The Flaming Chicken and other Tales
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The Flaming Chicken and Other Tales
By Bartholomew Thockmorton
Copyright 2011 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:
Table of Contents
Foreword
One: When Mel Came To Town
Two: Patches the Dog
Three: The Flaming Chicken
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.
One: When Mel Came To Town
The morning had been unusually slow, even for Freddy and Bubba. Traffic on the roadway was light, and the cars going by, did exa
ctly 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