Friends, Fears & The Chicken

A good friend of mine Joan suggested I start a blog. She thinks I'm funny. This is about the equivalent of a mom putting your shitty macrame plant holder up in the house and saying it's beautiful, but that's another story. I guess for another blog entry.

Regardless, I actually called her bluff and here I have started the blog. Scared to death of this - If I believed in God, I ask for his help.

According to Joan, I am supposed to tell the story of The Chicken, so before I go off on a rant about how I can't even set my damn clock on my microwave- what makes me think I can blog, I'll tell the story. I don't know how long a blog is supposed to be, so I split this story into two parts. Why? No idea.

The Chicken, part I

It was July in Vegas, which if you haven't been subjected to is effen hot. I don't mean "damn, it's hot" I mean surface-of-the-sun Africa hot. And the wind blows, which is just fabulous. At the time, I drove a 1984 Thunderbird. 2 door, one window did not roll down. Not only did the air not work, but some jacked up short in the system made it actually BLOW hot air, even when the air was completely off. Travelling in luxury as usual.

I went grocery shopping on a Sunday. My father and my husband at the time (more on these two in later posts, thank you) unloaded the trunk of groceries. And this should be the end of the story, but you've never seen my trunk.

For the record, my trunk still looks the same as it did in 1998. It always does in every car. Shoes, musical equipment, cd's, file folders, jackets, cow bells, bags, Christmas ornaments - you get the picture. I have had several roommates and two husbands ask if I'm ever going to move in.

So I head to work Monday and well, something smells funny. Not funny ha ha. I don't think anything of it (it is 110 and my air doesn't work after all) it could be anything. At noon, I jump in the car to pick up a friend (that shit, but more about him later too) and of course now it's pretty stinky.

My buddy Dirk: "What the hell is that smell?" Me: "Don't know. Started smelling funny yesterday, but I think it's worse". Well that was about the end of it, until after lunch. I guess an hour in a parking lot at high noon in Vegas in July is bad, bad, bad for this situation.

My buddy Dirk "Ok, dude. What in Holy Hell is that smell? Is there food in the back seat? This is awful. Get me back to my office." Suit yourself and off he goes. He was right though, it was stenchy.

Day three, the stink progresses. I wake on Tuesday and declare that there must be an animal lodged in my engine compartment because its fucking awful and I can't take it. So the dad and the husband venture out into the heat (no garage or carport, by the way) and pop the hood. Nothing. Search the backseat for a remnant Big Mac. Nothing. I can't figure it out.

Day four. I am convinced that the remaining Mob in Vegas has whacked a guy and placed him in my trunk, but I am honestly too scared to look. I'm now getting some sort of rash. I go to work. It's still fucking hot.

At 5pm I have to drive across town to my drummer's house and drop off a mic stand. At this point, the toxic stench is unbearable. Seriously, I can't breathe. I roll down the Lone Window and stick my head out whilst trying to maneuver down Maryland Parkway and my throat is closing up. My eyes are red and itchy. I start babbling like a homeless guy, arms flailing in the front seat. People are staring. At one point I actually put the car in park in the left turn lane and jump out, cursing and drooling and start digging through the backseat for again some sign that there is a dead animal or some sort of organic substance that has taken a turn - to no avail. The light changes and I slump back in the seat. Swollen, wheezing and itchy with temporary Tourettes, I drive on.

I arrive at my drummer Rob's house, stumble out of the car and head to the trunk where the mic stand is living and it hits me. No really, it was like hitting a wall. The smell was astonishing.

I realize at that moment that whatever it is really is in my trunk. I place the key in the keyhole and turn. All I can say is the stench almost knocked me over. I start digging through the trunk, so much crap.....why do I have a turkey baster in here? ...And then presto! I hear something slosh. That can't be good.

In the midst of my collection of plastic grocery bags, (you never know when you need one of those) is a single bag still containing it's original contents. A whole chicken.

Now how, you say, does a women miss a whole chicken when unloading groceries? Well I don't - what I forgot was there were 2-for-1 chickens. I saw the one damn chicken in the freezer and well, it's lack of twin sister did not register.

The bird was in one of those plastic bags that was vacuum sealed with a little metal piece holding it together. Barely. The foul had swollen just shy of bursting the plastic bag. It looked like a bad parlor trick - Balloon With Chicken. I almost hurled right there in Rob's driveway.

I had to think fast as the toxic smell was seeping out and soon the entire neighborhood would know. I gingerly picked up the outer grocery bag and looking around set it gently in the bottom of Rob's curbside garbage can. What luck! I grab the mic stand run to the front door "Here's your stand - is tomorrow garbage day?" You should have seen the look on his face. "Uh, yeah. Why?" I don't even think I answered. I hear as I rush back to the car "Are you ok, you look a little sick" Yeah, no shit. I can only light a candle that he doesn't visit his garbage can before 5am.

The Chicken, Part II

As usual, and with almost anyone else, that would be the end of the story. But like my trunk, my friends (and family) are unpredictable and full of shit.

So, as I barrel west up Tropicana Avenue I begin to feel better. The stench has subsided (not gone mind you, but I could breathe) and I am starting to no longer see double. It's at this point, I do two things that often happen simultaneously . Burst into hysterics and call my mother. I'm laughing so hard she can barely understand me.

"What the hell is so funny?" So of course I tell her the final verdict on the smell. She was of course aware of the whole stinky situation as I have been giving her a play by play for the last three days. So now she starts laughing. It's at that point I remember that she was at the lunch I took Dirk to ..."Oh man" she laughs, "Wait 'til Dirk finds out what that smell was" Oh Hell No. I explain in detail as to why she needs to keep her damn flapper shut. It's embarrassing. It's irresponsible. It's really fucking stupid. Please. I beg.

I am given what later turns out to be a bullshit reassurance that she won't say anything and go home. I do not reveal the root of the smell to anyone in the house. No one asks.

The next morning, rise and shine and in to work. Regular day. Car still smells and I'm not sure what to do about that, but I am so damn thrilled to be rid of the source that I really don't care. I'm at my desk at about 9am when Jan at the front desk rings.

"Yellow, Kelly here"

"Uh, Kelly...you have a fax"

Big deal, I think. What the hell is the problem. Throw it in my box. I ask from who. She says she doesn't know. OK, is there a cover sheet, I ask? No. Is it addressed to me? No. Well then how in the hell does she know it's for me.

"Because you are the only person in this company that this fax can be for".

Oh shit.

I get up and run to the office, which is actually two doors down. She's holding the fax, which although is in reality a fax, it is not in memo form. It's a ransom note.

I'm serious as a heart attack - every letter is cut out of a newspaper or magazine and glued to a blank sheet of copy paper. All the letters are uneven and it's very creepy. I read it.

i kNoW whAt yOu DId tO THe cHicKeN

I'm shocked. What the fuck IS this? Are you kidding me? The chicken? Nobody knows about the chicken. Except mom. No, she did not. Oh yes she did.

Before I can pick up the phone to accuse her of this betrayal, another fax comes through. Are you kidding? It's the exact same note, no cover page. I finally have the smarts to look at the originating fax number from the first fax. Dirk. Oh hell.

Wait, then who is the second one? Rob. Oh shit, he know about the trash can too. Are you kidding? More faxes follow. On both fax machines in my office...all morning. Friends have gotten copies of the ransom note and are faxing them willy-nilly all damn day long. I can't reach my mother. Voice mail. She knows she's in trouble.

I now have to start explaining, to everyone in the office about the fucking chicken. It's too late. If I don't someone else will. My boss is amazed. Joan, who convinced me to write this blog finds it to be just a riot. When the faxes taper off at around 11am I think I am off the hook. I am wrong. Now begin the phone calls.

Phone on desk buzzes: "This is Kelly"

Whispery low voice : Iknowhwhatyoudidtothechicken". Giggle. Click.

This continues throughout the afternoon. Jan at the front desk claims no one will give their name, but I know at this point she's in on it too. She thinks it's hysterical. At this point some of the call are from inside the office. Bastards.

In one day I received approximately 20 faxes and a good dozen harassing phone calls. So-called friends and family decide to end the charade at 5pm. No more chicken threats.

To this day, nobody has REALLY admitted to blowing my cover (mom) sending the first fax (Dirk) and notifying accomplices (both of you). There were many other partners in this prank, I think even my ex-husband sent a fax. Or it could have been anyone else at Beasley Broadcasting, who knows. I got faxes from radio and TV stations, other advertising agencies and even the Water District. Which still confuses me.

I never buy whole chickens, ever. I don't care if they are giving them away. And when I shop I count my grocery bags. Every. Fucking. Time. I had to sell the car. Really. The smell never came out and it was unbearable. It got in the ventilation and was never the same. Come to think of it, neither was I.

And that my friends, is The Chicken Story.