The Flaming Chicken and Other Tales
By Bartholomew Thockmorton
Copyright 2011 Bartholomew Thockmorton
Smashwords Edition
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment; it may not be re-sold or given away to friends, family or acquaintances. And especially not to those people standing in the middle of the Los Angeles River, with those greasy, cardboard signs with crayon lettering saying “Weel cleen yer windshield fer kash or fud or used loteary tickkets.” If you want to give them money (or food) please feel free to do so…charity is good for the soul! I wouldn’t recommend the companionship part though, since there is no telling where they’ve been, or whom they’ve been with! I mean...what if they’ve been with Ashton Kutcher? Wouldn’t that be terrible? Talk about a horror story! If you feel compelled, or in dire need thereof, to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each and every recipient. In fact, buy ten copies for each of them…that way, if they lose one, they’ll still have nine more for backup! You just can’t be too careful! Just giving free advice, you see…not like I’m in this for the money or anything. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy…or twenty…whatever. Wait a minute! This story is free! Never mind...give it to whomever you wish! In fact, that’s an order recruit! Drop down and give me TEN! Hut! Thank you for respecting the hard work of Bartholomew Thockmorton.
And wash between your toes, gosh-darnit!
This work is dedicated to Mama, who gave me my life-long love for Gil Kane.
I miss you.
If you enjoy this story, please check out some of my other yarns at:
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Table of Contents
The Flaming Chicken and Other Tales
This is more or less a true story about Freddy and Bubba, life-long friends who met while living in the suburbs of Arlington, Virginia. It was the late Fifties, and America still struggled with the social evolution that followed the Second World War. It was serendipity they were such good compadres since Bubba wound up marrying Freddy’s sister. However, these tales have nothing to do with her.
In these early years after the Big One, the two young men decided their fortunes would manifest more rapidly if they moved someplace other than Washington, D.C. Not that they disliked their jobs, or found Big City life too hectic—they just felt there were no jobs or careers in the area with much future for individuals of their caliber.
This is perhaps one of the greatest non-events in U.S. history, for if Freddy and Bubba had decided to go into government service or politics, there is no telling the extent of mischief they might have created. Such is life—one decision not made, another choice modified or re-thought, leads to a whole new reality of conditions and circumstances...hopefully for the better.
Therefore, in the Golden Years of Lucille Ball and gasoline costing 12-cents a gallon, our gentlemen left the east coast and set their sights on empires to conquer in the distant western frontier.
So they moved to North Carolina…to a small community very near Ashville, to be exact.
After tending to the needs of shelter and a well-stocked refrigerator (we should note that Freddy and Bubba’s definition of such was one containing at least one case of cold beer, two if the space was not committed to such non-essentials as food) our protagonists’ made a careful study of the surrounding economy by analyzing growth for the most promising sites, surveying population demographics for residents’ spending habits, and searching official records hoping to discover whose toes they could and could not step on. The results were everything they had prayed for, nor were the conclusions up for argument—do not imagine their wives did not try. So with a visit to the local bank, Freddy and Bubby made a small down payment on an abandoned and dilapidated service station strategically located on the main road leading to the community, and Ashville beyond.
The site was perfect—or so they thought. Freddy and Bubba’s, as they named it, was farther out than any other station. Bubba quickly proclaimed, every vehicle headed for Ashville could not help stopping, since any fool knew the best place to buy gas was the first station they came to—assuming the little needle was on “E.” Freddy even found an old refrigerator for the office—one their wives could not clutter up with food, preserves and unlabeled bottles of carbon tetrachloride. Freddy thought this important, since he once managed to take a good long swig of the latter.
Soon the boys engaged in such adventurous pastimes as manning the fuel pumps, talking about the weather with total strangers and changing oil filters or spark plugs. However, there was a serpent in their paradise. Who would have guessed that everything within the station, from the tools in the two service bays to the little buttons on the cash register, would accumulate layers of grease. No matter how often Bubba wiped down the work benches, tools, chairs, floors and walls, the foul layer of contamination soon returned—as if the gummy slime created itself from nothing—a mechanic’s nightmare of some pervertedly distorted happenstance of spontaneous generation.
Much to Bubba’s chagrin, he found himself alone in his crusade to give the place an appearance of order and professionalism. Freddy had taken to guarding The Refrigerator, as if expecting a silent and determined assault from thirsty sailors. Freddy considered himself an expert in this matter—once having been a thirsty sailor himself. He reasoned the only way to insure the supplies did not mysteriously disappear was to check the refrigerator often—at least three times an hour.
Bubba also found himself doing most of the gas pumping, filter/plug changing and weather predicting. He really did not mind the work, but all the talking gave him headaches. In addition, his skin began to dry out from all the trips to the shop’s deep-sink. To Bubba’s alarm, his proximity to so much oil had changed him into a human petroleum magnet. Each crossing of the shop, regardless of his care to avoid all tools and surfaces, resulted in a fresh covering of grease—a supernatural baptism of sticky goo. Thus, he took to carrying as many as a half dozen rags and spent as much time wiping himself as anything within the shop.
Bubba asked Freddy why he did not help out a little more, instead of guarding the supplies against the, as yet, unrealized invasion. Freddy thought for a while and had to check the supplies twice before formulating a suitable answer. “What’s the use?” Freddy finally asked. “There seems to be no end to it; the more we clean it up, the more there is to clean. Maybe if we stop, it’ll go away.”
Bubba found no flaw in this logic and took to spending time between customers helping Freddy keep an eye on the supplies—an activity in which they both became proficient.
Unfortunately, they soon realized that the intervals between customers were steadily growing longer. Where once the air hose activated customer bell had dinged ten times an hour, the visits to their station dwindled considerably. On some days they counted no more than ten customers during an entire morning. For it must be revealed, gentle reader, that while our ambitious entrepreneurs had analyzed their small community quite well, they neglected to look beyond their own back yard. If they had done so, they would have perhaps noticed the new interstate highway not too distant—one that led directly to, and around, Ashville.
But Freddy and Bubba were optimists, if nothing else. Now they had more time to guard The Refrigerator without interruption. They also found the free time allowed opportunity for a more leisurely examination of the world and all the events therein. For even though business was slow, there was still enough going on to fuel long and detailed philosophical discussions on the meanings of life. Throughout town, people knew the longest conversations took place at Freddy and Bubba’s.
Edgar, the mailman, often dropped in (when there was little mail to deliver, which was more often than not), and occasionally Vernon, the Mad Mountain moon shiner, wandered down from his camp, passing time in pleasant conversation and sharing his most recent batch. So while business was dead, or at least slightly comatose, the activities at the station were not.
Although the regulars were not intellectual to the point of arguing about an infinite number of monkeys pounding on an limitless supply of typewriters, they were at least unconsciously aware that given enough time, an infinite number of strange and unusual events occurred around those who patiently waited and watched closely.
Here lies a problem. Understanding these two complex characters and the occasionally bizarre occurrences around then, requires a long and exhausting study for which there is little time, room or patience. Nor can true appreciation develop from any single episode. Therefore, these three short tales are presented for your examination, “When Mel Came to Town,” “Patches The Dog,” and “The Flaming Chicken.” Enjoy.
The morning had been unusually slow, even for Freddy and Bubba. Traffic on the roadway was light, and the cars going by, did exactly that—go by. Although it was early in May, and lunchtime more than an hour away, the heat was oppressive, and no breeze graced the clear sky.
Bored to the point of activity, Bubba puttered about, moving stacks of tires from one spot to the next, occasionally stopping to wipe the oil and grease from some tool, or more often, himself.
Freddy, as usual, sat in one of the office’s ratty, over-stuffed chars, keeping his eye on The Refrigerator and the supplies within. It had been twenty minutes since his last check and he figured it was about time for another close look.
Bubba entered the office from the bays and leaned against the desk—a risky maneuver as it was very old and the legs quite loose. Although the desk shifted several inches, it wondrously remained standing. “Great golly but it’s hot,” said Bubba wiping a sheen of perspiration from his forehead, replacing the sweat with a wide streak of black grease. “Hand me a cold one while you’re in there, Freddy.”
Freddy, shifting his considerable bulk, leaned into the fridge and handed his partner a beer. “Just one now,” he cautioned. “You don’t need to take a nap before lunch.”
“I hear you.” Bubba waved his can at the radio. “Say, what’s that noise you’ve got on?”
Freddy gave Bubba a disapproving look and turned up the volume. The sounds of an orchestra filled the small office.
“Classical music,” replied Freddy, smiling smugly. “The only kind worth playing…other than country. You should listen to this stuff—the culture would do you a world of good.”
“Is that right?” Bubba turned to watch a car drive by the station. He didn’t want Freddy to notice his confused expression. Bubba though classical music included things like the sound track from “South Pacific.” But he dared not let Freddy suspect he lacked culture, or there would be no end to it. Freddy would certainly lecture for the next three days on subjects Bubba could not care less about.
Bubba quickly stepped outside when the air house bell chimed. “Saved by the bell,” he muttered, chuckling aloud—he thought his comment very original and clever. Bubba called a greeting as Edgar’s mail truck pulled around, parking in front of the office.
“Howdy, boys!” Edgar called cheerfully as he entered. He shook Freddy’s hand and sat in one of the other chairs. “So what’s cooking?”
“Same as usual…working hard.” They all laughed at this. “Got time for a cold one?” asked Freddy.
Edgar took the offered beverage and they sat quietly for a while, each sipping reflectively. At last, Edgar spoke. “Are you fellahs going to the big concert tonight?”
Freddy and Bubba professed they had not heard the news. Edgar told them of the jazz concert to be held that evening at one of Asheville’s public theaters. Of course he did not remember who any of the performers were—jazz was of no interest to him. As Freddy and Edgar discussed the music on the radio, Bubba returned to the duties to the service bays.
He soon returned, near breathless with excitement. “Oh my lord,” Bubba panted. “I don’t believe it! It couldn’t be him…stopping here?!” He ran to the window and pointed.
The other two had already noticed the large, lemon yellow Cadillac pulling up to the pumps. A well-dressed young man emerged from the auto.
Bubba stopped dancing around the office, forcing himself to stand still. “It’s Mel Torme!”
“Who?” asked Freddy and Edgar in unison. They looked at each other quizzically as the man approached the office.
“Mel Torme! The famous jazz singer! Haven’t you heard of the King of Scat?!” Bubba looked from Freddy to Edgar, expecting some reaction. He got none.
“He’s a scrap singer?” asked Edgar in surprise. “What the heck is that? Does he sing for his supper?”
Freddy looked away in disgust. “Sounds like nonsense to me.”
Bubba frantically shushed them as Mel entered the room.
“Howdy, gentleman. You folks staying cool today?” The newcomer nodded to Freddy and Edgar while shaking Bubba’s outstretched hand.
“Mister Torme! I still can’t believe it! This is an honor, sir!” Bubba’s smile was so wide, Freddy wondered if the man’s head might split open. “Are you singing at the Ashville concert?”
“Matter of fact, I am. You fellows going? I have a few free tickets left...”
“That’s kind of you, sir,” said Freddy, standing and clasping Bubba’s shoulder. “But we need to work late and finish up some of the paperwork.”
While Bubba serviced the Cadillac, Mel sat talking with the others. He refused Freddy’s offer of a beer and settled for a soda from the machine outside.
“Bubba tells us you’re a scrap singer,” said Edgar. “Just what kind of singing is that anyway? Don’t reckon I’ve heard any before.”
“Scat singing,” corrected Mel, good-naturedly. “It’s a form of jazz where the vocalists improvises with the band.”
Both Freddy and Edgar admitted this was something new to them. They listened as Mel sang a few lines from a currently popular song, then continued with a dozen bars of improvisation. Edgar turned to Freddy. “What that some kind of foreign language?”
Mel laughed. Freddy secured fresh supplies.
Freddy was about to ask Mr. Torme if he really got paid for singing like that when Bubba returned to the office. Presented with the bill, Mel paid and left a twenty-dollar tip. He shook hands all around and turned to leave. At the door he stopped and asked if there was someplace nearby where he could get food both fast and delicious.
“That would be Sadie’s Diner, just down the road,” instructed Freddy in an authoritative voice. “Nobody whips up a meal like Sadie.”
“But…” said Bubba.
“Now Bubba,” said Freddy sternly. “Let’s not argue about restaurants of all things! Go to Sadie’s, Mr. Torme. I promise you a meal you won’t forget!”
“But…” again said Bubba. However, it was too late, Mel was gone. After the Cadillac disappeared from view, Bubba returned to his chair, slowly sipping his beer. After long moments, he turned to his companion. “Why did you sent him to Sadie’s, Freddy? You know good and well she’s the worst cook in the county…only her kin eat there!”
Freddy chuckled. “Anyone who sings for scraps and drives a yellow Cadillac deserves a good cause of heartburn! Should liven up the show tonight!”
Freddy and Edgar laughed over that one for almost a week.
It was a cold day in January and Freddy and Bubba were still recovering from the Christmas holidays, celebrated less than three weeks before. In the wake of their pickup, the dirt road churned to reddish hued dust clouds. The boys had been down to Ashville, picking up some repair parts for The Refrigerator, and were returning home by the back trails that wound through hilly farmland and thick woods.
Their families had a fairly good Christmas—the wives made decent money taking in wash and working in one of the nearby mills. At eight years of age, Bubba’s daughter was still young enough to receive every toy and present with a child’s boundless enthusiasm and excited joy. However, she was one of those unfortunate children having the bad luck to be born within a month of December 25th.
Bubba and his wife worked hard at not letting Cindy’s birthday seem less important just because it was so close to the holiday season. Each year they tried to save one special gift for their daughter’s party. It was mere days away and so far, neither Bubba nor his wife had been able to decide what to provide as a special gift. Bubba was now beginning to worry—they were running out of time.
Freddy belched loudly as he handed his empty beer can to Bubba, who seemed lost in thought. “I’m dry,” said Freddy. “See if there’s any more in the cooler.”
Bubba slipped the can through a slit in the clear, thick plastic sheet that served as the rear window of the pickup. The can clattered onto the truck’s bed and came to rest amongst the various other items that perpetually resided there. He lifted the lid of the small cooler on the floor between his feet—it was empty. At this report, Freddy immediately began to scan the road’s shoulder for someplace to stop and re-stock the cooler from the large ice chest in the back. Freddy did not like going anywhere without sufficient supplies.
Bubba did not consider the stop an inconvenience. Both men agreed that their present system was far superior to their earlier methods. The first time they traveled to Ashville for parts, Freddy had begun to tremble uncontrollably less than a mile from the station. Bubba remembered that Freddy, through pale lips, had voiced the source of his anxiety, “We forgot the supplies!”
Returning to the shop, they confronted a new problem—they lacked a container to carry the brews. Freddy suggested putting the commercial soda cooler in the back of the pickup. But, Bubba pointed out it would take too long to unload the sodas, not to mention the fact it was probably too big for the truck.
In the end, they loaded The Refrigerator itself into the truck and headed down the road. The disadvantage was soon obvious—they had to stop too often, and The Refrigerator tended to slide around. On the third trip, a state trooper ticketed Freddy for driving with an unsecured load. Freddy argued it was not his fault The Refrigerator had slid out of the truck and onto the damn state highway. The office stood watching as Freddy and Bubba used a rope to lash the load securely. After that, every time they needed a refill, they had to stop, untie the box, and then retie it before continuing. It got real old, real fast.
Bubba suggested an answer to their problems. A trip to a local second-hand appliance store yielded a small electric refrigerator, which they bolted to the bed of the truck. The unit’s door latched shut, so there was no problem there. Next they mounted a portable gasoline generator to supply power for the small refrigerator.
On their next trip, the same trooper ticketed Freddy for violation of the local noise ordinance—Bubba had not yet found a muffler for the gas generator. The next trip, sans generator, there was no ticket…but the trooper did confiscate their beer.
Since it was obvious they could not carry supplies while using the trooper’s roads, Freddy and Bubba made the obvious decision—they would stop using the trooper’s roads. A trip for parts, once taking a couple of hours, now became a seven-hour adventure across the back roads of rural North Carolina. They abandoned the small refrigerator and replaced it with a plain, metal picnic style ice chest. The icing on the cake had been Bubba’s revelation that if they also carried a small cooler in the cab, they could drive for as long as forty-five minutes between stops for restocking.
Now was such a time. Freddy slowed the truck, steering it to a smooth, compacted clearing at the road’s edge in front of a wood-frame home. Bubba knew the neighborhood; they had used this route on other trips. The homes in this area were owned by a group of families from the Catawba Indian tribe from South Carolina. The young men of the tribe brought their families northward because jobs were plentiful in the surrounding rock quarries. Thanks to the good wages, their life style was on a par with most of the other residents in the community. When children were present, they smiled and waved…Bubba always smiled and waved in return. But school was back in session and the yards were still and quiet. Freddy parked. Both men climbed out and stretched.
“I’m stumped,” said Bubba, unfastening the chest’s lid. “I just can’t think of anything Cindy needs that she doesn’t already have!”
“Didn’t she give you any idea of what she wants?” asked Freddy, passing Bubba the church key. “Must be something she mentioned. A doll? A dress?”
“Well…she did say she would love to have her own pony. But that’s out of the question. We don’t have the room, and she doesn’t realize the trouble them things can be. I told her it wasn’t likely…and I’m still stumped.”
“Look Bubba, if she wants something to take care of, there’s lots of animals smaller than a horse. For instance—how about a dog?”
A dog! Bubba was surprised he had not thought of that. Truth was, Cindy had asked for a dog several months before. At that time, Bubba and his wife managed to dissuade their daughter by telling her how much work a pet could be. But when considering the care of a dog as compared to that of a horse, Bubba admitted the former was less involved than the latter.
“Freddy, that’s a great idea! When we get back to the shop, let’s knock off early and go down to the pound…there’s sure to be a small dog there. Shouldn’t cost more than a couple of dollars to adopt—“
“You don’t want no mutt from the pound,” said Freddy, reaching for another beer. “Them dogs are usually old and mean. They’re there ‘cause nobody wants them anymore—rejects is what they are! What you need is a dog that has been raised by a family…one that likes children and has gotten beyond the furniture chewing stage.”
This confused Bubba for a moment until he figured out that Freddy was referring to the dog—not the family. Although Bubba’s family had never owned a dog, Freddy had several. So Bubba figured Freddy must know what he was talking about. “Ain’t much time left,” Bubba replied. “Where am I going to find a good dog in time for the party?”
“How about right here?” asked Freddy, pointing behind his friend. Bubba turned and realized they were not alone—just beyond the truck a dog sat by the road’s edge. It calmly watched Bubba and Freddy, its tongue dangling as it panted and drooled. The dog had wandered over to see what was going on.
“Now that’s a good dog,” said Freddy with an air of authority. “Didn’t even bark…bet it likes children, too!”
Bubba knelt and extended his hand. “Hey there, boy! Come here, fellah.” The animal advanced, tail wagging, allowing Bubba to pet and stroke him. “Good boy! Right friendly critter!”
“That’s what you need,” said Freddy. “Dog like that ought to take Cindy’s mind off a horse.”
“But Freddy, this dog belongs to somebody around here…maybe a kid. We can’t just take him. Wouldn’t be right.”
“Now who said anything about stealing that dog?” criticized Freddy. He walked around the truck and gestured towards the house and the man sitting outside. “Why don’t we ask the owner if he’ll sell her?” Bubba quickly looked and saw that the dog was not such a good boy after all.
The two walked towards the middle-aged man sitting on the porch, the dog following on their heels. The man regarded Freddy and Bubba with mild curiosity as they approached.
“How’s it going?” asked Freddy.
“Can’t complain,” replied the man. “Something I can help you gentlemen with?”
Before long Freddy and Bubba sat in porch chairs while sipping their drinks. The resident, who went by the name of Old George, gladly accepted the offered refreshment, listening while Freddy outlined Bubba’s predicament. Then he turned to Old George with the big question—would he be willing to sell the dog?
Old George thought awhile, then announced he would gladly sell Mandy (the dog’s name) for the small price of five-dollars. Bubba, grinning at the good news, reached for his wallet—it seemed an exceptional price for such a friendly animal.
Then Old George hit them with the other shoe—well actually with the first one. “But that’s just the fee for selling Mandy. She’s not my dog, you see.”
Freddy and Bubba tried not to look confused…although they were. “Well it she’s not yours, how can you sell her?” asked Freddy, shrugging his shoulders at Bubba.
“Mandy’s tribal property. Even though Frank, the guy who lives over there, feeds her, she’s owned by the entire community. Old tribal customs demand we all share as necessary. In addition to my fee, you must pay 15 dollars to Frank.”
Bubba, although confused, inwardly acknowledged that 20 dollars was still a good price for the right gift for his daughter. He continued reaching for his wallet.
Now came the other shoe. “Of course the chief gets his cut too.”
Bubba stopped reaching. “Just how much do you figure that’s going to run?”
“About 20 dollars,” replied Old George, taking a long drink from his can.
“What about the rest of the tribe?” asked Freddy sarcastically.
“Glad you asked, I’d almost forgotten them. That’s another 10 dollars.”
“Are you sure that’s all?” asked Freddy. “No one else like your mother or brothers?”
“For heaven’s sake, Freddy,” cried Bubba, grabbing his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t give him any more ideas! 50 dollars is a lot of money—“
“And that’s a lot of dog,” interrupted Old George. “That’s full payment…pay the 50 and Miss Mandy’s yours.”
The aged Indian remained firm on the price—even after several more beers, he refused to yield a penny. In the end, Bubba paid the money, after borrowing 10 dollars from Freddy. With the deal complete, they returned to the truck.
Old George followed and tucked the bills into his shirt pocket. “I’ll make sure everybody gets their cut.” He waved as Freddy put the pickup in gear and drove away.
After considerable discussion, both men found it quite funny to think Old George had actually sold his neighbor’s dog; they laughed most of the remaining ride home. Sitting between them, Mandy looking from one to the other each time they began to laugh anew. Little did they realize Old George would have the last laugh. It would just be a while before they knew it.
Cindy’s party went off without a hitch. The little girl repeatedly hugged Mandy while proclaiming her the best dog in the whole world. Bubba had thoroughly bathed the pooch so she would be nice and clean when she received Cindy’s heart-felt hugs. Mandy certainly enjoyed the attention, running between Cindy and Bubba, with an occasional trip to Bubba’s wife, getting praise and friendly pats each time she sat and uttered her particularly funny half-bark, half-whine cry for attention.
It was not long before Mandy needed another washing. What with playing in the backyard with Cindy and her frequent trips to the neighboring woods, the dog managed to be filthy within a couple of days. It was during the fourth bathing when disaster struck.
The dog had been a family member only two weeks and, as usual, Bubba found himself stuck with bathing the dog. Cindy, tired of watching this boring ritual, left Bubba and Mandy to enjoy each other’s company. Bubba filled the large washtub and inserted Mandy. After a few moments, Bubba noticed numerous clumps of the dog’s hair seemed quite loose. So loose, in fact, the clumps slid off, dropping into the tub’s soapy water. Bubba was horrified—in moments, Mandy was a bald as a cue ball.
Cindy greeted this development with hysterics never before experienced in Bubba’s household. He helped his wife into a chair when she almost fainted at the sight. Pandemonium reined and Mandy ran through it all, barking and whining in confusion.
A visit to the veterinarian cost Bubba 30 dollars. The vet explained that although it was rare, it was not unknown for a dog to shed its entire coat after a radical change in diet. He had treated the tribe’s animals on several occasions, and knew the pets were fed whatever table scraps and cooking grease could be scraped into a feed bowl. Since Mandy no longer ate such oil-rich foods, she compensated by shedding her coat.
Bubba took Mandy home and told his family the news. His wife and daughter were relieved, but it still bothered them to look at the bald dog—a dog without hair is indeed a truly distressing sight.
In time, hair did return...somewhat. To the dismay of all, Mandy grew only some of her hair back—in small patches. Even after a month, no further hair appeared. Apparently Mandy was destined to look like some freaky sideshow exhibit found at a circus.
Bubba’s wife finally put her foot down. She was tired of watching Cindy burst into tears each time Mandy entered the room, nor was she too thrilled having to look at the dog herself. Bubba eventually admitted defeat and went shopping for a new dog.
Mandy, who had since earned the new name of Patches, became a permanent resident at Freddy and Bubba’s filling station. Freddy treated the dog as though it were any normal pet—the unsightly patches of sparse hair with surrounding pink skin never bothered him. Besides, Patches made a great watchdog—she always barked when a customer arrived, or a car drove by, or a bird sang, or the wind blew through the trees. She did, however, develop the bad habit of passing gas while sitting at Freddy and Bubba’s feet.
Old George’s third, and final, shoe dropped after first week with Patches at the station. Edgar arrived one afternoon and found the time to sit with Freddy and Bubba while sipping a brew. When Edgar saw Patches, he reflected the dog looked somewhat like the mutt old farmer Samuel had sold to an Indian living down towards Ashville. When Bubba asked if Edgar recalled the Indian’s name, Edgar replied: “Oh yeah…George something or other…good deal too! Let the dog go for just two dollars!”
As mentioned, when work around the station slowed, Freddy and Bubba sat around and talked. November’s chilly winds drove the boys inside for the winter and they ventured outside only for customers. However, since these visits were followed by long periods of inactivity, they decided to at least be comfortable.
With a little shuffling of equipment and shelves, they converted one of the maintenance bays into a “rest” area. Freddy brought in a couch—complete with end tables and lamps. Bubba bought some surplus rug the local outlet had been trying to unload. What mattered that the rug’s color could only be described as “early American pizza?” Besides, Patches’ occasional barfing episodes were almost unnoticeable amid the colorful swirls. Additionally, the bay/rest area contained a working fireplace large enough for a good fire, warming the entire shop.
It was a slow Saturday—even slower than the usual slow, and the boys sat before the fire passing the time watching the 19-inch television sitting in one corner. Patches sat near the end of the couch, listening to her two masters and quietly observing their body gestures. She especially enjoyed watching Freddy while he waved his arms, speaking loudly and pointing at the screen.
Fortunately for Patches, understanding Freddy or Bubba, or the noise from the television, eluded her. Otherwise she might, in some primeval, instinctive manner, have felt some trepidation regarding the future. But they were obviously not mad—excited maybe—so Patches assumed everything was okay.
“I tell ‘ya, Bubba, this guy on TV’s got the answers! He’s right—it’s not how much you invest…it’s recognizing the opportunity when it comes knocking!” Freddy turned off the television, the show now over. “It could happen to us. We just need to be ready! Remember, we don’t have to start big.”
Bubba, of course did not disagree, he just too well remembered other get-rich-quick schemes resulting in disaster, or yielding so small a profit as to make the enterprise simply not worth the effort. Now Freddy, with the help of Edgar, had happened upon a venture seeming profitable and requiring little effort.
Edgar had tried to deliver a special mail order needing careful handling to a farmer living to the north. However, the elderly gentleman sternly rejected the shipment after one glance at the delivery forms.
“Take ‘em back…there’s been a mistake!” was his only explanation. So Edgar called Freddy with the plan. Considering the delivery’s nature and the fact the large package was C.O.D., Edgar would not have to go through the trouble of returning it if someone paid the bill.
Bubba tried to imagine all the problems that might arise if he agreed to this idea. He asked some good questions, but Freddy had answers with all the details.
“But…Freddy,” Bubba protested one last time, “Where the heck are we going to put them? It’s too cold outside—they’d freeze! They’ll have to be inside! In here! It’s going to get crowded after a while…”
“No problem there,” said Freddy as though plainly understanding things beyond Bubba’s imagination. “We’ll fence off the other bay! Move the tools and tables to one end and there’ll be plenty of room in here! We’ll put in some laying boxes with hinged lids and fill them with clean hay. It’ll work I tell ‘ya!”
Bubba still had not really agreed to the plan when Edgar arrived with the package. He simply realized that further protests would be a wasted effort. It was better to maintain the peace and cooperate. Who knew? They might even make a little money.
Edgar received Freddy’s cash—$29.89 total—and once the papers were signed, wished them good luck, promising to stop by soon to see how things were going.
Freddy unfastened the bindings and lifted the lid, revealing the warm, padded interior. The immediate result was an increase in the volume of ambient noise within the office’s cramped space. For within the box squirmed 100 baby chicks, happy and healthy. All, as Freddy explained, just waiting to grow enough to start laying big eggs—eggs that could be sold to customers or anyone who loved the taste of farm fresh fare. “You just feed them grain and scraps and they grow. What could go wrong?”
The chicks remained in the box for two days while Freddy and Bubba built the coup in the cleaned bay. Bubba’s experience at carpentry proved invaluable and soon, a solid, wood frame fence enclosed the area. The chicken wire was taught and well secured and two gates of different size provided access and laying boxes lined the wall. The enclosure was large, the room warm and the bay’s garage door could be raised whenever the floor needed hosing.
For a while things proceeded normally and Bubba sometimes turned the couch to better watch the chickens’ antics. Freddy admitted a hundred chickens make much more noise than he had imagined possible…but they grew used to it. Even Patches seemed to go out of her way to make the chickens comfortable, maintaining a respectable distance until the new arrivals grew accustomed to her presence.
Freddy had been right about one thing, the chickens grew—fast. Their intake of food astounded both men. Once, on impulse, Bubba dumped half the feedbag’s contents to see what the chickens would do. He need not have wondered—within an hour, the grain was disappeared.
As to what could go wrong…that too became obvious. But, not before the chickens were several weeks old. When the chicks started to grow into small chickens, Bubba commented he might not know much about poultry, but there seemed to be something peculiar about their appearance. Freddy remained unperturbed and assured Bubba he was being overly critical.
As the days progressed, even Freddy became worried. You did not have to be a chicken-expert to know the difference between the sexes. A regular customer who had been farming for 20 years confirmed their fears. What they had was not 100 chickens—but 100 roosters! Freddy and Bubba were dumbfounded. They simultaneously understood why the elderly farmer had rejected the shipment—about the only thing a hundred roosters were good for was taking care of 1000 chickens. You could eat them, but most people knew home grown roosters tended to prove mighty tough cooking.
As if sensing the change in attitude, Patches now treated the roosters as invaders. She started sitting at the fence, uttering a deep, low growl, waiting for one or more of the fowl to strut near. She would then launch herself against the chicken wire, snarling horribly. Freddy finally banned her to the office and closed the connecting door. Bubba thought-up the emergency plan.
They put an ad in the local newspaper advertising a free rooster with every fill-up. Still, it proved difficult to get rid of the things. Not every customer wanted to leave with a live rooster. A few even ventured to question Freddy and Bubba’s state of mind…and sanity. However, they did eventually manage to give away most of the critters. When Christmas came and went, only 15 remained. Soon, the number stabilized at 10.
Patches was again allowed into the shop—once she began ignoring the poultry. Occasionally, one of the roosters would flap upward to perch on the fence’s top rail, just four feet high. From this position, they felt the urge to issue an ear-splitting series of crowing squalls, as if inspired with the new altitude.
In answer, Freddy and Bubba cut forked branches from the hardwood trees behind the station, and using strips of rubber from old inner tubes, fashioned crude slingshots. Each time a rooster leapt to the top of the fence, Freddy or Bubba would draw down and bounce a small machine nut off the bird’s hindquarters. This proved very effective in modifying the roosters’ behavior—they learned a leap to the rail meant a sting of pain. The best course of action was to stay down on the floor where things were safe.
Of course Freddy and Bubba never meant to injure the birds, which did not seem to need much help in that department. Spur-of-the-moment cockfights constantly erupted now that the roosters were adults. The men broke up the conflicts using brooms kept near the pen for just such a purpose. Again the roosters learned quickly; realizing the brooms meant trouble and calmed their aggression.
One morning, the second day into a warming trend, when Bubba opened shop, Freddy arrived to discover something Bubba had over looked. Within the pen, one of the more battle-scarred roosters seemed to be staggering as though going one too many rounds with a tough opponent.
The boys did not need a fire, but it still smoldered from when they had started to let it burn down, some 30 hours earlier. As Freddy sat on the couch and Bubba got the coffee pot plugged in, the goofy-acting rooster slowly fixed his gaze on the top rail of the fence.
“He’s going to jump!” cried Freddy, reaching for his slingshot. He loaded and drew back as the rooster leapt for the rail. Freddy paused to aim, then launched his missile. But the unexpected happened—in mid-flight, the bird veered. When it came to roost on the rail, the nut struck the rooster square on the head. The unintended target staggered limply and fell back into the pen, the remaining roosters rushing over to stand above their fallen comrade. All were strangely quiet, as though understanding here was one who would arise no more—truly departed.
Freddy, to his credit, was sorry his shot had killed the rooster. He retrieved the corpse and examined it as though he could coax forth some response. In the end, he gave up and handled the deceased to Bubba, who wondered what the heck he was supposed to do with it. Deciding to dispose of the rooster later, Bubba tossed the bird into the ashes of the fireplace, never giving a second thought to the possible consequences.
An hour later, Edgar stopped by. It was ten o’clock and he had already completed his route and had the rest of the day off. He sat with Freddy and Bubba on the couch and accepted a cold one. They talked, then relaxed in one of those natural lulls where conversations tend to lag.
It was Edgar who first perceived something out of the ordinary. He squinted his eyes and sniffed the air experimentally. “Say boys, I smell chicken! Did you decide to cook up one of them roosters?”
As if on cue, the three men looked to the fireplace—the only heat source in the area. What had hours before been only thin, almost invisible threads of dying smoke now blossomed in thick streaming fogs of vapor. In the middle of it all lay the “dead” rooster.
“Bubba…what the hell?” cried Freddy, starting to rise from his seat. “Have you gone nuts? Them burning feathers are going to stink—“
He got no further. At that moment, the embers heating the rooster’s feathers flamed into new life. The fowl, laying in the center of the hearth, instantaneously burst into bright, furious flames. Freddy uttered a surprised cry and fell back onto the couch, beer sloshing upward from his dropped can.
The rooster chose this instant to reveal it was far from dead. The flaming bird leapt to its feet and crowed hideously. Edgar went pale as the rooster ran from the fireplace and made a beeline for the same couch where sat the three astonished men. The rooster hit them before they could even blink their eyes. The hysterical fowl was in their laps and over their heads in a split-second—a fiery meteor, out of control.
Freddy and Bubba both scrambled to their feet. “Holy Toledo!” yelled Freddy, moving for the brooms. “We’ve got to get that thing before it starts a fire in here! The whole place will burn down!”
Armed with the brooms, they chased the fleeing fireball, trying to swat it into submission. Since Freddy and Bubba had both downed a half-dozen brews apiece since coming to work, their movements were less than graceful. They tended to stumble into each other, and more than once managed to swat each other instead of the rooster. Despite the bizarre situation, they both were soon laughing uncontrollably.
Patches helped by frantically dashing around the garage--mostly in the opposite direction taken by the fowl--while yelping loudly and foaming at the mouth. She also managed to void her bladder over most of the floor during her flight of terror.
Edgar sat stock-still, stunned, trying to follow the entire spectacle—two grown men, giggling loudly, stumbling and swinging brooms at a flaming chicken hell-bent for leather.
Finally they managed to force the fireball into the office area. As Freddy confined the flaming creature, Bubba ran to open the outside door.
Freddy, in a surprisingly adroit maneuver, batted the rooster from behind the desk, and with a swift swing of the broom, launched the bird through the open doorway. Bubba stood well to one side, shielding his face from the flaming feathers left in the wake of the rocketing fowl.
It was later agreed upon by all that Vernon’s decision to visit the station at that moment was indeed unfortunate. He had just tapped off another batch of his popular corn whisky and after a few drinks, departed to share his shine with the boys down at the station.
He rounded the outside corner of the office and reached for the door when it was suddenly yanked from his hand. Looking up in surprise, he was greeted with a sight from hell, and in that moment, time stopped. As massive doses of adrenalin were injected into his blood stream, Vernon, slack jawed and wide-eyed, beheld a sight he would carry to the grave.
Within the office, Freddy stood behind the desk, broom in hand, and looked to have just completed a mighty swing. Vernon wondered why Freddy looked so strange—his face displaying a confused mixture of emotions, fear not the least. And why did Bubba stand that way, hugging the office wall and covering his face as it to ward off invisible blows? Vernon mentally struggled with these strange images, but most of all, his thoughts were occupied with the impossible horror flying straight towards his face. Freddy’s aim in launching the blazing rooster, coupled with the particular place he happened to be standing, left Vernon directly in the path of the smoking missile.
He saved himself by falling backwards, arms wind-milling wildly. It seemed as though every part of his body, with the exception of his feet, had suddenly decided to be someplace else. Vernon cut loose, shrieking “Yah! Yah Yah!” as he fell. Bubba later commented on how he thought Vernon’s eyes would pop clean out his noggin when the blazing rooster missed his head by mere inches.
Miraculously, neither of the gallon jugs Vernon carried were broken. But he did wet his pants. For long minutes, he lay on the tarmac, staring upward in shock. He eventually responded after Freddy and Bubba carried him inside and poured a few sips of the shine past his lips. Several hours passed before Vernon felt steady enough to attempt the walk home.
They never found the rooster. It had hit the ground running, disappearing across the roadway within seconds. A drainage ditch with standing water lay on the far side of the road, and Bubba liked to think the bird made it that far.
When the last of the roosters had been given away, Freddy and Bubba tore down the pen and disposed of everything related to poultry. For weeks to come, Edgar cursed his bad luck at missing the last moments of the Vernon/flaming rooster encounter.
Vernon still occasionally came by the station to visit. But each time he did, he first looked in the front window to make sure nothing unusual, or dangerous, was occurring inside.