The Rubber Chicken

I had a rubber chicken a long time ago. I purchased it, along with a cavalcade of little plastic fish, from the Oriental Trading Company, which I’m sure is neither in the Orient nor a part of some barter system. I paid cash for it.

I used to tie a rope to its neck and hang it off the shower hose, ostensibly to scare my then-wife and/or anyone else foolish enough to walk into our bathroom unaware. It had a long, slender neck that was perfect for the purpose, as it appeared to be a truly dead specimen there in the shower, behind the opaque curtain.

Some of these people who came to visit and were subsequently frightened by the shadow of the hanging chicken had the nerve to blame me and call me juvenile. And I had the nerve to laugh at their misfortune while I revealed to them the body of the rubber chicken by sliding back the curtain. Okay, so it was juvenile, but it was also funny.

The little fish were funny too as I would place them all over the apartment, tucked away in places even I would forget. Imagine my surprise on a winter’s day to open the butter dish, only to be met by a large pair of eyes on a tiny body. Those fish were everywhere, from the lint bin in the dryer, to the watering can on the porch, to the dashboard of my car. But I liked the rubber chicken best.

After I took it down from hanging in the shower, I decided to carry it around in my car and whip it out at opportune moments, like when I was in the Burger King drive-thru. That was the funniest, when I drove up to the window, then pretended the chicken was driving. Or the time I was at the library, sat him in the chair next to me, and pretended he was tutoring me in math.

My excuse is that I was 21. That was my excuse for everything back then. That and the fact that the Oriental Trading Company sold some really cheap stuff. Like a rubber chicken that made my life hilarious for a year. Then it simply disappeared. I always imagine it went back home. To the Orient.

Sam