Show Chickens

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Henry lights my cigarette.

I don’t smoke.

I bought Henry a pack of cigarettes at the smoke shop near the corner of Second and Pike and he decided to share one with me. I cannot work Henry’s purple plastic lighter in the downtown Seattle wind. Henry, tall, bent, and quiet, takes the lighter and quickly makes a flame. He starts his cigarette first, then brings the fire to me. I puff away like a pre-teen girl while Henry takes long draws and scratches at his white-haired neck and ripped red sweatshirt.

We walk down Pike Street toward the Market as I pretend to smoke and Henry starts another cigarette. His second-hand boots shuffle on the sidewalk and his crippled fingers dangle at his side. Henry does not wander, though I’m not sure he knows where he is going.

When Henry walks through the Pike Place Market, he moves in a steady, straight line. His movements are slow and the hundreds of people that surround him seem to step aside when he slides by, as though they knew who he was. As though they knew he was important, or famous, or from another world altogether. With his stony drawl, Henry compliments women and greets distracted children. No one responds, but everyone smiles and ignores his ripped jeans, faded sweatshirt, long, yellow beard and the steady cloud of nicotine that drifts behind his curved spine.

“I’m heading down to Oregon,” I tell Henry as we reach the bakery at the corner of Pike and Pine Street.

“Hmmm, Oregon,” says Henry. “I know Portland. I smoked a good doobie in the park by the River once. That Ken Kesey is from Oregon, yeah. Him and his Jokers, yeah?”

“Pranksters, yeah. He’s from Oregon. He’s from Springfield. I’m going to Salem to live with my brother for a while.”

“I once saw Sometimes A Great Notion at a playhouse in San Francisco,” Henry says. “I sat in the front row with my feet up on the chair. Mama said that was no good, yeah yeah.” His words are slow and deep. Henry’s voice can be heard through walls, from around corners, and with no effort.

Henry is quiet, but honest.

I cannot say that Henry’s mind wanders, but I don’t know where it goes sometimes. I spent five years trying to figure that out.

“I have to head to work, Henry. If I don’t run into you before I take off, take care”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m heading back, too,” says Henry. “Mama still has the farm out in Odessa, with the show chickens and the old house. So, yeah, if I don’t get a chance to say good-bye, good-bye.”

Before I walk back toward Pike Street, I shake Henry’s hand. His fingertips are yellow and soft. Henry wanders toward Virginia Street in his unmistakable gait. He moves with purpose, like a rabbi or a professor on tenure. I can hear him mumble and I wonder what he knows about me and what he will remember about me if we never see each other again.

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