So last night, this girl walks into the bar. She looks to be in her late 20's.
She's got stringy black hair. In fact, she looks kind of generally strung out: dirty old tank top, ratty messenger bag, bloodshot eyes. She's carrying a big cardboard box. She introduces herself as Raven.
"I used to work here, actually."
I say something like, "Oh, that's interesting."
In fact, there is a binder behind the bar with copies of the OLCC licenses and food-service cards of everyone who has worked there since 1996. Raven's not in it. This should be my first clue that something's not quite right, but I let it pass.
She asks if we have Merlot. I tell her yes, Beringer. She orders a glass. I serve it to her and then head out to the back porch to clear some tables on our patio. I am gone for maybe forty-five seconds. When I come back, I do a serious double-take.
The cardboard box is open, on the floor, empty. Raven is standing by the bar, and with both arms she is holding up a huge, scraggly-looking rooster. In one of her hands she is holding the glass of Merlot. As I stand there watching, the rooster, whose head is suspended near the wine glass, plucks its head into the glass and appears to take little sips of the wine.
I know you want to hear how this story ends, but I just have to describe to you the appearance of this rooster. I still can't think about it without laughing.
It's kind of beat-up and skinny-looking rooster, with a lot of its feathers missing, like Raven and it have been to a lot of the same late-night parties. And its eyes have got this look--this very alert, slightly frightened, not-very-smart look common to most roosters (see picture below). And then, suddenly, I mean very very quickly, it just dunks its head into the wine glass. Dunk, dunk.
Raven clearly feels like she needs to explain. After a moment she says,"She only likes Merlot."
For a moment, I disregard this admittedly very interesting fact, as well as my certainty that the rooster is a male (thus the pronoun "she" is a misnomer). Right now I'm just focused on getting it out of the bar.
I tell Raven that the rooster has to go, right now. As you might expect, she starts trying to reason with me.
"But I used to work here."
"No you didn't."
She quickly tries another tactic.
"Well, OK, but she's really well-behaved. Her name is Marge. She's house trained."
Presumably so that the two of us can better communicate, Raven puts Marge down on the counter. Marge immediately begins flocking up and down the bar, pecking at the garnishes, making little clucking noises.
Fortunately, when all of this happens, the bar is pretty slow; there's no one else at the counter. But there are some people playing pool, and of course the usual video lottery tweakers, and when they hear the noise they start to get suspicious. They begin to wander toward the front of the bar to check it out.
For her part, Raven is adamant that she won't leave.
"I mean, I still have a full glass of wine!"
Now Marge is really making noise. She's (he's?) running around on the bar and doing that Rak-rak-rak-rak thing that roosters do, seemingly in response to Raven's agitation. I am really at my wits' end.
To avoid further escalation - perhaps a call to the police or a full-on chicken debacle - I agree to let Raven finish her glass of wine, on the condition that she put Marge back in the cardboard box. And finally, after much protesting, she agrees. She puts Marge back in the box, and Marge is quiet. The pool players and the video lottery tweakers resume their respective pursuits. They look disappointed.
I think I'm in the clear, but just before she leaves, Raven asks if she can put in a food order. I think, what the hell, and tell her, sure, OK, fine.
"I'd just like an order of chicken strips, to go."
JR
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