebrations had been planned by our friends Coyote Bones at the Citrus Lounge, a champagne bar. Gavin looked down at the between the benches of the bus. There would be no champagne.
During a break in our performance Gavin found himself looking at the floor again.
“I know this is shameless, but if anyone in the audience knows of a place where we could crash tonight we would really appreciate it. We’d really rather not sleep on the bus. “
Ursula was one of the heavily make-uped girls on the bench. We followed her half an hour north to her mom’s farm. The next morning, as I ate a homegrown breakfast of eggs and bacon I studied her myspace pictures which hung on her refrigerator with farm-themed magnets. She did not look like the kind of girl you would find on a farm.
By eleven the band was taking turns showering. The rest of us stood outside. We were discussing our plan for the rest of the day when one of the brown hens tried to trample the baby goose. No amount of kicking or chasing would prevent them from stalking us around the picnic bench. The baby goose sought harbor between our legs as we sat. Every few minutes one of us, more commonly Joey or Jordan, would chase the chickens away. There was a sadistic shine in the hens’ eye each time it raised a talon only to stomp down again. The gosling struggled to stretch its undeveloped furry wings to flap in resistance, but was no match for its fowl foe. Chickens are the villains of the farmyard.
Ursula finally fought off the chicken and held the gosling in her thin arms. It shook uncontrollably. Representatives from our record company contacted Gavin to let him know of a show we might be able to jump on in Minneapolis. I looked at Gavin and wondered how long he thought we could keep this up. If we could get on the show in Minneapolis we could work our way through the rest of this tour, one night at a time.
As we took off on the bus down the dirt road back towards more familiar civilization I reflected on the shaken nerves of the goose. Could something so small hold its own long enough until it was developed enough to defend itself? What does it take to fight the odds when you’re that out-numbered?
