16. Chicken’s Need Love Too

16

CHICKEN’S NEED LOVE TOO

DARREN

I toss the empty Styrofoam cup into the trash and run my hands through my hair.

“No, no, no, you’re messing up your hair,” Angie chastises.

I hold my hands up while she approaches me with a comb. “Geez, you make it sound like I’ve just been caught stealing condoms from the drugstore,” I huff out.

“You didn’t really do that did you?” she asks in a serious tone while trying to comb my hair back in place.

“My parents were Catholic.”

“Well, let’s hope the press doesn’t get a hold of that story,” she laughs, stuffing the comb back in her pocket as we walk back to the camera crew.

“Nope, but I saw this earlier,” I huff out and hand her my phone, which displays an article with a picture of me from college.

Angie takes my phone, and she tilts her head as if trying to figure out what’s going on. “Did you steal a dog?” She puts her hand over her mouth as if she’s scandalized.

“That’s Jack the bulldog, our school mascot, and it’s a statue.” I snatch the phone back from her. “I’m not depraved.”

“What were you doing with it?” she questions.

“It was a fraternity thing,” I try to explain. “Never mind.”

“Rausch is going to blow a gasket,” she says.

“Speaking of Rausch, where is he?” I check my watch for the fifteenth time.

“He didn’t tell you?” Angie inquires. “He had to drive back to Georgetown. He said he had some important business to take care of.”

“More important than filming this tv spot that he insisted I do because he said I needed to reach a broader demographic?” I challenge, hoping that my words travel all the way to Georgetown and hit Rausch over the head.

Angie shrugs and I let out a frustrated breath. I pull the notecards out of my pocket and go over the lines again.

“Let me write something up to counter the bad press. I’ll run it by Rausch but maybe we can set something up with the dean, spin it like a fun prank, maybe get some good press for the non-profit law clinic?” she offers.

I can feel my anger start to ebb away. “That’s a good idea, thanks,” I tell her. When the director motions for me to start again, I face the camera and walk down the street.

“I’m Darren Walker, and I’m running for the House of Representatives for District five…”

“Why are you walking like you have a stick up your ass?” Alistair interrupts as he crosses the street, and the director throws his hands up.

“Cut!” he shouts.

“I do not walk like I have a…” I stop as I pass the screen where one of the assistants is replaying what we just filmed.

Shit. I am walking like I have a stick up my ass.

“Maybe if you imagine everyone naked it’ll relax you a bit,” Alistair offers, and for a second, only because I’m desperate, I think about trying that until I see one of the boom mic operators is about as old as Jesus, and I shake my head.

Fucking Alistair.

“That’s for speeches, not filming a campaign advertisement.” I check to make sure my tie is still straight. “What are you doing here anyway? Don’t you have a job?” I question with a frustrated tone.

“I’m on business, if you must know.”

“In Clarksville?” I laugh out the question.

“I was passing through on my way to Bullock. I didn’t know I was going to be an extra in a film,” he teases.

“What’s in Bullock?” I inquire, grabbing a bottle of water.

“You don’t want to know.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“A chicken farm,” Alistair concedes.

“You’re right, I don’t want to know.” I down the water and throw it into the bin.

“We’re losing light,” the director barks. I’m sure he’s frustrated with me, but that’s too bad because I’m the one paying for this fiasco.

“You don’t have to stick around,” I tell Alistair.

“Oh no, I’m not missing this for the world,” he laughs.

I get into position. “By the way, I don’t think you’d last long even in a white-collar prison.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I know you’re an animal lover, but I know you’re not going to a chicken farm to liberate them.”

“Chickens deserve love too,” Alistair barks.

“Insider trading is serious,” I warn him. “And I’m not representing you if you get busted.”

“Hey,” he says while backing away. “I’m just going there to make sure our investment is safe.”

“Stay out of trouble. I have enough of my own,” I wave him off.

“Oh, I’ve seen.” Alistair pulls out his phone and attempts to show me something.

“If this is about Jack, I’ve already seen it. By the way, let’s not forget who actually broke in and stole the statue.”

“True, but I wasn’t the one they took a picture of while trying to mount it,” Alistair contends through fits of laughter.

“I was not mounting it. He was heavy and I was trying to scoot him—look it doesn’t matter. That was,”—I do the math in my head and realize it wasn’t really that long ago—“almost a decade ago,” I say because it sounds better.

“That’s not entirely accurate. Anyway, that’s not what I was referring to.”

He hands me the phone, and there’s an article about my father speaking at the University of Arizona four years ago.