L’eggs

We wanted our mother to take us to the pantyhose chickens.  My mother, who reminded us, I didn’t raise idiots, asked us what the hell we meant by such a stupid question.  (Stupid questions were always an insult to my mother.)  Mom’s stockings came in pastel colored eggs by a company named L’eggs.  The plastic shells were the size of Ostrich eggs but you could hide things in them like you would for an Easter egg hunt.  Like, for example, you could hide your mom’s car keys.  And then she could angrily hatch them over your head because goddamnit, she was running late to Eva’s house to play gin rummy. 

We wanted to go to the L’egg Farm and observe the pantyhose chickens, sitting on nests made of cotton candy—twigs would be too rough and possibly tear their offspring.  We imagined the chicken dads were the cause of the nylon births.  The roosters with their nude colored talons and their off-black eyes and their stretchy breathable feathers.  They were the ones with cotton-panel faces.

Mom, when can you take us to the pantyhose farm?

On Saturday, we’ll go after Babcia’s house.

Which Babcia?

Na, ktura babcia.  Grandma.  Who else?

Aah, we don’t want to smell like mildew.

You’ll take a bath.

Why does her house stink?

Why do chickens make pantyhose?  She says.

We played with the nutcracker and walnuts in front of the television set as my grandfather swatted at our hands.  In Polish he warned us that he would crack one of our knuckles and eat it if we didn’t stop fucking with his snack.  We wanted to leave.  We wanted to see the farm. 

Five hours passed.  My sister rolled around on the ground, yelling that she was hungry.  My grandmother told her to eat some butter, as if we were going to climb Mt. Everest.  Grandma put sausage that stank like feet on bread that was as dark and gritty as dirt.  We ate it for fear of the yelling.  And then we left. 

In the car, my sister and I watched the neon lips in the sky, Magickist, a sign that kept glowing, brighter and brighter, bar by bar, and then would disappear.  We’d watch the sign every time we left the city and headed back home, and hey, wait a minute.

Mom, why are you driving home?

It’s late.

But what about L’egg ‘s?  Aren’t we going?

What do you think they keep a farm in the city? 

It’s by us?

Yes.

We fell asleep in the car and woke up in our beds.