I stared at the smiling chicken head, my “Spidey-Sense” screaming out a three-alarmer. “You can’t be serious.”
Kim returned my appalled gawk with a sadistic grin. “As a heart attack, Fresh Meat. We’re offering free samples of our new Mocha Shakes with each combo meal during lunch today.”
“This concerns me, how?” The sarcasm bubbled up in spite of my best intentions.
Manager Kim reached into the bag and pulled out a sign—a homemade sign consisting of a 2-foot-long stir stick intended for mixing exterior paint, Gorilla Glued® to a rectangular piece of plastic. Across the face, I could read letters stenciled from a kit at an office supply store:
Try Our NEW! Chicka-Delicious
Mocha Shakes 11a-2p!
I stared, aghast at the chicka-retarded sign. As words continued to fail me, Kim offered, “I made the sign myself.”
“Nice,” I croaked, then grabbed my sweet tea, sucking deep from the cool, comforting brew.
“Lunch rush is hitting, and we need Chicka-D outside by the road, waving the sign. You’ve just been volunteered.”
“Okay, I get it.” Her tone and evil grin told me she’d entertain no argument. At least, from the looks of it, no one would recognize me inside the costume.
I waited for the blindfold and cigarette. “What do we do first?”
“Lose the shoes. Socks only.” As I kicked off my tennies, Manager Kim hefted the foam chicken head between her hands and held it above my head. A weight of snug foam dropped on my shoulders. The light dimmed, and sound closed in around me.
I could hear my own breathing, panting in the confines of the foam. Luckily, I wasn’t claustrophobic, or I would have been in trouble before we began.
It took a few seconds for the light to find me through the mesh portal that—I was pretty sure—filled the gap of blackness in the mascot’s open beak. I could see fairly well—at least directly in front of me—through a porous, round portal about 8” in diameter.
Still grinning, Manager Kim held the chicken body suit to my eye level, looking like a pair of warm, golden footie pajamas with orange leggings. A pair of oversized three-pronged claws dangled for the footies, and the PJs zipped up the back.
“Okay.” I heard Kim’s voice through the layer of foam. “Take a big step forward with your left foot into the leg.” I did, and my left foot sank into a thick wrapping of polyester.
She helped guide me into the costume with practiced ease, her voice rattling off the “rules” of the mascot secret society which I must obey or risk the terrible consequences. No talking in public under any circumstances. No bending at the waist; I couldn’t see if my head might hit someone. Bend only at the knees. No chasing children, no hugging them. Let them come to you and hug you.
She rattled off a bunch of other things that had nothing to do with standing on the side of the road waving a sign. After she wound down, I asked the one question on my mind: “How long?”
“You can’t be out there longer than 45 minutes. I won’t lie to you. It’s in the high 80s now, and that thing is going to heat up to a light simmer—about 40 degrees higher than wherever you are.” She briskly turned me in place so she could zip me up. “So it’ll get uncomfortable.” She pulled the costume closed with one fast yank. I lost half my light—again—and the foam closed tightly around me with an even greater, stifling urgency. “Be grateful. You’re the first today.”
“Why?”
“Because the costume’s dry now. Someone else will put it on right after you to finish the lunch rush. After you’ve soaked the inside with sweat.”
“Yuck!” I tried not to think about it. Nausea at this point would be a very bad thing.
Manager Kim walked down the cluttered aisle. I started to follow, but one oversized claw stepped on the other, and I stumbled. I reached out and braced myself against the side of the walk-in freezer, then continued after her, consciously taking larger-than-normal steps. That seemed to work okay.
I chugged through the grill area, exaggerating my movements as the manager had instructed me, shadow-boxing into the air. Hey, I’m stuck with it; I might as well have some fun. Through my portal to the outside world, I saw the fry cook nod, raising his spatula in a mock salute.
Kim held the door open as I stepped through to the counter. “Duck, Chicka-D. Low door.” She warned me just in time.
I emerged from the counter area to the combined squeals and yells of every kid in the place. “Mom! Look! Chickie!” “I’m gonna give him a hug!”
I barely made it onto the dining floor before I felt several small collisions about my abdomen. I had to crane my head uncomfortably down to see the small girls grappling my waist and legs in various death-hugs.
I reached down and patted each child on the back, waiting patiently as, one by one, they released their grip and ran back to their parents. One ten-year-old boy, clearly too old for that hugging nonsense, followed after, holding up his hand. “High-five, Chick!” I swatted at it, and he nodded and walked away, apparently satisfied. “Stay cool!”
“This way, Chicka-D,” cued Manager Kim, heading toward the entrance. I relaxed my neck, now able to center her in my portal of vision, and followed.
I spotted someone familiar out of the corner of what I could laughably call my peripheral vision. Actually, he sat in the booth closest to the door, or I wouldn’t have noticed.
Chip held a cup under his chin, sucking through a straw on one of the coveted new Mocha Milkshakes. I detoured, stepping toward him, and pumped fists in his direction.
This caught his attention, and he gazed in apparent confusion. I so wanted to laugh or say something, but I caught myself. I waved a frantic hand (wing?) toward him.
He stared at his own hand, as though an alien thing, then extended it, palm facing me, swaying his arm back and forth a couple of times in a feeble return of my greeting.
I turned back toward the door.
Kim stood in the doorway, gripping the paint stick attached to the sign face, which rested against her bulging polyester pants. “This way, Chicka-D. Time to go play in traffic.” She chuckled at her own joke.
Ducking slightly, I stepped out into the blazing, noon sun. The portal-shaped window to the outside through my headpiece radiated a disc of intensified light. The individual holes in the mesh took on greater definition, and more importantly, I could see the sidewalk, parking lot, and grass leading to the edge of the road.
What’s more disconcerting, I felt the air within the tight space warming up.
As we approached the sidewalk, Manager Kim’s hand gripped my shoulder. “Step,” she cued, warning me of the downward drop to the blacktop. “Big step,” she said, helping me cross the drainage ditch in the grass. I took three tough shuffles uphill to get to the sidewalk running parallel to the main street.
Near the side of the street, traffic noises from the steady stream of passing cars crescendoed. A car cruised by and honked, making me jump. A second car, driving the opposite direction, also emitted a friendly beep. I suspected I’d get used to it pretty fast.
Kim leaned in close and had to yell to be heard. “We’ll get you in forty-five minutes! Here’s the sign! Just walk back and forth and try to have fun!”
Have fun. Yeah, right! I grabbed the sign in my mittened hand—not easy. As the next car raced past, the sign—like an aerial flap pointed the wrong direction—caught the windfall and tried to jump from my hand.
I gripped that sucker two-handed to keep it from flying off. I turned to tell Kim the wind might be a problem, only to see her stomping away.
Resigned, I paced back and forth, waving the sign up and down over my head. A car flew past and honked. A second one honked. I realized they would all honk. Just not much entertainment in this town.
Occasionally, a car in the lane closest to me would honk, then slow, turn, and pull into the store. Other times, a car in the lane across traffic would slow as they honked, then skid-brake into the turn lane and pull into the parking lot.
Those are my customers! Holy crap, this works!
As cars pulled into the parking lot, I did a quick release of one hand from the sign to flash a quick thumbs-up. The driver would usually reward me with a second, friendly toot.
I started hop-walking back and forth, in a long, pacing trail along the sidewalk. Instead of simply turning, I’d jump in the air and spin in place, shaking my “tail feathers” as I landed. This almost always resulted in a passing car honking. Not a bad workout.
For a while, I had fun.
After another while, I stopped hop-walking and slowed to a standard walk.
After a long while after that, I started noticing how much I was panting and how damn hot it was in this stupid thing!
That’s when the thought hit me that I had no idea how long I’d been pacing out here. I knew that time had a tricky way of being relative when paired with hard work, and it could have been anywhere from five minutes to over half an hour. All I knew for sure was that the sweat had built up around my neck and dribbled down the back of my collar and into my blouse. Moisture soaked my bra. The foamy polyester basking in the sun was roasting the denim of my jeans and burning my legs.
The panting in my ears took on a more urgent intensity.
A Mitsubishi® Spyder™ honked, then slowed, pulling up near the curb. I woke up, realizing I’d been daydreaming. Some buff guy behind the wheel turned in the seat to face me. “Look alive, chicken!” His Barbie™ doll girlfriend giggled nonstop.
I raised the sign and ran after him. As the tires squealed, I swatted the sign through the air in an indignant pantomime.
A couple of cars driving the opposite direction honked in apparent appreciation.
I continued my patrol with renewed enthusiasm. I can do this. Forty-five minutes isn’t that long. I must be just about finished by now.
Right?
Except…
I turned and looked back at the restaurant, blinking sweat from my eyes as I peered through the portal. The cars in the drive-thru wrapped around the building, a segmented serpent of hungry customers. The parking lot, practically full, continued to receive a steady stream of cars from both the road where I patrolled and the strip mall beyond our parking lot.
The rules were clear. I couldn’t be out here more than 45 minutes. Surely they wouldn’t forget about me. That would just be…wrong!
Right?
I swallowed back my fear with a throat that suddenly hurt. I slid a dry tongue around in a dry mouth.
How long had I been out here? I had no idea. My prideful inner self started giving me hell. They’re keeping track inside. So don’t be a wuss, and do your job.
I raised my hand to lift the sign. When had I dropped it to my side?
I couldn’t lift the sign.
The sidewalk in front of me blurred. I blinked rapidly to clear sweat from my eyes. I realized I wasn’t feeling the sting of sweat, and no matter how much I blinked, the sidewalk wouldn’t snap back into focus.
I turned toward the grass decline. I took a couple of wobbly steps toward the building, felt the stupid sign drop from my hands, my feet get tangled up, and my body pitch forward like a bright, golden Humpty-Dumpty.
Padded and cushioned, I don’t remember the fall hurting much. Then, everything went black.
Chapter Thirteen
The world returned some time later. I could feel myself splayed face down in the drainage ditch, my clothes soaking, and in total darkness. The timeout gave me a burst of energy—or so I thought—and I fought to stand up.
I shoved against the ground with both hands, feeling the costume rise into a push-up position. Warm water poured from the back of my head into my face. Light streamed through the portal, but my strength gave out in one arm, and I toppled sideways.
Grunting, I kicked at the ground, and succeeded in rolling over.
I flopped onto my back. On the positive side, light again shone through the grill, but I couldn’t get up.
I heard a distinct change in the normal sounds of the passing vehicles. One, I could sense, pulled close, then skidded to a stop nearby. Help is on the way!
I heard the laughter of an approaching man, and a second person calling—maybe from the car.
“Greg, what the hell are you doing? Let’s go, man, we’re going to be late!”
“Hold on, this is priceless.”
The silhouette of a head and shoulders blocked part the light. I opened my mouth to speak, but I had no voice—no words of pleading would come out of my mouth.
I waited. He waited. I could see arms reach up, holding a device in front of his face.
No, he isn’t!
I heard the click of a camera shutter.
Laughter, then someone shouted at me. “What a loser! You should be in a turtle costume!”
I heard a more distant shout, vaguely familiar from a million miles away. The shithead hovering over me cut off his laugh and looked toward the restaurant—at least, I think it was the restaurant. I heard footsteps run off, followed by more laughter, the squeal of tires, and the acceleration of a car driving away.
More cars honked, passing by, but I also heard distant footfalls running toward me from the restaurant.
“Blue! Oh, my God. It is you, isn’t it?”
Chip? I must be hallucinating…
Except there he was, moments later, recognizable even though his face leaned in close and cut off most of the light. “Hold on. I’m going to get you out of this...”
A woman bellowed from a distance, accentuated by the thumping stomps of Manager Kim approaching. “Sir? You can’t open the costume here, sir!”
“She may be dying in there!”
“We’ll get her inside right now, sir, if you’ll help me, but we can’t unzip her out here.”
“Blue, can you hear me?” I couldn’t answer, but I waved my hand, and a moment later, he gripped it in return.
His other hand traveled up my arm and positioned itself under my shoulder. I pulled myself into a sitting position.
My face burned as if on fire, and I felt old sweat dripping down the crevices and contours of my body. A wave of nausea passed through me, and I closed my eyes. If there is a God, He will not let me puke inside this costume!
“Sir, I can get her. Thank you.”
“You need my help. I don’t think she can walk on her own.”
A second pair of hands grabbed a hold of my other arm. “Fiona, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.” Through the layers of material, I gave her fingers a tentative squeeze. “Okay, count of three. We’re going to lift you to your feet.”
She counted, and I rose, through no action of my own. “Okay, just step as we go, and we’ll guide you.”
Somehow, walking mechanically, gripping Chip’s hand for dear life the entire time, I was guided and prodded back across the grass and over the cement. I ignored the honks and callings, though they sounded more urgent and mocking than ever. I closed my eyes, waiting for the burning on my head to stop, realizing I had no fresh sweat beading on my forehead or in my eyes. I knew, distantly, that wasn’t good.
Somehow, I ended up back in the restaurant. The raised voices of Kim and Chip roused me from a stupor. Chip wanted to stay at my side, and Kim was reading him the riot act for trying to step behind the counter. Kim called out a name, and Chip pried his hand loose from my death grip. A second body slid under my arm, and they dragged me back into the break area.
“Hold her up,” Kim ordered, and she slipped behind me while some other body stood in front and gripped each of my upper arms. I heard a fast zip and a blast of cold air attacked my back. The sopping-wet polyester dropped from my chest and gathered along my arms. The hot air escaping made an audible hissing sound, replaced almost instantly by a sharp, cold chill. “Oh, my God!” the guy in front of me gripping my shoulders exclaimed.
Another pair of hands grabbed the costume head on either side and pulled. Again, a vague sucking sensation, and harsh, brilliant light hit my face at th
e same time a blast of cold air attacked my head and shoulders.
I saw not just one person standing nearby, but two dudes, and the girl I recognized from the front counter area. I’d officially made a scene, and I didn’t much care.
Then, my legs gave out, and bodies rushed forward to hold me up and lower me into a chair. “Jesus, look how red she is!”
I closed my eyes, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Someone held a straw under my mouth. A timid woman’s voice spoke near my ear. “Here, drink this, but slow...” I sucked a huge gulp. The liquid hit my mouth like tiny paper cuts, and I immediately coughed it up.
Everything dropped away for awhile.
I woke up to swaths of ice cold against my face and shoulders, opening my eyes against a white cloth. The chilling weight of an ice pack lay awkwardly across the front of my chest.
“What the hell’s going on here? Back to your stations! Stacy, you stay. Kim, you too!” I recognized the voice of owner Teddy, though the severe tone was something new. People shuffled and left in a whirlwind of turmoil. I reached a hand up toward my face.
Still in the seated position, I pulled the cold towel down, and looked up into the girl’s kind stare, her blonde hair pulled back and framing a pretty face. Her large, blue eyes reflected clear concern as she observed me. She smiled and extended the large cup of ice water. “Here, try again.” Though she spoke softly, her voice reached me. “Slowly, this time. You need to replace all that liquid you lost.”
I sipped, and even though my mouth still hurt, I could swallow. After a couple of swallows, I could breathe deeply again.
“How long?!?” I heard Teddy snap.
“I’m not sure,” Manager Kim admitted. “We were so busy. Did you see the numbers? The customer count was off the chart, so—”
“How long!”
“Maybe an hour—seventy minutes at the most, but we were too busy to—”
“Are you crazy!” The bellowing response cut off any further protests from Kim. “Seventy minutes in this heat? She might have died, and that would have ended our great lunch in a very bad way, wouldn’t it?”
Haunting Blue Page 10
