Super Chicken and the Wild Bunch

Super Chicken and the Wild Bunch

By Mandy L Cantrell

About three lots between me and J.W.’s house was a growing side show made up of two trailers and about ten people, best we could tell. In a town with nothing much to do, this had been our favorite attraction during those long summer days. We were still pretty young back then; somewhere between childhood and real responsibility. And we spent most of our time loafing around what was left of a town that may or may not have been something once upon a time.

The group had rolled into town about mid-July in the hottest summer I could ever remember. Days would go by back then with nothing much to do. We’d take long walks up the track and back, maybe ride our bikes down to the creek during the daytime. Nights offered a bunch of T.V. reruns and the same VHSs we’d rented about a hundred times from the gas station.

So, when we saw a couple of old junk cars roll into town with more people than car, we decided to check it out. And as the cast of characters filed out of those small vehicles, it didn’t take us long to see that something odd was going on.

To most people looking on, things probably seemed pretty normal. After all, it was a small rural town; there was bound to be some people with peculiarities. I mean there was Mrs. Jenkins who always went down to the store with curlers in her hair and for some reason her daughter did the same thing. Then you had John Stringer’s son who had went off to prison last year after he set fire to the old Creekmore place. Everybody talked about that. Jessie Bea’s cat had a kitten with an extra paw and that was pretty weird. But there was something more with this bunch. And we wanted to know what it was.

Our new fascination was a small lot with two singlewides facing a shared yard that was pretty grown up just a day before. It was a big group for the space and seemed like a larger head count every time we went by. Me and J.W. figured it must be a whole family because we always saw them outside talking and visiting with each other like they were close knit.

Now the left trailer housed a woman, in what I guessed was her mid-twenties, and about four kids. Who knows what ailment kept her from speaking but she sounded as if her tongue had been cut out. We said it had been. She spoke loudly and aggressively with almost a panic in her cacophony.

We’d walk by or ride our bikes pretending to have some real destination. And that lady’s kids would run out eagerly to greet us with open arms and bare feet. They looked hardly bathed and rather excited like so many yard dogs running toward company.

Me and J.W. would see them on our way to and from the store just about every time we went down that way (and we went as much as we could). That unsettled lady would scream at those kids in a tone that was not startling to them but somewhat confusing to us. We were never sure if she was encouraging or discouraging them from talking to us. She was incomprehensive in her constant shriek of vowels.

Across from that distressed woman, lived a man large enough to draw a crowd; the fat man of the side show I presumed. Until curtain call, he was sandwiched in that little place with a woman I took to be his wife, a man they called “Super Chicken” and a plump, little Mexican girl.

Like I said, they weren’t quite off target for what you might find around that dead-end town except for one thing. To the side of their trailers sat one, rather large, wooden doghouse. It could have easily fit two large breeds or, in this case, one large man.

Now the man was not as big as the main attraction, but he was a big guy all the same. From the road you could see him good, overalls and shirtless; a box fan with an orange extension cord stretched outside to cool his humble abode.

On a real hot day, you might see Super Chicken, a wiry, wormy little man in white undershirt and dirty jeans, bullying that big guy with a broom stick while shouting for the man to get back into his cave. Often, we heard sounds of frustration and fear as we watched that poor man cower down in his wooden box.

Other times we’d catch him in the grass, legs sprawled, resting on the heels of his hands in the bright sunlight just outside his home; a man complacent and somewhat serious, only missing a runner. But he didn’t need it. This guy wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t even roam the yard.

We noticed that sometimes he just looked like a normal man, seated on the dry lawn, somewhat bored. Every once in a while, they’d bring food out to him and we’d see many of that wild bunch talking in the yard like it was some freak show family reunion.

To add to our curiosity, we noticed that several nights a week an ambulance and fire truck would speed in with lights flashing like the fair! We couldn’t figure out why they kept showing up at the trailers. My Momma said something was weird over there and we needed to stay away.

It made her nervous every time we talked about what all we saw there. But we were not afraid. We were not offended by their strange behavior. We were fascinated! In the doldrums of that predictable little town we watched in awe at our new-found attraction. Soaking in the vulgar display and wondering what might come next.

Momma said don’t go that way! Don’t talk to them! But we did go, we did speak, always hoping they’d invite us into their big tent world, but they did not. We were only the audience and must be satisfied with our seating. But their lack of discretion allowed us full admission if only from the road. And we were gonna soak that up no matter how much Momma worried.

Of course, the show went on whether we looked or not. They seemed oblivious to the rest of the town. They didn’t know they were weird. This was just their normal world. But that curious spread of characters convened every day in the dead heat. Like actors on a stage each one played their own strange part. All we had to do was watch.

But after a while, as much as we enjoyed the show, we couldn’t help but wonder did anybody else think this was weird? Everyone saw them but no one else was staring. And as far as we knew, nothing was said, and nothing was done. Summer days came and went but the man in the doghouse was a constant.

Then one evening me and J.W. were riding our bikes about dusky dark and we glanced eagerly to see who was performing in the yards that Friday night. Unfortunately, there was no one outside which was unusual for them. The space was quiet and empty, except for a low hum of the doghouse fan.

Not wanting to miss anything, I suggested we take a closer look while no one was around. We crept alongside the trailers, our hearts beating a little harder, knowing that the whole group was just a few feet away. It was the first time we’d gotten close enough to see behind the curtain and we needed to see the things they hadn’t shown us already.

Two more feet and we reached the open window. Inside, a T.V. aired alongside the biggest man of the group who was holding that little Mexican girl up by the throat. I swallowed my gum in one quick gasp and thought for sure I’d choke right there at the open window. Me and J.W. immediately ducked down, hurrying away on bended knees as quickly as we could.

We ran all the way to the pay phone and called the cops. I hung up before they could ask for a name. Within minutes, that now familiar light show flashed through the property once more; this time induced by our own doing.

 We watched from down the street, hoping to see some grand finale. I don’t know what all happened inside. But to our surprise, no one left the scene. As far as we knew something strange had been explained and we were left in the dark.

Like all circuses at the end of a season, that wild bunch dwindled out of town not long after that night. Summer brought an early fall and one trailer group at a time settled into a smaller lot on the outskirts of town; someplace along the highway with few houses and less spectators. Who knew what happened there. It was too far to walk.