Transcript
A (0:02)
A cold wind, a dark shadow. A sudden midnight certainty that something is not right. From Snapdudgment's underground lair. Your wait is over. At long last. You're listening to Spoot.
B (0:21)
Stay tuned.
A (0:38)
Eight years old, almost nine. Working the farm all day, milking balin hoeing. But mostly I'm getting everything ready so my dad knows he can trust me. Until finally. Finally the truck pulls up to her house and a red bearded man, leather gloves, work boots, comes around with a clipboard. He hands it to my father. My father says he's gonna need to see him first before he's signin anything. Alright then. The driver ambles over, slides open the back of the truck. We see the wooden crates stacked seven deep, one on top of the other. From the dark of the truck you can hear. You can hear the sound. Cheep.
B (1:26)
Cheep.
A (1:27)
Cheep cheep. The driver pries the lid off one of the crates and we see him. Dozens and dozens of yellow balls of fluff. The driver reaches in and he grabs one of the tiny baby chicks. I hold my hands out and he places her right in my open palms. She fusses. Cheep cheep. Indignant at being plucked from her sisters. And she's beautiful. I stroke a little back gently. She quiets down. I hold her right up next to my cheek and I laugh. I can't help but laugh. I laugh. My father signs a paper on the clipboard and as the man unloads the crates of baby chicks next to our brand new chicken coop, my father reminds me, remember, these birds are not your friends. Yes sir, I know this. But I keep holding onto the chick, stroking the back of her head. She closes her eyes and falls asleep in my hand before I place her back with the others. The chicken, Cooper, is my job. My responsibility. I feed them, I shovel their crap away, I water them. They grow bigger. Then their yellow fuzz starts to be replaced by white feathers. And as they grow, they begin to attack each other. I separate out the chicks that seem to be targets for the others. Chickens will eat each other if you let them. I will not let them. Then one day, my father says it's time. I want to pretend that I don't know what it's time for, but this is my responsibility. So I helped my father pack the birds back onto the crates and the red bearded man returns to our farm and we load the birds, full grown now, into his truck. The man drives away, But there are still a few chickens left. Those are for us, my father says. He puts a paper bag over the head of one of the chickens so it will not run. He gets a butcher's knife, presses the bird's neck against the stump. I stop him. This is my responsibility. I raise these birds. I raise them. I wonder if this one is that first one, the one that fell asleep in my hand. I pick up his axe. He holds the chicken down on the stump. I cut her head off with one swing. Quickly. My father holds the chicken fast. He doesn't let the wings flap wildly, doesn't allow the carcass to thrash around. He just holds her upside down and lets her bleed. Then he takes the bird to the outside sink for my mother to pluck. I can't eat that night. Later on I'm wide awake in my room thinking, and my grandmother comes in. She sits at the foot of my bed and she tells me stories of Anansi the spider and how to cut high John the Conqueror root. We sing songs and we laugh and I wonder. So I ask her, Granny, how come you're back? You know why, baby. But I don't know why, not really. My grandmother turns away from me. Then you named her Baby. Probably you shouldn't have named her. And I remember. I would never have remembered unless Granny told me. Like I had locked it as far away as I could. But it's true. I did name her up against my cheek that first day. I. I named her Birdie. And I accidentally made a promise to take care of Birdie and to keep Birdie safe forever. And even if she's fading away, Granny looks at me, serious. Don't do that again, baby. Never do that again. I want to ask her more questions, but she waves old hands and vanishes utterly from my room. Granny. And even now I don't know if my stain will ever go away. But I wonder if it's the price of passage to experience certain things, to walk certain paths. To know with absolute certainty that what we see is not everything there is. Perhaps. Perhaps everyone has to pay something to go on this road. And we must all decide whether the cost is too high. From Snap Judgment's underground lair. My name is Flynn Washington. Please find a hand to hold, because Spoop starts. Now. Then we're walking a precarious road between this world and the next. And our first storyteller, Teresa. Now Teresa knows something about the other side. Spooked.