The Curious Case of the Talking Chicken
One mile east of my home is a family restaurant named Bobby's Hideaway Cafe. It's the sort of place you can find both bikers and grandmothers depending on the time of day. In the mornings the red vinyl booths are filled with the geriatric patrol, eating pancakes and cinnamon French toast and scrambled eggs while a couple dozen migrant workers wait outside, hoping to be picked up for landscaping work. At night, the manager turns on strings of chilli-pepper lights and the neon MGD sign. Tejano music and the Harley crowd fill the joint, and the crowd often spills into the ceramic garden fixture store lot next door.
Decent food, decent portions, decent price, nothing fancy - that's Bobby's. If you're driving down El Camino Real, you can't miss it. Sitting atop the whitewashed wooden building, like an ornament on a breakfast lady's hat, is a huge painted chicken with a rakish farmer's hat and an impish grin. He's so big you could ride him like a bloated pony. I don't know why he sits and watches like a poultry gargoyle. Bobby's isn't known for their chicken dishes.
I dropped off a couple Avon Campaign 11 brochures in the women's room during the lull between breakfast and lunch. I didn't ask permission. The bathrooms are situated next to the entry foyer, and it's easy to sneak in and out without being seen. I pulled a few samples out of my kilt pocket and stuffed them in the books. No one saw me but the watchful eyes of Bobby Chicken.
Last night I got an anoymous voice mail, a man's voice, deep, with a Latino accent.
"Hey Lady! Lady with the fat ass! This is the Big Chicken! Don't leave your advertising in our restroom or I call the cops!"
That kilt might be handy, but it ain't doing my butt any favors!
4:11:25 PM 
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