I have a special affection for my local chicken shop. Drunk and alone once again, I will find my way there. It may be half past eight, a quarter to three, or midnight on the dot. The exact time does not matter. What matters is my presence in the space itself.
I will normally pass a cluster of men, seven or eight in number, grease-lined, the fresh steam of ale rising from their forms. Will they be my friends or rivals - it is difficult to assess from a distance. So most often, I will move closer, pause and reflect on their idiosyncrasies, perhaps engaging them in a friendly debate on which of their party would make the most effective Secretary of State for Education.
I choose not to do so tonight. For it is late. And I must have my chicken without further delay.
I reach the front and greet the chicken man before me. He is human, I know. But all I see is a poultry packager, a fowl ferryman, a conduit between me and the sizzling fat. And I upturn my eyes to the fluorescent boards, scanning them and murmuring softly to myself.
This is all an elaborate ruse. For I know my order. He knows I know my order. I know that he knows that I know my order. But we must play this game. For I am not yet willing to admit that I am a man who frequents the local chicken shop on a twice weekly basis.
Mm, I mumble, bucket.
The chicken man waits.
Ughhhh, fillets.
The chicken man nods.
Oooo, drumsticks.
The chicken man sighs and looks about him.
This is my cue.
Um, yes, hm. I speak up confidently.
A Shame-Inducing Trough for one, please, Sir.
This is my go-to order. And I know from my vast experience that it will satisfy every last one of my drunken desires.
He nods briskly and gets to work. He taps at the rectangular screen before him and the printer whirrs into life. And he passes me my golden ticket, with a freshly-printed number 092 upon it. It is already shining with grease.
I look up eagerly at the screen.
“Preparing” it says.
And further down, the number 92.
I can barely contain my excitement.
There sit above my number a few other numbers, numbers like 87, and 84, others before me in the queue. This is by the by, run of the mill, an expected assortment of earlier digits. But looking further, at the top of the screen, high and lofty above all the others, sits the number 1.
This troubles me. Is there a backlog of 91 poultry orders that I will be forced to sit through before I enjoy the delight of my own pile? This will not do!
Sir! I tap him the chicken man on the shoulder.
How long will it be, please?
Oh, not long.
Bu the number 1 - and I point upwards at the screen.
Oh, that. He laughs. That number 1 has been preparing for years.
And he gestures through to the back of the kitchen where a team of people in long white coats is gathered around a huge mass sitting sizzling in a vat.
What! I’ve never noticed them before. I say.
Yes, few do. He looks mysteriously into the distance.
Who is it for? I ask.
It’s for him. And he points to a man who stands quietly by the wall. He resembles a sage or a prophet, with waist length hair and a beard that runs even further. He is dressed in a humble tunic and appears to be humming quietly to himself.
But - I ask anxiously - are we to wait until he is served before we receive our own succulent meals?
No, no. His is a unique order. It does not affect the mess and the churn of everyone else.
Ah. I exhale.
But now I am interested. Perhaps his order is better than mine.
What is he having?
Go and ask him yourself, the chicken man turns away, clucking and tutting and busying himself amidst the lubricated surfaces.
I wander over to the man, drunk on the promise of my own chicken feast and this soon-to-be-had interaction.
Good day, I say.
Is it? He responds not unamicably. It looks like night to me.
He seems quite enigmatic.
You seem quite enigmatic! I scream.
He nods, quite enigmatically.
I hope you don’t mind me asking. How long have you been waiting?
He coughs gently. Seventeen years, he says.
Pah, yes, good one mate - I’m sure it feels like it. And I jostle with him now in a highly masculine fashion. I make to tickle him and he bats me away gently.
No, he says. It has been that long.
But why! I exclaim. Surely you can just order something else.
He chuckles softly. No, no. It is not quite as simple as that. I brought in my order myself. And it must be deep-fried and battered whole.
I pause.
What did you order?
He looks up again and smiles at me.
Do you really want to know?
Well, yes - I mean - I pause to look at the screen and see my order is still being prepared - I’ve got time.
Alright. He pauses grandly and clears his throat.
I ordered… the decayed dreams and hopes of the living.
What?
He coughs a little awkwardly and repeats: The decayed dreams and hopes of the living.
Decayed?
Yes, decayed.
What, decayed? Do you mean decayed or decade?
Decayed, I said, decayed, it’s quite clear.
What, do you mean decayed as if it has suffered from decay or a decade as in ten years.
Decayed like decay, obviously, the other one wouldn’t make sense. And the pronunciation is different - only intensely posh people pronounce them the same.
Well, you should speak more clearly, I sniff. And more importantly, what the fuck kind of a metaphor is that? How can you deep fry it? It’s impossible!
He chuckles softly once again. Oh no, it is not a metaphor. The decayed dreams and hope of…
The living, I interject, yes thanks - perhaps we could use an acronym to speed up this interaction.
Hm. He says. That might save some time.
Right, well - I pause to figure out the acronym in my head. DDAHOTL. Dahottle. Does that work for you.
Well, yes, it’ll do.
Anyway, these Dahottles, where did you get them from.
I have collected them over many decades. He sighs and looks upwards. Decades - as in multiple sets of ten years.
Yes, I was about to ask, I say. And anyway - I don’t believe you! You only look about fifty, I say. But - a small tip - the beard doesn’t do you any favours.
Thank you, he responds.
It wasn’t a compliment! I cry. And come on, this must be a metaphor, I say. I’m sure you’re making a very deep and important point. But what is this? A performance piece? A work of art? A political statement gone wrong? Tell me what they’re frying back there.
I can say no more. He says. I have told you.
I start scrabbling and scratching at the walls.
Where are the cameras! I yelp. This must be a prank. Are you in on it? Are you?
I point intently at a brace of drunks lazing at a table beside me. One hiccups, and the other stares hazily back at me.
This is no prank, the man says. I just want what I ordered.
Alright, I’ll indulge you, I say. If that is your actual order - which I do not accept - surely they must have some physical form. What does this abstraction look like in reality. How does it manifest.
Isn’t it obvious? He asks.
I wrinkle my nose. Perhaps, but not to me.
Well, I came here for a reason, he says. If they had manifested as chickpeas or lentils, I would have been able to cook them into a stew in an hour or so at home. So…
He measures his hand out to guide to me. But - I still do not follow.
He sighs.
They manifested as a gigantic chicken thigh.
Alright, I say. The decayed dreams and hope of the living take the form of a gigantic chicken thigh. Of course they do. But why do you have to waste everyone else’s time and get it fried here. Couldn’t you have prepared it at home with some lemon and sage.
No. My oven isn’t big enough. And it must be deep-fried.
I stand now, convinced I am having both a panic attack and a lucid dream.
But why! This is ridiculous. What the fuck are you even talking about. Why do you need it deep-fried? Why do you want to cook it? Do you plan to eat it!
Yes. It must be subsumed by a rising tide of grease and swallowed whole.
Who are you? Me from the future? Some modern version of Jesus, the Buddha, Mohammed?
He nods thoughtfully. And he gestures at the queue to all our kindred folk, those draped across tables and leaning against walls. As we look up, a man strides in purposefully and slips on the fatty floor. Humiliated, he crawls back out the door.
All we want is to be filled up, he says. Isn’t what you’re here for.
Yes. But mine is just matter. There is no meaning to what I consume. All I want is the fat and the salt and the heat in my belly.
He chuckles softly for the third and final time. No. There is more to your order than its physical weight. In fact, the chicken itself is secondary. You may appreciate this one day.
I begin to shake with fury at this convoluted and self-indulgent pretentiousness. But then a call interrupts my stupor.
92! The chicken man calls.
92!
92!
My number. My number!
My salvation has arrived.
I stand and shuffle greedily to the front where my Shame-Inducing Trough For One glints splendidly in the fluorescent white light.
I hoist the bucket onto my shoulder, and retreat.
Nourish yourself, says the bearded man.
I will, I say. And I sit down on a bench and devour the contents of my trough without a second thought.