Monica Murray Derr

Martin turned the corner slowly, careful to avoid any potholes and limit the damage to his already beat-up sedan. His roommate, Tyler, riding shotgun, rolled his eyes. “Just take the turn already, grandma. We’re pushing it as it is. Look, there’s a space right by the stage door. Park there.”

“Parallel parking’s going to be too much of a hassle dressed like this,” Martin gestured to the chicken suits both of them were wearing. “Let me see if there’s an easier spot further up. Is this a loading zone?”

“There won’t be, and it isn’t. You just don’t want to parallel park. Besides, if you park farther up, you’ll have to walk down the street dressed like a chicken, and you don’t want to do that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Exactly.” Tyler rolled down his window. “Do you want me to park it for you?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Go on, then. Drive past the space first.”

“I don’t need instructions.”

“All right.”

Martin drove past the space and began to back in. “I can’t believe you talked me into this. I feel like an idiot. I look like an idiot. You look like an idiot.”

Tyler stuck his head out the window. “You always say that. Watch the curb.”

“Shut up, I’ve got it. And what do you mean ‘always’? How many times have you convinced me to dress like a chicken and make a fool of myself first in a car and then on a stage?” Martin decided his parking job was good enough and turned the car off and got out. “And since we’re discussing it,” he said, walking around the back of the car to pop the trunk, “‘convinced’ really isn’t the right word, is it? Last night, you threw this ridiculous costume at me, thrust a terrible script into my hands, and said, ‘I need you the be Chicken #2 tomorrow. Learn this.’ Didn’t ask if I wanted to. Didn’t even ask if I was free this weekend.”
Tyler blinked twice. “I knew you were free. I checked your calendar.”

“You checked my calendar?”

“Lighten up, it’s not like it’s private. It’s on the fridge. And why wouldn’t you want to do this? We used to do stuff like this all the time in college, and we were great. It’ll be fun.”

Martin shoved the heads of their costumes into Tyler’s arms and slammed the trunk shut. “I think we define that word very differently. And I was prepared back then, none of this last second winging it crap. This is your thing now. I’ve moved on.”

Tyler fumbled with the heads, trying not to drop them on the sidewalk. “I don’t know why you’re so against doing this. Sure, it’s been a while, but we’re still a good double act. You even rewrote some of the jokes last night, and they’re better than the stuff I came up with on my own.”

Martin refused to acknowledge the significance of Tyler’s point. He locked the trunk with his key and moved toward the front of the car.

Tyler exhaled in exasperation and played the only card he had left. “Come on, man. It’s a ten-minute sketch and it’s for charity.”

Martin tried to think of a comeback, but came up empty. “Let’s just get this over with. I’ll feed the meter.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Martin glared at Tyler as he opened the passenger door and reached for the glove compartment. He felt around for a few moments, unable to find what he was looking for. “Where are my quarters?”

Tyler raised his eyebrows. “What quarters?”

“The roll I keep in here for parking meters. Don’t play dumb, you’re shockingly terrible at it.”

“Right, those. I may have borrowed them to do laundry.”

“Borrowed? So, you’re not just checking my calendar and conscripting me to be a part of your nonsense. Now you’re stealing my keys and taking my money, too.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, save it for the stage. We’re on in”—Tyler checked his phone—”twenty-five minutes. You’re not going to get a ticket. It’s fine. Let’s go inside, people are staring at us.”

Martin nearly screamed. “Now you’re worried about other people? That’s what it takes?”

“I guess it is. I’m sorry, is that what you want to hear? If you get a ticket, I’ll pay for it, okay? Happy now?” Tyler started for the door, a costume chicken head tucked under each arm.

“No,” Martin said to his back, “I’m not. And you absolutely will pay the ticket. And once you have, I’m going to kill you.”

Tyler turned around and threw Martin’s chicken head at him. “I’m looking forward to it. Now get inside.”

Before either of them could reach the handle of the double black doors, the right side was thrust open, nearly knocking Martin over. The stage manager stared daggers at them and shoved her watch under Tyler’s nose. Sensing she was about to ask if they had any idea what time it was, Tyler shoved her wrist out of his face and began to apologize, “Yes, Sarah, I know. Sorry we’re late—”

“—I didn’t want to come,” Martin finished instinctively. He was instantly annoyed with himself for having made a joke and for proving Tyler right that they were a pretty good double-act. Before she could turn her timetable-fueled fury onto him, the lights dimmed to half brightness and the audience applauded as the director of the charity stepped on stage for the standard “thank you for supporting our important work” speech. Sarah stalked back to her podium, clearly wanting to stomp but too professional to make any noise, and shoved her headset on, glowering at Martin all the while.

“Don’t mind her,” Tyler whispered at his elbow. “She’s just mad because we’re half an hour late, and you dumped her three years ago.”

“Shut up,” Martin hissed. Tyler had not mentioned that Sarah was working this show: of course he hadn’t. Martin moved closer to the opening in the drape that masked the wing, hoping the proximity to the stage would discourage Tyler from talking to him until it was their turn in the program.

No such luck. Tyler was undeterred. “I’m just kidding, man, she’s not still mad about that.”

Martin struggled to keep his voice at a whisper. “I know she’s not.”

“Oh, that’s right, it was the other way around, wasn’t it? She dumped you, didn’t she?”
Martin clenched his teeth. “Yes, she did. Is this why you dragged me here? Is this some misguided attempt to get us back together?”

“What? No, dude, nobody wants that. You two were terrible together. Honestly, I totally forgot that was her until just now.” Tyler put a wing-clad arm around Martin’s shoulders. “No, my friend, this is my misguided attempt to get you to do literally anything that isn’t work, even if it is only for an hour on a Saturday morning. I am doing you a favor.”

Martin shrugged Tyler’s arm off of him. “By forcing me to do you a favor. Your selflessness knows no bounds.”

He stood in the best approximation of stony silence that any man could muster while dressed as a chicken before turning back to Tyler and whispering, “You know, just because there was nothing on my calendar, that doesn’t mean I don’t have things to do today.”

Tyler gave a dismissive snort. “Sure.”

“Seriously, I have projects I was planning to get ahead on today. I know that’s a hard concept for you to understand since you’ve never had a real job.”

“I think you’ll find anything you’re paid to do is technically a real job. Just relax, Martin, would ya? Your boss is not going to be impressed because you work on Saturdays. He won’t know about it because he doesn’t work on Saturdays.”

“And I’m sure you think he’d be real impressed if he knew I was doing this instead.”

“C’mon, man, it’s for charity.”

“So you keep saying.” Martin paused, realizing he was missing some crucial information. “What charity is this for, anyway?”

Tyler’s voice took on a suspiciously innocent tone. “Didn’t I say? They’re called Read Together. They promote literacy and give books to underprivileged kids. Someone told me it was the school board’s pet charity.”

Miraculously well-timed applause masked the inhuman sound that came out of Martin’s mouth. “I know what they do! My boss is the chairman of the school board. The man who assesses my work and assigns my projects and has the power to make my life a living hell! The man you claim doesn’t notice me! Don’t you dare shush me. You know I think he hates me, and you drag me into this? What were you thinking?”
Tyler was infuriatingly calm. “That this is your chance to make a good impression by participating in something that is important to him.”

“And you think this will make a good impression? Doing this inane chicken sketch and making a fool of myself in front of him?”

“And his wife and kids.”

“WHAT?”

“It’s a family event. Why do you think it’s at 10:30 on a Saturday?” More applause. Tyler put on a ridiculous grin, followed by his chicken head. “That’s our cue. Let’s do this.”

Martin didn’t move. He ran through every option he could think of. There was no way he could win this.

Tyler grabbed him by the arm. They were one unit of yellow feathers now. “Dude, it’ll be so much worse if you don’t do it now. Trust me, you’ll thank me later. Now put your head on and let’s make some illiterate children laugh.”

Martin put his head on. “The children aren’t illiterate.”

“That’s the spirit,” Tyler said as he nearly dragged Martin onto the stage.

Martin’s next seven minutes were an angry blur, but there are few things funnier than an angry man dressed as a chicken, so Tyler’s stupid chicken sketch was a rousing success. Tyler was right, he was good at this—they were good at this, together—which only infuriated him more. He couldn’t help but notice that the adults laughed at the first joke, but it went right over the kids’ heads. The next gag was a bit of slapstick, Tyler pretended to trip him and Martin made it a real comedy pratfall, if he hadn’t been dressed as a chicken he would’ve added a somersault. Slightly annoyed that he had a good idea and slightly more annoyed that he couldn’t try it, Martin sprang to his feet, listening to the eruption of laughter from the kids. He waited for it to die off slightly before winding up to fake-punch Tyler in the jaw. This is where the sketch got its name, “Chick(en) Fight.” Stupid? Of course. Did he have a better idea last night? Nope. Was this a moot point because the programs had been printed three days ago? You bet.

He fell into the rhythm of performing as if he had never given it up. Wait for the laugh, say the next line. The next joke has two parts: ride the laugh like a wave, when it starts to die down, hit them with the punchline. The bit after that is only funny if it happens quickly, keep up the momentum and don’t flub the lines. Still, it’s not all about the jokes; push for your objective to make the scene believable. What was his objective? Oh, right. Get off the stage. It’s too late to avoid looking foolish in front of his boss and all these other people who were, for all he knew, also pillars of the community, but at least he could make it go quickly. Which would make this stupid sketch funnier. Which, again, slightly annoyed him.

At last, they reach the final bit. Tyler delivered the last punchline (“Wait a second, we were already on the other side of the road!”) to the delight of young and old audience members alike. They took a bow, the lights went out, they ran offstage. Martin’s complete escape would have to wait, however. They had to stay backstage for the rest of the show; opening the door would cause light bleed, or so claimed a very satisfied Sarah. Maybe she was still mad. At least it was dark back there.

After what felt like an endless seventy-two minutes later, they were allowed to leave. Martin exploded out the stage door and onto the sidewalk and nearly tripped over a child. A girl, about six or seven. “Are you the chicken man?” she asked, staring up at him with enormous brown eyes.

Heroically, Martin said, “Yes, I am,” instead of something sarcastic.

“You were really funny.” Her eyes really were enormous.

“Thanks, I’m glad you liked it.” He wasn’t made of stone.

A man came up next to her and took her hand. Martin looked up. It was her father. His boss. “Martin, right?”

“Yes, sir, hello, sir.”

“Funny stuff, we should’ve saved you for the end of the program. That first joke really killed me.”

“Thank you, sir. I wrote that, sir.”

“Did you, now? Great stuff, very funny. Good of you to be a part of this. I like to see my people giving back.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

“Well, see you Monday.”

“Monday, sir.”

Martin walked to his car and unlocked it, barely noticing what he was doing. Tyler’s voice brought him back to earth. “I told you you’d thank me later.”

Martin pulled a parking ticket off his windshield. “You owe me a hundred and fifty dollars.”