Close-In Southeast Portland.
Glenn’s chicken coops were big. No one was going to argue with that. Glenn had had to special order them from the Urban Farm Store and knock out a wall in his backyard shed just to fit them in there. He’d filled them with 9 gorgeous Andalusian hens, and they were smart, inquisitive, and majestic: the exact words Skyler at the Urban Farm Store had used to describe them.
And Skyler was a twenty-something with perfect hair who said he’d occupied Portland for a solid two months in the Spring while he and Glenn were chatting, so clearly he was the person to be consulting with on significant chicken coop purchases. Skyler smelled like just the right combination of B.O. and homemade soap, and he looked you right in the eye when he explained his well-reasoned position on the organic vs. local vs. free-range debate. Skyler was the kind of guy Glenn wished he’d been at that age.
But chicken coops were only part of the equation. At a certain point, you had to recognize the necessity of goats.
Glenn knew this all too well, deep down, but every time he closed his eyes all he could see was that new model of the Trek Madone bike. Skyler at the Urban Farm Store would sure think of him differently if he saw Glenn zipping around town on that thing.
But he had to put his family first. What kind of jackass could really enjoy riding his Trek Madone around town knowing that his neglected children were sitting at home eating fresh, hormone-free eggs without fresh, hormone-free goat’s milk to go with them?
No, the Madone would just have to wait a few years. Hopefully the kids wouldn’t need braces when they got to middle school.
Coming out of his reverie, Glenn suddenly began to doubt his decision not to buy a rooster or two. He knew Kimberly didn’t want to be woken up at 5 in the morning, but wouldn’t it be worth it for the increased authenticity?
He needed the confident, authoritative guidance that only Skyler could provide. Did he work on Sundays? God, Glenn hoped so.