Pickin’ Up Chicks
Original Post | January 24, 2014
Writer’s Update | June 17, 2023 | We’re headed back to Key West in July - our first time there in the heat of the summer - and Len and Ty are entering the Hemingway Contest at Sloppy Joes. You don’t have to look so surprised; we know there’s no way under the sun he will win, but for the price of admission, a Hemingway t-shirt. It’s for the t-shirt. We’ll share all the fun shortly. And glad to report, Glazed Donuts is still keeping things sweet.
When Len bought his Trans-Am back in the stone ages of 2004, the salesman told him an added bonus of the car - in addition to its speed - was that it was a chick magnet. Finally, after 10 years, the car cashed-in on its promise.
Len’s chick!
I preface my chick story with this: I’ve always told Len that when he his beard gets scruffy on vacation (i encourage this behavior and he gives in only when we're away), that's he's a doll. Women love it. Aadd that salt and pepper hair, and well, that's one of those George Clooney traits that send women over the edge.
Departing Key West, we made a last minute run to Glazed Donuts (amazing, but that's another story) for a necessary sugar blast for the 13 hour drive. I had run into the store, a mere two doors down from where Len waited in the parked car. I exited in less than five minutes with a box stocked with glazed delights. I rounded the corner and I saw a couple eagerly snapping pictures of Len. Was something wrong? or had that scruffiness finally caught someone's eye, and the paparazzi was going wild. wild, I tell you. Knowing that attention is not Len's friend, I feared the weird. I creeped closer and the couple continued snapping, and then, I saw her. Mounted on the top of the car’s hood, majestically controlling the Trans Am as if it were her rooster, a hen with as vibrant an attitude as her red feathers. I learned that in escaping a querulous rooster, she flew towards the trans am for a safe haven. Taking no notice of Len, she strolled on the hood, then coasted downward, finally landing on the ground, ambling away in-between shrubs and bushes.
You see, chickens/roosters/hens/pests - whatever you might call them - are protected by law in Key West. They are in the trees, restaurants, in the alleys, scooting down Duval, challenging red lights and traffic. If you don't see them, you hear them. When cock-fighting became illegal in the 70s, the chickens lost their job but not their home. Consider them a symbol of this southernmost city - irreverent, untamed, spirited, wild, and free.
Len's Key West chick left her mark on his hood. Now, he will always have proof that, if only for a mere moment, he (and his car) was cock of this roost.
Also good to know, this shot made it into the local newspaper. Score!
