The chicken pranced across the length of the metal lip with delicate little mincing steps. It pranced back. It was halfplucked and its head lolled drunkenly on a broken neck. Its eyes seemed to be leering at Winer through their blue eyes.

The two shoppers paused before the meatcase the better to consider this wonder. Perhaps warming to its audience the chicken began to dance, slowly at first, kicking out first one drumstick, then the other, a fey, loosejointed sort of shuffle to no audible music. Above the trays of hamburger meat and liver and the packages of its own dissected brothers it began a macabre country buck dance, its loose head whipping back and forth, its feet fairly flying on the chrome lip. A demented cackling sound issued from behind the meatcase. The two women stared at each other in awe or disgust when the chicken began a slow, lascivious bump and grind. They shook their heads and wheeled their buggies away.

Rapidly approaching footsteps across the waxed tile drew Winer’s attention. He turned away from the chicken to see old man Christian coming down the aisle, taking off his apron as he came. His face was flushed and angry.

Winer judged the floorshow about over and he left. He paid his nickel at the counter and went out the door with its small chime and into the sun white and blinding off the tops of parked cars. Motormouth’s Chrysler was parked down the block in its bristling array of antennas and lights and he got in and rolled all the windows down and sat in the heat and waited. He didn’t figure he’d have long to wait and he didn’t.

“He fired your childish ass, didn’t he?”

Motormouth leapt and swore when his neck touched the hot plastic seatcover. “Old Christian was supposed to’ve been in Nashville till tomorrow. I been cuttin up like that all day. How’s I supposed to know the son of a bitch was back?”

“I guess you weren’t. Did he not think it was funny?”

“That whorehopper can’t take a joke. He said it was disrespectful or somethin.”

“What’s your old lady going to say?”

“No tellin,” Motormouth said. “I guess she’ll up and go home to Mama. She’s been lookin for a excuse and this is made to order. She’s always throwin up I can’t hold a job. She thought I was clerkin anyway. She didn’t know I was jerkin feathers off damn chickens and such as that.”

He stared the car and studied the sporadic traffic through the back glass. “I don’t know. Seems like I squander myself huntin a job and then I ain’t got the energy left to do it after I get it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He began to back the car into the street. When he was turned to his satisfaction he barked the tires of the Chrysler and then squalled them again braking for the red light.

“Weiss catchin chickens tonight?”

“Yeah. He said if you want to catch be there before dark. I figured I’d ride up with you.”

“I might as well I guess.