Chicken contraband - Film Noir at the Filling Station

There I paced in the parking lot outside the P & H truck stop, back and forth in front of the Mobil pumps, my keys jingling nervously in my right hand. Where could she be? She said she was going to be held up for 5 minutes, but that was at 1 o'clock and my ticker said a quarter past 2. It's only a 25 minute drive from up above St. Johnsbury, 30 tops. Something must've happened. I'd had lunch. I'd drawn it out as long as I could without drawing attention to myself. Still I could tell the way Nancy -- that was my waitress's name, Nancy; looks like she'd seen some hard times -- I could tell by the way she asked "Anymore coffee, sir?" that she suspected something. She hid it, but I sensed it, sensed it in the subtle shake of the coffee urn. Also, the way she placed the check on the table, face down, after I gave an emphatic 'No!' to "Would you like some dessert?" That face down had special meaning. The way Nancy pressed it to the table and looked at me seemed to say "I know." I knew I had to get out of there but quick.

And now I was out but quick, but the van wasn't here. The cops must've picked her and her poultry up, I thought, that's what must've happened. And now she was squealing, squealing and sending the coppers my way. There might be a shoot out. But it'd be a one-sided shoot out because I don't own a gun, never have, never will, which sort of blows the whole idea of a shoot out sky high. I should've never had our birds processed. But hindsight's 20/20 and with the time 2:15 I'd give you 4-to-1 my 8 chickens were down for the 9 count 10 minutes back on Interstate 91.

Just when the last vestige of hope was about to drop below the horizon, the purple van came screeching into the parking lot. I made a beeline to my car and grabbed my checkbook. Tamara was out of the van, all smiles, dressed in dissheveled hippie garb. Good disguise, I thought to myself, everything's going to be just fine. But when I got up close her smile couldn't cover up the "Save Me!" screaming out of her eyes. I knew I'd have to make this quick. We opened the van; it was a mess. The plastic containers I'd brought the birds in were stuck, stuck and blocking the frozen birds in the cooler beneath, jammed tight. This can't be happening!! We tugged and jerked and heaved and hoed, but they wouldn't budge. Finally I shoved them out the other way and the cooler was freed. I got to the back of my car and opened up my cooler, ready for the exchange. Then out came the birds, frozen solid, Tamara - that's her name, Tamara, it might be her real name, it might not, I don't know and I don't care, she's the chicken lady to me and if she wants to go by Tamara, that's her business. She kept the smile pasted on her face as she passed icy package after icy package of what used to be Napoleon and Otis and all the other feathered hell raisers who used to strut around our side yard like there was no tomorrow. Well, now there was no tomorrow, literally. The reality of the situation slapped me in the face like a wet salamander. Don't ask me to explain that last simile; suffice it to say that I had to act and talk tough just to get through this. Tamara's eyes might be screaming "Save Me", but I was the one that really needed saving. After all, this was my first run, and it certainly wasn't going to be my last. This processing business was for the birds, I thought. Literally.

I shut the cooler lid and slammed my Outback hatch back door down; Tamara slammed her van's side door shut. There was alot of slamming. 'Who do I make it out to?' I asked, whipping open my navy blue checkbook. "Glenn. Glenn did the job," she said eyeing the 2 heavily gutted truckers that had been spending a little too much time around the Premium pump. I was amazed how convincing her smile looked. 'Glenn who?' I asked, taking the beat-up blue pen she was offering me. "Just Glenn," she snapped. Our eyes met, we both knew what that meant. Either Glenn wanted to remain anonymous OR Glenn had no last name. I decided not to ask. Instead I wrote the check chop-chop and handed it to her; it seemed to disappear into her pocket. "Thanks," and she was back around to the driver's door, inside, and backing out before I knew it. That's when I realized I was still holding her pen. 'Wait!' I yelled. It was the first time I saw her smile waver. I ran to her window and handed it over. There was gratitude in those "Save Me" eyes. "Thanks." 'Don't mention it.' "'See ya next time." 'Yeah.' I hoped she didn't hear the regret in my voice. Then she was gone, headed south to Hanover. I climbed in my Subaru and headed the other way, up the back road, checking the rear view to see if I was being followed, making my way back home, dreaming of dinners made from chicken contraband.