Tales from the Psyche of a Trauma Chicken

CW: Mentions of gun violence.

It was the hottest day of the year and here I was in a gawd-awful chicken suit, twirling a sign and dancing, trying not to get heat stroke. The suit already had an odor of sweat, grease and possibly, at some point, a poor slob’s vomit and urine. Not the best smell even on a cool day but on a day like today it was almost unbearable.

I had been doing this gig for a week now for the “Grand Opening” of the new chicken wing fast food place near downtown. The pay sucked but I needed rent money. My studio apartment was a total of 500 square feet of desperation and despair but it was mine. The first place that I could ever call home. It was on the very outskirts of downtown, near the abandoned railroad tracks and industrial building that years ago used to be the heart and pulse of the city. Urban growth and economic downturn of the paper mills and old time breweries changed the city. It was supplanted by skyscrapers with investment bankers, lawyers, and financial movers and shakers. Definitely NOT my crowd.

I squeeze my hand into the weird side pocket of my costume, pushing back the wing tip. The fat yellow gloves that I wear envelop my hands, dwarfing my fingers, making it almost impossible to reach into the little slot and pull out my prepaid cell phone. 4:30pm, almost quitting time. The heat is stifling as I slog back toward the chicken joint.

A car rounded the corner squealing its tires, a teenager leans out of the car window and tosses a can at my head. “Hey, chicken little, the sky is falling!” I flip him a different kind of bird as I trudge into the cooler but grease filled establishment. Peeling off my costume reveals my sweat stained shorts and tank top. I am half naked but still too hot to function. I breathe in deep and instantly regret it. Wow! I smell baaad.

Hanging up the chicken suit on the hook by the back door, a small shudder runs through me. Thankfully the dreaded chicken costume only has a lifespan of seven painfully, humiliating days and this job is over. I am not sure what I will do for money but I will find something.

My walk is usually about 15 minutes home but today it takes me longer. The walk is slow and oppressive in the heat and I stop to watch some kids playing in water spraying from a hydrant. A fire truck sits nearby with firemen carefully watching to make sure no one gets hurt. I fantasize about joining the kids in the cool water but at 25 I am way too cool and grown up for that.

My apartment is in the basement of a former four-plex. An owner along the way decided to make 2 studio apartments packed around the utility room. It is just a big room with painted cement floors with a small partitioned off bathroom. The area designated as the kitchen had a refrigerator that a freshman in a dorm would be embarrassed to own, a hotplate and a microwave that looked like it came from the first ones ever made.

They had dug out the required recess window which gave me a view of a galvanized retainer and a bit of overgrown grass. What passed as an air conditioner was placed in a poorly cut hole in the wall so close to the ceiling it was all but useless. The murphy-bed pulled out of the wall and took up most of the room. My other furniture consisted of a pie cupboard I bought from the salvation army and a TV tray and wooden chair. Funny it is called a TV tray as I didn’t have a TV, but on it sat a very old boombox, the one and only Christmas present I ever received. It was at least 15 years old but it still worked well enough.

I flipped it on to a local station and popped into the bathroom for a much needed shower. It was just a plastic curtain on a hoop around a floor drain and a hand held water wand. The water was never cold or hot but it was wet and with my dollar store bargain buy of coconut shampoo/body wash it was a slice of heaven.

Out of the shower I throw on a pair of shorts and another tank top. I left my long auburn hair down. If I put it up it would never dry in this humidity. The weatherman on the local station said it got up to 109 degrees. A new record. The air outside was still and the sky was turning a strange shade of green. According to the radio we were in for some night-time storms. Not unusual when it gets this hot in the midwest. As if on cue, a boom of thunder rattles the building.

Grabbing my cell phone like a lifeline, I peek out the door and up the steps to the entry-way of the apartment building. Lightning is flashing and the trees are whipping around, losing leaves like confetti. Fascinated by the turbulent tableau, I reach the front glass door and open it. The wind tugs at it like a child trying to get to the ice cream man. The storm is coming hard and fast and there is static electricity in the air. My drying hair begins to stand on end. It is an eerie feeling.

I look across the weedy grass that doubles as a yard to the apartment building next to mine. In the upper apartment I see the constantly fighting couple are at it again. He has a temper and the heat probably makes it worse. I see her sometimes sitting at the dull gray picnic table plopped in between the buildings. She wears large sunglasses and smokes her cigarette as if it is a burden she must bear. I usually wave and she nods her head in acknowledgement. That is the basis of our acquaintance.

The sky is now so dark it feels like midnight and no rain has fallen, yet. You can smell it in the air and I am waiting for it before I have to run inside. Storms feel like a snapshot of life to me. Winds raging out of control, thunder booming, lightning striking where and when it pleases and then the rain comes. Sometimes it is gentle and sometimes violent but either way it washes us clean for the sun to come out and shine us again. A boom overheard makes me jump. The lights in the buildings flicker as well as the street lamps and then go out.

The darkness invades and wind stills, lightning flashes and lights up the fighting couple like a shadowbox. He grabs her arm and she screams. There is a terrible sound. It is like the firecrackers my bully cousin used to throw at me on the fourth of July. The lightning fades and the apartment goes dark. Crap. Was that a gunshot? Should I call the police? Looking around there is nobody else outside. No one is in the little parking lot behind me and the whole city is in the dark. The skyscrapers loom like monsters looking for a meal. Sirens are going off, the local storm warnings.

Cell phone in hand, I dialed 9-1-1. There are no minutes left on the phone but I read somewhere emergency numbers would still go through.

“9-1-1, What’s your emergency?”

“I think someone has been shot.” My voice trembles as I answer her.

“What is your name and the address of the shots fired?”

I give her my name and the address next door and explain what little I know of the situation. She assures me someone will be on the way and to keep the line open for any other information.

Police and ambulance sirens wail in the distance, getting stronger as they come closer. Both vehicles pulled up to a screeching halt in front of me. Now the rain starts. It figures. I rush to the vehicles and point them in the right direction. The police officer tells me to go inside and wait. He would talk to me later.

I rush to get inside, why I don’t know, because I am already soaked. Standing in the entry, I shake myself like a dog. It doesn’t really help. I watch out the glass door as the EMT’s pull out a stretcher and run through the rain. I was still holding the open cell phone. I quietly disconnect and push the cell phone into my pocket. A small hard box blocks the way. Oh, yeah, the cigarettes. I wore these shorts when I went in to get my paycheck and the owner of the chicken joint gave me them after finding out it was my birthday. He said he didn’t have anything else so he gave me an order of wings and the 1/2 pack. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t smoke.

Standing there, staring out with an unwanted pack of cigarettes in my hand, I felt lost. I pulled a cigarette out and lit it with the matches tucked into the cellophane. I took a long, hard drag and coughed my lungs up. Preoccupied with dying, I didn’t hear footsteps coming up behind me.

“Uhm, Hi”

I turn with a start. It was the other denizen of the dank basement. He was the caretaker who I had only seen a couple of times. Just like now, every time I saw him he had paint splattered clothes. There were never any changes to the building so I wondered what he painted.

“There is no smoking in the building.” He says with a slight upturn to his mouth. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t.” I choke out. “It was just a birthday present.” He raises his eyebrows at that as I put out the butt. “Sorry. It has been a weird day.”

“What’s with the cops?” He asks, giving a head bob to the flashing lights outside. “Something about the power outage?”

“Nope. Murder.” I state sternly.

“No way. Who’d you kill?” He laughs. “Just kidding. You don’t seem the type. Although it is usually the quiet ones you need to watch out for.”

Giving him a death stare I reply, “Neighbor. Not sure which one. I heard the gunshot right before the rain started.”

“Crazy”

We stand side by side looking out the doorway. In the dark it was comforting to know someone else was there. We see movement through the lightning glares as if we were watching an old time film in black and white, jerky and unreal. The rain begins to let up though the wind still howls.

I see the stretcher on its way out with the feral husband strapped to it. It looks like he is yelling at the poor guys just trying to haul his fat ass out to the ambulance. The battered woman follows behind with the police officer trailing. She is not handcuffed so I can’t quite get the story in my mind.

The cop breaks off and makes his way toward our door. I push it open for him. He repeats my dog-shaking routine.

“Well, Thank you for calling. Apparently the husband was brandishing a gun at his wife when the power went off. It startled him and he shot himself in the leg. Too bad but he will be okay. Probably just get a slap on the wrist for it.” He tells me, shaking his head.

I just nod, homicidal neighbors are something I actually understand. It reminds me of the old neighborhood. My paint spattered companion shakes the cops hand as he walks out the door.

“Well, that was something.” He grins, surprising me with his exuberance. “Never been around a gunshot victim before.”

Lucky him, I think. “What’s your name?” I ask, shocking myself with the query.

“Blaine.” He replies with a rueful twist of his lips. “My mom loved Pretty in Pink. You know that old eighties movie.”

I shake my head no. I barely ever was allowed to watch TV and most of the time in my house it was broken anyway. My parents weren’t the nostalgic types.

“Blaine is a really nice name. Mine is Andie.”

“No way! It must be fate.” He winks at me.

“Why are you always covered in paint?” Again words come out of my mouth like vomit. I can’t really stop them

“Come with me and I will show you. I promise I am not a serial killer or anything.” He takes my hand and leads me to his dungeon apartment across from mine.

Opening the door wide, I see an outburst of color. Murals and pictures cover the walls, His murphy-bed like mine is down in the middle of the room but is swaddled in rich clothes like royalty. I blink hard. After the storm, the shooting, and the persistent gray of my world the color is blinding. He pulls me in and shuts the door.