Mr. Chicken

My sister’s visiting from America this week, and I heard a story I’d like to share. It’s, thankfully, got nothing to do with terrorism or war or anything like that, but rather concerns the way we view other people, in particular people who are different from ourselves – or rather people who are different from the norm.

Everybody loves an eccentric. In fact I heard on the radio that someone’s just written a book on British eccentrics. I’d love to get hold of it, but unfortunately didn’t pick up on the author’s name. (If anyone can help I’ll be grateful).

However this story concerns Mr. Chicken. True story. He apparently used to drive around in a beaten up motor with a chicken attached to the hood. I don’t know if it was a dead one or a toy one. He always had chicken feathers attached to his clothes, and he would often park the car downtown, pull out a push-chair with two toy dolls inside and push it around town.

A nutter, right?

Everyone used to shout, “Here comes Mr. Chicken,” and he would squawk and move on. Nobody ever heard him speak. He just squawked. Everyone laughed.

But one day his story came out. Apparently he used to have two little girls. Several years earlier he woke up in the middle of night smelling smoke. It was too late. His house was on fire. He jumped out of the window and then realised that his two little girls were still inside. He tried to go back in but the flames beat him back. Neighbours arrived and he tried to go in through a side door. They restrained him. He fought them tooth and nail, trying to get in through a window even, but they managed to hold him back.

By the time the Fire Brigade arrived it was too late. A relative arrived, an uncle of the girls apparently. “Where are the girls?” he asked. “They were inside” said our man, grieving inconsolably.

The relative then proceeded to beat and beat and beat him. “You coward,” he cried, “You let them die. You coward. You chicken! You chicken! You chicken!”

The man didn’t try to defend himself. But when the bystanders finally pulled the relative off him, he picked himself off the ground and squawked.

And he’s never stopped.

I don’t know why I wanted to share this story because it saddens me to the core of my being, and I certainly don’t mean to depress everyone. But perhaps I’ll be a little more generous in my thoughts next time I see a “nutter.”