“A chicken suit, huh?” I ask. It sounds more like I’m mocking her. Maybe I am.
“Yeah, you like it?” she spins in a circle and looks at me with that stupid quirky grin of hers. If anything about her is going to make an impression on you (besides her tendency to be absolutely bat shit crazy in every aspect) is the quirky grin she manages to muster up at all times.
“Yeah it’s, uh, it’s nice, but why?”
“The mascot for the Camden chickens got into a bit of a dilemma with a school system”
“And by that you mean he was caught doing drugs or something?”
“Specifically methamphetamine. The gym teacher caught him “shooting up” behind the bleachers after school” she shivered in her seat. The subject of drugs seemed to make her uneasy, to say the least.
“So, is it safe to guess you’ve never “shot up” anything”
“Me? Taking drugs? You can’t be serious. Do you have any idea what the effects of drugs abuse are?”
“No, but I bet you’re gonna tell me”
And she did. From the international statistics of marijuana--94 million people--to the effects of misusing Ritalin--the official poor man’s cocaine. With her vast knowledge of narcotics and their effects on the human body, I’m surprised that she hasn’t tried one at least once. This is Timberlyn were talking about, though. The girls probably the secret 8th wonder of the world.
“Have you taken any drugs?” she points the finger at me.
“I experimented a little in college” I admit.
“With what?”
“Just some prescription stuff. It was cheap and we wanted to have a good time. It fulfilled it's purpose”
Chicken suit girl then goes into another frantic explanation on how I have no regard for my body and more importantly, do I have any idea how I’ve shortened my life span? I don’t care for counting my days like the crazy chick does, I just want to enjoy my life as it comes. Not that it’s particularly engaging at the moment. I’m just hoping for the best.
The bus trudges up to the bus stop. The thing looks as if it could fall apart at any moment. The ear bleeding screeching noise is definitely indicator that it’s in desperate need for new brakes. One by one everyone lines up to board the possible death vehicle. I can’t help notice how everyone looks so tired and miserable. Shit, that’ll be me in a couple years. How long do I really have left before I am one of them. How do I escape this vicious cycle I’m drowning in? The line to board the bus gets shorter and shorter and I begin to feel like my chances to escape are dwindling with it.
Run. That seems completely justified. If I run away from the cycle, it can’t engulf me as it’s done to these people. I break into a full on sprint and don’t look back despite the girl in the chicken suit’s desperate calls.
Why does she care so much? My existential crisis doesn’t concern her. I don’t even know her name.
Running is much more difficult than I thought. I slow to a stop and try to catch my breath.
“You sound like you’re dying” she followed me. She ran 8 blocks in a chicken suit to follow me. What’s wrong with her? “You should really run more. You seem a bit out of shape”
“Thanks. Why did you follow me?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to be alone. That’s my apartment” she points to a quaint little apartment with a lavender mailbox out front with “Timberlyn” painted on it.
“So that’s your name, Timberlyn?” it’s unusual, but what about her isn’t unusual. This may be the least unusual thing about her.
“Well, at heart. My name is actually Delilah, but my parents, however, did not name me after that girl in the Bible who cut the hippie guy’s hair off, thus resulting in him to not be able to Hulk-out. Speaking of haircuts, have you had one in the last 6 months? It’s so long and feminine. Not that it’s bad to have long feminine hair. My cousin had long feminine hair before he cut it- his name is Lou, as in Louis, not Louise. Sometimes, we call him Louise as a joke. He’s doesn’t care for it much. Although I do love Lou, his relevance right now is incoherent, so back to a more rounded conversation. I won’t cut your hair. That Bible Delilah was a real stale bag of Cheetos…” she trailed on and on while playing with the feathers on her suit. How did I end up here, in front of a girl’s house, who seems to be so out there? That part was an accident.
I guess she began to feel the lack of engagement in the conversation on my side, so she continued back to where she was as if not to leave the air empty and awkward. “I don’t go by Delilah, obviously. I’ve known my true name is Timberlyn since, well, birth; but sometimes I feel like an Aerie. On days I feel my existential crisis is intensifying- and how can I not, considering I only have approximately 53 years left to live, according to the average life expectancy in America- I feel like a Nadia. It is absolutely crucial you only call me Nadia on these days.
I smiled, and nodded slowly. She was a complete stranger, who I’ve only spoken with once, and now she felt comfortable enough to speak her entire reasoning of what she goes by to me. Flattered was a small feeling I had, but absolutely distraught was another.
“I’m Harry”
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Authors Note: We really can't get our formatting in check, sorry. We hope this chapter was easier to get through than the last one. Leaving a comment might let us know.
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wink
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