Photo by sippakorn yamkasikorn
Small Town, Eastern Washington. Population: 5,000.
I saw a man with a skullet. Not the deliberate, Strapping Young Lad type of skullet, but a bald dude with long hair type of skullet. I was parked outside of the only grocery store for forty miles, in one of only eight parking spaces, when first I saw Skullet Man.
He walked up to his car with a swagger in his squatty walk and a lilt in his raspy voice.
“Hey Baby Girl, I’m coming. Alriiight, you’re gonna liiiiike this.”
I had to cringe at that, and wondered, Is that how he talks to his wife? Or maybe he’s just talking to his dog…
He opened up the back driver’s side door, and out hopped… a chicken. A large, luscious, brown and grey chicken. It had been a while since I saw a real live chicken, and the size of its feet struck me. I watched those long flat toes spread out on the asphalt as she strutted her stuff, following her man to the red brick wall. It felt like I was looking at something I shouldn’t be able to see. It felt like a scene that never would have occurred to me, even as inspiration for a piece of prose.
I turned in my seat to watch with both eyes as Chicken Man (formerly Skullet Man) squatted down in the dust and pulled out a freshly purchased sandwich. He chomped off a big bite for himself and ripped smaller bits off for his baby girl. He cooed over her, offering words of loud encouragement, as they ate the sandwich together.
I must admit that I had a good laugh, but as I left the tiny town in a plume of dust, reconsideration descended upon me. It was laced with a little bit of shame for my laughter. Had I not just witnessed an affection rare and beautiful, an affection such as I had never seen west of the mountains or south of the river? I reflected that many dogs, cats, and even children are not as well cared for as that one magnificent chicken. The world is only improved because Chicken Man and Baby Girl are in it.
Now I am filled with a curious light; what other micro-moments of hidden joy are to be found sparkling amidst the sun, sand, and sage? I must immerse myself more deeply.
All that being said, when I told this story to my sister, her first comment was this: “I hope it was a ham sandwich.”
Shyla Christin is a Canadian American writer who has been ‘just passing through’ Eastern Washington for eleven years.
