What to do, what to do. What to do with this chicken suit. Boy, if that isn’t the problem of the year, I don’t know what is!
My life has been a mess because of this chicken suit since the third day after I bought it back in 2006. And I can’t seem to get rid of it! No matter what I do, this chicken suit finds its way back to me. Was my ex right? Maybe I’m unconsciously keeping it in my life. Maybe I really just want to be miserable all of my life.
But you know, when I first bought it, the world was so different. We were living in idealistic times. Democrats were elected to a majority in Congress, HEROES and 30 ROCK were exciting new shows that were changing minds of an apathetic America, Zacarias Moussaoui was convicted of conspiracy in the 9/11 attacks, and the United States was still celebrating the Bronze win for Curling at the Olympics in Turin. What exactly could go wrong by purchasing my very own chicken suit? As it turns out, everything.
I’ve always lived life with the philosophy that when you find a unique opportunity, if it appeals to you in any way, you should just go for it. Life is easier if your regrets are for the choices you make, not for the chances you don’t take. So, yeah, when a costume rental shop is closing its door and liquidating its inventory, there isn’t much room to debate paying $115 for a full-sized yellow chicken suit. It’s do or die, sink or swim time when an opportunity like that like comes along. And, oh yeah, I swam.
My wife at the time, Ashanti (not the singer), tried to be supportive, but she was against the purchase from the start. We were still trying to pay off my loans from law school, and her ballooning medical bills also put a strain on things. Chemotherapy ain’t cheap, son! She didn’t choose to have cancer and she was not going to choose to forgo treatment. In that same way, I didn’t really have a choice when it came to the chicken suit. As much as I tried to tell her, she couldn’t see the parallels.
It wasn’t like I didn’t have a plan. I bought the suit knowing that it would serve multiple purposes. First, I would be all set for next Halloween, which was nearly a year away! Second, if there ever was a reason to jump start my singing telegram business, it was having a chicken suit in the house. I didn’t pull the trigger on the business because I didn’t have any gimmicks for it, Ashanti was in the hospital coughing up blood and pus, and the partners at my firm were really riding me. Now I had the gimmick, Ashanti’s condition was improving, and I adjusted to my workload. Sammy the Singing Chicken would be knocking on doors delivering musical messages of whimsy to the masses in no time. Finally, if the business failed, I could sell the suit and probably get about 80% of my money back.
But on the third day of owning the suit was when things went awry. I gave the suit a trial run around the neighborhood, delivering to my friends and neighbors songs of congratulations for a new baby, for graduating dental school, for a recent show of heroism. The songs were clever enough, and it looked like it would be a rousing success. Soon I would make some side cash to pay for the crushing debt we were in, I thought.
On my walk home, still fully in Sammy gear, I passed a few street toughs. Long story short, they beat me pretty severely, tore my suit badly, and I found myself in the hospital with a broken collarbone, three cracked ribs, and some internal bleeding. Full recovery took 3 months, and I had the suit repaired and cleaned. I swore I would be more careful about walking around Detroit as Sammy. I didn’t want to walk around with a backpack with a change of clothes, it would ruin the fun of the costume!
After I was comfortable with walking again, I gave another test run as Sammy a try. But in my stubbornness, I again foolishly walked around the neighborhood in the suit and I got chased by another group of hoodlums. I escaped harm but it didn’t help my mood. The next day, angry at myself and those damn street thugs, I cursed the chicken suit and said the hell with getting my money back. I went down to the alley to dispose of the chicken suit in the dumpster. Little did I know that there was an All Points Bulletin out for a man in a chicken suit who robbed the First National Bank three blocks away. I was spotted by a few police officers and got taken down hard. It took a few weeks, but the mix-up was resolved. The police cleaned the suit as a sign of no hard feelings and sent me packing. Good thing I’m a lawyer; I didn’t have to pay for my services!
Ashanti left me a week later, citing among other things, my “silly” side business venture, my financial irresponsibility, and our “sexual incompatibility,” for divorce proceedings.
I sold the chicken suit on an online auction to man who lived in town and I thought it was over. Two weeks later, I received a promotion at the firm and things were at least looking up on that end. But wouldn’t you know, my boss sent over a singing telegram to congratulate me on the promotion. And guess what, DARRYL the Singing Chicken delivered the telegram. My chicken suit was back! I told Darryl (or Tom, the guy I sold the suit to) to be careful in the neighborhood, and related the attacks I experienced as Sammy. He laughed it off and told me to have a good day.
The next day, at my door was the chicken suit with a note.
“Cliff, you were right. I got jumped by two guys and they smashed my face good. You can have the suit back. It’s cursed. -Tom”
And here I am! What do I do now? I’m supposed to head over to my boss’ house for his daughter’s 10th birthday party. Hey, maybe I can entertain the kids! It’s just a short 30 minute bus ride through town. I’ll just slip old Sammy on and be on my way. If I can impress his daughter with my songs and few card tricks, well, it certainly can’t hurt things when that next promotion rolls around!