Playing Chicken

Abstract

Playing Chicken John Kinsella (bio) Go on, show you're not a chicken by playing chicken! they insisted. He wasn't so sure; it seemed stupid to run in front of cars on a busy road to see who could have a car go closest without hitting them. If you get hit, you will be dead. Yeah but … they said, you don't get hit, that's the skill, and if you do, you're a loser anyway. They were tangling him up, and he already felt like a piece of crap in the neighbourhood—they were always inviting him to play with them and then telling him he couldn't. Saying he could be part of a game but then telling him he was too late or that the teams were 'balanced'. Thing is, he wanted to join them and they weren't the worst kids around and they always had such interesting conversations. It seemed a little thing, really—if he survived then he was in with them and part of the crew. And if he didn't, well, life wasn't a bed of roses or a picnic, as his grandfather would say, so what the heck. He would work out a strategy. Watch cars, time cars, work out how many followed the speed limit and how many didn't. What he could get away with at maximum distance without looking like he was chickening out. Then, as he often did, he got distracted in his planning. What did the expression 'chickening out' really mean and where did it come from? What were its origins? And was he going to 'chicken out' or was he going to 'play chicken?' It seemed odd to him that the same word 'chicken' could mean opposite things. He loved chickens and didn't think of them as stupid or scared—who wouldn't run away if chased? Made sense. Chickens were smart and every time he'd cradled and cuddled a chicken and got it calm, he thought, They are my friend and I understand them and they understand me. Playing chicken or being chicken, how could either be a bad thing? Tomorrow, he said, tomorrow … I've got to get home early today. Sure, [End Page 14] sure … well, tomorrow, and you'd better or you're just a lily-livered chicken!!! It snarled him up inside as he rushed home, leaving their calls behind. ________ But he was bothered and went down to the back garden to where the pickets were missing between his yard and the neighbour's and stepped through, coming out in front of the gate to the Bacardos' chicken pen. He made clucking noises, and the chooks that weren't laying rushed up to him. Sorry, chickies, I don't have any food today, but then he told them to wait, stepped back to his own yard, and pulled out some capeweed that was dying and in seed and returned to the pen, carefully opening the gate a crack to prevent their rushing out, though they often were out and often in his own back garden before Mrs Bacardo called them back or they returned at dusk of their own accord. But Mrs Bacardo was out with Monik—he knew because he'd seen them reverse out, waiting forever before swinging onto the busy road and taking off to prevent being slammed in the back. He tossed the capeweed in, and the chooks started pulling it to pieces. Good chookies, he said. He lost track of time as he often did and just stood staring through the wire hexagons, thinking things over. I wish I was a chook and could scratch around and have all the other chooks be my friends. But then he thought about having to lay eggs and the stickfast fleas that had to be removed with kero and the picked-bald heads from other chickens that had picked on an outcast chicken and he slumped. It's only better because I can't be a chicken … and then as if to reassure himself, and I wouldn't want to be a rooster either. And I wouldn't want to end up...