It was the whining sound of the crank being turned combined with hundreds of chickens bauwking. It was each rotation of the crank incrementally opening the shutters and casting light upon dozens of coops and mounds of sawdust. It was the very fact of standing in the middle of this at five in the morning, with a not fully realized hangover, in chicken shit splattered overalls, that made her scream as loudly as she possibly could, “I’M GOING FUCKING CRAZY!”

“What’s your problem?” Anthony asked casually, standing behind her.

“My bed-bug bites itch.”

“Then scratch ‘em. – Okay, let’s get to it. The sooner this shit is done, the sooner we can get some crap coffee.” Anthony took the right side and she the left. Six coops in a row, thirty rows on each side, they made their way down the shed.

Flip open the slanted roof of the coop, let it fall back down on your shoulder, left arm occupied balancing an egg tray, grab the chicken by the back of its neck with your right hand, violently throw it out of the coop, then pick up the eggs and put them in the tray. Next coop, again.

The first run of the day takes longer because the chickens have had the entire night to lay their eggs. An hour from now, when you do it all over again, things will go quickly. Not only will the chickens have had less time to eject those white oval things that now make you nauseous, but you will also be more awake, more alert. Then, Anthony and you will play games to pass the time -- who can make it down his side faster and who can balance more egg trays on his forearm.

When they finished collecting the eggs, she and Anthony scoured the shed for dead and dying chickens. As they did this, she kicked the roosters that pinned the chickens’ necks to the ground to fuck them from behind. Anthony laughed.

“Why do you always do that?” he asked.

“They’re raping them,” she answered.

“That’s what they’re supposed to do. Anyway, it’s chickens. Chickens suck. You hate chickens.”

“I know,” she replied, “but it still doesn’t seem right.”

She and Anthony were kibbutz volunteers who worked on the old chicken farm. Most of these chickens only had patches of feathers left; some were missing a leg or a wing. They all laid blood-coated eggs and at least ten of them died a day in that shed alone. She used to work on the new chicken farm, but once she was alone in a shed with one of the men who worked there. He always looked at her in the cafeteria with a penetrating stare that she read as saying, “I’m going to fuck every ounce of American privilege out of your innocent little body.”

That day, the day that she was alone with him in the shed, he watched her with that scary look in his eyes as he collected the eggs. He didn’t take his eyes off of her and yet he still managed to collect more and faster. Every time she looked up at him, she became so startled, she dropped an egg and splat, it broke. Thousands of chickens rushed to her feet, scrambling to eat their unborn son, daughter, niece, or nephew – disgusting creatures.

He pinned her to the wall.

“Stop dropping the eggs,” he said.

“Sorry. It’s just that –,” but he cut her off by grabbing the flesh on her waist firmly.

“Don’t drop the fucking eggs,” he whispered wetly into her neck.

“I won’t,” she answered, scared and acutely aware of exactly how much of her newly acquired fat he was gripping in his hand. He then let go of her and resumed collecting. After that incident, she asked to be transferred to the old chicken farm, so as, she said, to be with Anthony.

She and Anthony stacked the trays of eggs on the bed of the chicken truck, threw the dead and dying chickens on as well, and got in. She drove because Anthony taught her how to operate a stick shift the week before and she was still getting the hang of it. Bouncing up and down the dirt road, off to the incinerator they went.
“It’s like a roller-coaster,” she laughed, switching into another gear, not because it was necessary, but rather because she knew how.

“You’re crazy. Slow down,” Anthony said, holding onto the door, feigning fright.

“I’m going zero,” she exclaimed, pointing to the speedometer that didn’t work.

“All the eggs are gonna break,” he said.

“Good.” She stepped on the brake and the chicken truck came to a fast halt in front of the incinerator.

Take a dying chicken off the bed of the truck and grab it by the neck, close to the head, firmly. Hold it out, away from your body, clenching your teeth. Now, swing the chicken’s body with all your might, until you hear a crackle – the chicken’s neck breaking. Drop it on the ground and watch. Sometimes it will just lie there, twitch a few times, and then die, but, more often than not, it will run around in circles with its head flopped to the side, almost dragging on the ground.

It took you a week before you were even willing to try to kill a chicken. Anthony and the two Arab men who are hired to work on the old chicken farm coaxed you into it. A few days later, you did the deed. You swung its body around and around, with your eyes tightly shut, listening to Anthony and the two Arab men cheer you on and laugh. You heard the crackle; you dropped the chicken and opened your eyes to it running around in circles, at which point you began to cry. “I killed it!” you screamed. “We know,” the Arab men laughed. “Well done,” Anthony said, putting his arm around you. The four of you stood there looking at the pathetic creature until it fell to the ground, twitched, and then ceased to move. “I’m proud of you,” Anthony said and then burst into hysterical laughter.