McMillan & Wife by Sarah Marshall Blue-eyed boy comes down one morning rusted-out rambler and says he wants a carful of peacocks. says, You make em, donâ€™t you? Well thatâ€™s what I wantâ€”a carful. Soâ€™s Iâ€™ll turn the radio on and the birdies upfrontâ€™ll hear the songâ€™s playin and teach it row by row to the ones in back. Want em up against the windows so everyone on the highway can see and all the way home. Stand there in your housecoat, the pink one, pansy-patterned and watch as the little gray chicks run around your legsâ€” babes yet and no bigger than bingo balls. He called you out from the TV, out from McMillan & Wife and wanted to see if a bar you rememberedâ€”red drapes and red velvet wallpaper and a bartender your husband talked to for 2 hours about Koreaâ€” was there. In the background, maybe, or even out the window of a car. You donâ€™t ask for much. Now, boy hunches, picks up a biddy, pulls it to his chest and stands again. Give you a hundred bucks, he says. Whatever that gets me, Iâ€™ll take. Says he wants em runnin around when the ceremonyâ€™s over and everybodyâ€™s out on the lawn eating onion sandwiches and cake. says Weâ€™ll keep em as guard dogs, I guess. Shit, he says, but he smiles, and his teeth are white. You take a hundred dollars. He takes nine birds And a bag of seed thrown into the trunk for free.