Relativity of Memory

I was sitting out on my front porch having a cigarette and noticed a SERIOUS preponderance of flies in the back of my car. I mean LOTS of flies. Which, of course, made me curious.

It was during one of the hottest weeks of summer, and I hadn't gone anywhere for a few days, probably close to a week (it was too hot). Curiosity killed the cat and almost made me hurl. I opened the back door and the smell about knocked me on my ass -- it was a physical force that literally pushed me away. (That leads to some really interesting ideas about instincts and death, but that's a digression for another time. This is supposed to be funny.) Someone had left a bag of something in my car, and it was bloated and rotten. Keep going. I mean it. It's funny.

I dumped the bag out on the sidewalk, trashed everything it touched, febreezed and scrubbed and all sorts of stuff involving baking soda and chemicals and stuff. But the bag was still on the sidewalk.

Part of me didn't wanna know, really. But then, I thought -- Jesus, what if it's, like, a body part or something? My imagination kicked in, and I could just imagine a human head or something in there, festering in the summer heat. And if it was a person, that's probably something a guy ought to tell someone about, since somewhere, there's gotta be the rest of the person. Hopefully. So I gathered my wits and my guts, held my breath, and opened the bag.

Inside the bag, was another bag. And inside of that was a whole freakin' chicken. I kid you not -- a whole chicken. Bearing the brand of the poultry farm down the road, and in a shopping bag from a store neither I, nor Kerry, nor any of our family shopped at.

It was a drive by chicken-ing. Well, I suppose it was a drive by. It could have been a pedestrian chickening. The point is, my hand to God, I got chickened. It took me forever to get the smell out, to get the smell off me, and even longer to convince myself that the smell wasn't still there (after I had everyone I knew sit in my car and tell me if it still stank or not).

I've dealt with some pretty disgusting stuff, cleaning other people's houses, and sometimes cleaning my own, but that...man...there just aren't words. I'm not sure where this one ranks after the vomiting of the refrigerator on my kitchen floor -- that one made my apartment smell like vomit for the better part of a day.

Here's a large question. What does it say about me that now I can look back at that and laugh? That chicken had leaked into a container where I kept a store of tea and coffee and other hospitality goodies that I handled for a local organization. That containier also had my day planner and address book in it. It had a couple books in it. I think there was a shirt and a pair of shoes or something. All of it had to go into the dumpster. Container and all. Forget it. There is no salvation to be had after rotten chicken has dripped on your stuff.

I spent the better part of a disgustingly hot afternoon cleaning it up. And part of the evening cleaning me up, because God knows I smelled like shit. It was a hassle, and it was gross, and it was

hilarious? It's taken comical proportions in my mind. I can imagine the chicken-er, sneaking through the darkness with his, probably illicitly purloined, treat. He (or she -- it's a liberated country we live in, most of the time) finds a likely car. One where the automatic locks don't always kick on in the back. "Aha!" says the bandit. Quietly, he (or she) opens the door, sets the bag on top of something in the back, and just as quietly sneaks the door shut. An operation of stealth and true cunning has just taken place.

And then, I stop. I mean, what was the fun of this prank if you couldn't see the person's reaction? Maybe he (or she) did wait to see the reaction, and just got sick of me going outside to smoke, but never hopping in the car and actually going anywhere. It WAS indeed miserable hot and humid, and I'm too much of a tight-ass to run the air conditioning because of the hit I take in my gas mileage.

Now I think about it, and I could just about laugh myself into tears. It's ridiculous. But really -- how random was that whole thing? A whole chicken? Wrapped very carefully, almost like a slimy, rancid gift? Who comes up with that crap? What were they on? Why aren't they sharing? I'd like to have brilliant revelations in high-jinkery like that.

Except I'd stick around to see the person's reaction and probably get busted...