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CHICKENS
    A Key West Short Story
    by Laurence Shames
     
    By coincidence, or so it seemed, the rooster set up shop on the far side of the compound fence just around the time old Bert had his fall.
    The fall took place at his ocean-view apartment at the Paradiso Condominium, an hour or so before sunset on a cloudless but hazy November day. Damp orange light was slanting in past the lifted shades, highlighting flaws that Bert had long ago stopped noticing—the warped rectangles of faded carpet that stretched away beneath the windows, the bubbled paint where hurricane-season winds had blown wet salt air clear through the walls, the tiny tears in the sofa cushions between the piping and the worn upholstery.
    Bert had been in the kitchenette, preparing to feed his dog, when the telephone rang in the living room. This clutter of events presented a problem for the old man. His hands were full—a can of dog food in one hand, a scoop of kibble in the other—but, as he was widowed and childless and with few surviving friends, it was something of an occasion when his phone rang and he didn’t want to miss a call.
    For a moment he was immobilized by options and just stared down at his occupied hands. Then he put the kibble scoop on the counter. It tipped, and kibble clattered softly onto the linoleum floor. Flustered, Bert started moving more quickly than he should have toward the ringing phone and he tripped over the wire that connected it to the wall. The can of dog food fell and splattered some gravy on the carpet and Bert made a failed attempt to brace himself with his free hand as he went down. While he was lying on the floor, a friendly voice came through the earpiece of the knocked over phone, soliciting a donation to the Police Athletic League. Bert shouted toward the receiver, “Fuck the donation, send an ambulance.” The dog, a chihuahua named Nacho, first yapped then whimpered as it licked the old man’s face and arms.
    At Florida Keys General, the emergency room nurse asked Bert for details of the accident. She said, “Let me make sure I have this right. You tripped over your phone?”
    “The wire,” he said. “The wire from the phone.”
    “Your phone has a wire?”
    “Yeah. That’s how it works. ”
    “Cool. Is that some new thing?”
    An hour later Bert’s right wrist was in an almost weightless, high-tech cast and the doctor was telling him how fortunate he was. “Your age,” he said, “a fall can be a death sentence. You break a hip instead of a wrist, you’re stuck in bed, you get pneumonia, pffft, lights out.”
    Bert was not as impressed by the doctor’s gravity as the doctor thought he should be. He said, “Death sentence. Fuh. I had one a those already.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Heart attack. Many years ago. Dead for like ten seconds. Very disappointing experience. No blue lights, no angels, no nothin’. Where’s my dog?”
    The dog had been seen to by Joey Goldman, the person Bert listed to call in case of emergency and also as his next of kin, which he was not. They were just longtime friends but it was one of those tender and regardful friendships that sometimes arose between sonless fathers and fatherless sons, something close to a family bond but without the complicating hurts of childhood and disillusionment of youth. In the hospital parking lot, Joey handed over the chihuahua, which sniffed at and licked Bert’s cast. Then they climbed into Joey’s car. Knowing that his friend would be embarrassed by his fall, the younger man didn’t say much about it. He just said, “How ya feelin’?”
    “Stupid,” Bert said. He swiveled stiffly in the passenger seat. He still had a full head of white hair tinged yellow at the edges like the pages of an ancient book. His eyes were black and deep-set, and he had an enormous nose that pointed the way like a hood ornament on a 1950s car. “If you must know, I’m feelin’ stupid.”
    “Hey,” said Joey, “could happen to anyone.”
    “Not