A Walk Among the Chicken Bones
“I saw two guys roasting a dog over a spit today.” I said meekly.
The man in the driver’s seat reached forward and snubbed his cigarette against the dashboard. Flicking the butt on the floor between his legs, he looked at me hard through his greasy horn-rimmed glasses. He opened his mouth slightly and I could see the yellow-black nubs of teeth that come from years of neglect and methamphetamine use. His stained Miller Genuine Draft promotional tee shirt strained against his large frame as he leaned back in the driver’s seat. “Why are you hitchhiking son?” It was a fair question. I was sixteen years old, dirty, sweaty and carrying a plastic bucket of chicken wings. Well, half a bucket of chicken wings. I’d gone to work with my father that morning. For him, at the time, work meant riding along with electrician, drinking buddy and sometime sparring partner, Jack. Jack was taking odd jobs in the suburbs since he was disgracefully discharged of his responsibilities with the Electrician’s Union. He took my dad along on some jobs for an extra set of hands. My father woke me up that morning so that he too could have an assistant. Jack wired the work shed for power, Dad built a brick walkway to the shed, and I shoveled mulch. After a solid eight-hour day we finished up what we were doing and left. I’d hoped we were going home. At sixteen I had a bustling social life, friends, stolen beer, girls, Mario Kart 64. I was excited to go home, clean up and see what trouble I could get into, but Dad and Jack had their own plans. We took a detour on the way home and settled into The Golden Nugget tavern. I’d seen the logo on t-shirts Dad brought home, I knew the type of bar all too well for a teenager. The smell of cheap beer, stale cigarettes, sweat-soaked blue collars, fried food, and single parenthood that hung on my father long after passing out on the couch for the night, surged out the door as we walked in. We sat at the bar, them with Budweiser, and me with Coke. It didn’t strike me as the kind of place that would have a fresh brewed iced tea, so I drank Coke. For the most part, our area of South Jersey was working-class, white families. Much of it built either 50 years earlier or within the last 5 years. The division of wealth was obvious between the lower-middle and upper-middle classes in the age of their homes. My father didn’t discriminate, as a rule, your skin color or ethnicity didn’t matter as long as you would drink with him. He was an open-minded and unprejudiced man when it came to drinking buddies, but they seemed to have financial hardship in common. It did much for me to associate with others in my socio-economic class. I gave most people the benefit of the doubt. I learned to not judge too harshly people’s appearances. I learned that hard work had honor to it. I learned that material possessions weren’t life affirming. However, seeing the new houses and going to school with the kids who lived in them taught me that being tired, hungry and wearing threadbare hand-me-downs were symptoms of class. I wished I could spend my weekends like the rich kids: swimming in pools of money, drinking champagne out of gold chalices, resting my feet on taxidermied heads of endangered species. But, I had to work, a job that wasn’t even mine, a job that I was certain I wouldn’t be compensated for. So, my imagination got the best of me as I day dreamed of getting away from my neighborhood, away from the a life of manual labor jobs, and the crippling alcoholism of that seemed closely tied to the two. After a few hours of sitting in the Golden Nugget that evening, drinking a diabetes-inducing amount of cola, I was ready to go. Dad and Jack weren’t ready to leave. It wasn’t that they were trying to get drunk, though they would; they simply hadn’t had enough conversation with the busty, snaggle-toothed, chain-smoking bartender or the other regulars I recognized from being passed out on our couch mornings before I went to school. After a concerted effort of pestering, my father suggested I start walking and that they’d pick me on their way home. I acquiesced, though I didn’t know exactly where I was. I did know it was over fifteen miles to our house. I reminded Dad of this and he responded by ordering me a bucket of chicken wings to sustain me on the walk. It didn’t occur to me that he didn’t plan on leaving. I assumed I’d walk a mile or two and ride the rest of the way back with them. I was wrong. The first five miles were a piece of cake. I eventually found a landmark I recognized and at least knew I was walking in the right direction. The chicken wings had gone cold, but were somewhat distracting. I could shake the bucket, eat the wings, then huck the bones at crows. After another half hour, I walked by a run down house on a barren lot. Two shirtless, thin men stood closely to a very smoky, open fire. It may have been a goat or a thin pig they had skewered over the flame, but I decided it was a dog, so it was probably an Irish Setter. Eventually, my feet began to give out. Without any water, a day’s labor, eight Cokes, two pounds of fried chicken in hot sauce and a quarter marathon stroll, I’d had it with walking. It became clear that Dad had other plans, so I stuck out my thumb. I knew better than to put myself in dangerous situations, but I was feeling justifiably dangerous. After all, I still had the equivalent of pepper spray encrusted chicken in a bucket. Self-defense wasn’t an issue. However, the van that pulled up still made me uneasy. I climbed in anyway, thanking the driver, explaining my destination as a landmark about a mile from home. I wasn’t keen on having this guy know where I slept at night. When he asked about my reason for taking the ride, I lied. I made up story about my car crapping out and not realizing how far I was from home. He dropped me at an agreed upon spot and I walked the rest of the way home. That final mile dredged up many emotions in me. I was resentful that I didn’t have my own car. I was bitter that my dad didn’t have a regular job. I was mad that he got drunk everyday and that my mom left as a result. I didn’t understand that everyone’s life was filled with obstacles, but I felt that I had competed against these particular obstacles long enough. It was then that I decided to transcend what I saw as a life of hardship. For me, education and distance were my best options for escaping. I didn’t know it then but eventually my options would lead me to earning multiple degrees, and raising my own family, comfortably in Alaska. I walked into the driveway seconds before Dad and Jack pulled in. My father was not in slightest bit surprised or concerned that they hadn’t seen me along the road. He told me to be ready to go back to work the next morning. I tossed the bucket of wings, took a long shower and prepared my Walkman, a change of socks and jug of water for the next day’s walk. Before I went to bed I took stock of what it meant to be trusted with my own life. I contemplated what it meant for my dad to deem me a man capable of getting myself home. I reflected on the glimpse he was giving me into the life he wanted me to rise above. I considered just how thin our Black Lab was. Those guys were definitely going to eat a dog. |