There’s a rooster on the loose at work. I’ve seen him.
That’s a comfort to one co-worker. She struggles to convince those within earshot that, yes, there’s a rooster among us.
I slowed my car and rolled down the window next to him. His emerald feathers glittered, his comb flopped on his handsome head like a pompadour.
He’s the Elvis Pressley of farm animals – in a business park.
If he were a she – if the rooster were a hen – we might have missed her. She’d cluck by, head down in search of grain. She’d settle on a nest to tend to eggs rather than preen roadside, she of understated earth-colored plumage. It reveals the nature of nature.
Every man will face his own “What the hell am I doing?” moments.
Some, as they question their intelligence and purpose for existence. While they adjust the ornate belt on their white Elvis jumpsuit. While they fight the terror that the suit’s fit reveals more than the average passerby or coworker ought to know.
This was me, on Halloween, a few short years ago.
I stood in profile in the full-length mirror in the men’s room for my watershed moment. Should I switch from The King to The Guy Who Should Have Worn Something More Substantial Under His Costume?