The Flaming Chicken and other Tales Read online

aloud—he thought his comment very original and clever. Bubba called a greeting as Edgar’s mail truck pulled around, parking in front of the office.

  “Howdy, boys!” Edgar called cheerfully as he entered. He shook Freddy’s hand and sat in one of the other chairs. “So what’s cooking?”

  “Same as usual…working hard.” They all laughed at this. “Got time for a cold one?” asked Freddy.

  Edgar took the offered beverage and they sat quietly for a while, each sipping reflectively. At last, Edgar spoke. “Are you fellahs going to the big concert tonight?”

  Freddy and Bubba professed they had not heard the news. Edgar told them of the jazz concert to be held that evening at one of Asheville’s public theaters. Of course he did not remember who any of the performers were—jazz was of no interest to him. As Freddy and Edgar discussed the music on the radio, Bubba returned to the duties to the service bays.

  He soon returned, near breathless with excitement. “Oh my lord,” Bubba panted. “I don’t believe it! It couldn’t be him…stopping here?!” He ran to the window and pointed.

  The other two had already noticed the large, lemon yellow Cadillac pulling up to the pumps. A well-dressed young man emerged from the auto.

  Bubba stopped dancing around the office, forcing himself to stand still. “It’s Mel Torme!”

  “Who?” asked Freddy and Edgar in unison. They looked at each other quizzically as the man approached the office.

  “Mel Torme! The famous jazz singer! Haven’t you heard of the King of Scat?!” Bubba looked from Freddy to Edgar, expecting some reaction. He got none.

  “He’s a scrap singer?” asked Edgar in surprise. “What the heck is that? Does he sing for his supper?”

  Freddy looked away in disgust. “Sounds like nonsense to me.”

  Bubba frantically shushed them as Mel entered the room.

  “Howdy, gentleman. You folks staying cool today?” The newcomer nodded to Freddy and Edgar while shaking Bubba’s outstretched hand.

  “Mister Torme! I still can’t believe it! This is an honor, sir!” Bubba’s smile was so wide, Freddy wondered if the man’s head might split open. “Are you singing at the Ashville concert?”

  “Matter of fact, I am. You fellows going? I have a few free tickets left...”

  “That’s kind of you, sir,” said Freddy, standing and clasping Bubba’s shoulder. “But we need to work late and finish up some of the paperwork.”

  While Bubba serviced the Cadillac, Mel sat talking with the others. He refused Freddy’s offer of a beer and settled for a soda from the machine outside.

  “Bubba tells us you’re a scrap singer,” said Edgar. “Just what kind of singing is that anyway? Don’t reckon I’ve heard any before.”

  “Scat singing,” corrected Mel, good-naturedly. “It’s a form of jazz where the vocalists improvises with the band.”

  Both Freddy and Edgar admitted this was something new to them. They listened as Mel sang a few lines from a currently popular song, then continued with a dozen bars of improvisation. Edgar turned to Freddy. “What that some kind of foreign language?”

  Mel laughed. Freddy secured fresh supplies.

  Freddy was about to ask Mr. Torme if he really got paid for singing like that when Bubba returned to the office. Presented with the bill, Mel paid and left a twenty-dollar tip. He shook hands all around and turned to leave. At the door he stopped and asked if there was someplace nearby where he could get food both fast and delicious.

  “That would be Sadie’s Diner, just down the road,” instructed Freddy in an authoritative voice. “Nobody whips up a meal like Sadie.”

  “But…” said Bubba.

  “Now Bubba,” said Freddy sternly. “Let’s not argue about restaurants of all things! Go to Sadie’s, Mr. Torme. I promise you a meal you won’t forget!”

  “But…” again said Bubba. However, it was too late, Mel was gone. After the Cadillac disappeared from view, Bubba returned to his chair, slowly sipping his beer. After long moments, he turned to his companion. “Why did you sent him to Sadie’s, Freddy? You know good and well she’s the worst cook in the county…only her kin eat there!”

  Freddy chuckled. “Anyone who sings for scraps and drives a yellow Cadillac deserves a good cause of heartburn! Should liven up the show tonight!”

  Freddy and Edgar laughed over that one for almost a week.

  Two: Patches the Dog

  It was a cold day in January and Freddy and Bubba were still recovering from the Christmas holidays, celebrated less than three weeks before. In the wake of their pickup, the dirt road churned to reddish hued dust clouds. The boys had been down to Ashville, picking up some repair parts for The Refrigerator, and were returning home by the back trails that wound through hilly farmland and thick woods.

  Their families had a fairly good Christmas—the wives made decent money taking in wash and working in one of the nearby mills. At eight years of age, Bubba’s daughter was still young enough to receive every toy and present with a child’s boundless enthusiasm and excited joy. However, she was one of those unfortunate children having the bad luck to be born within a month of December 25th.

  Bubba and his wife worked hard at not letting Cindy’s birthday seem less important just because it was so close to the holiday season. Each year they tried to save one special gift for their daughter’s party. It was mere days away and so far, neither Bubba nor his wife had been able to decide what to provide as a special gift. Bubba was now beginning to worry—they were running out of time.

  Freddy belched loudly as he handed his empty beer can to Bubba, who seemed lost in thought. “I’m dry,” said Freddy. “See if there’s any more in the cooler.”

  Bubba slipped the can through a slit in the clear, thick plastic sheet that served as the rear window of the pickup. The can clattered onto the truck’s bed and came to rest amongst the various other items that perpetually resided there. He lifted the lid of the small cooler on the floor between his feet—it was empty. At this report, Freddy immediately began to scan the road’s shoulder for someplace to stop and re-stock the cooler from the large ice chest in the back. Freddy did not like going anywhere without sufficient supplies.

  Bubba did not consider the stop an inconvenience. Both men agreed that their present system was far superior to their earlier methods. The first time they traveled to Ashville for parts, Freddy had begun to tremble uncontrollably less than a mile from the station. Bubba remembered that Freddy, through pale lips, had voiced the source of his anxiety, “We forgot the supplies!”

  Returning to the shop, they confronted a new problem—they lacked a container to carry the brews. Freddy suggested putting the commercial soda cooler in the back of the pickup. But, Bubba pointed out it would take too long to unload the sodas, not to mention the fact it was probably too big for the truck.

  In the end, they loaded The Refrigerator itself into the truck and headed down the road. The disadvantage was soon obvious—they had to stop too often, and The Refrigerator tended to slide around. On the third trip, a state trooper ticketed Freddy for driving with an unsecured load. Freddy argued it was not his fault The Refrigerator had slid out of the truck and onto the damn state highway. The office stood watching as Freddy and Bubba used a rope to lash the load securely. After that, every time they needed a refill, they had to stop, untie the box, and then retie it before continuing. It got real old, real fast.

  Bubba suggested an answer to their problems. A trip to a local second-hand appliance store yielded a small electric refrigerator, which they bolted to the bed of the truck. The unit’s door latched shut, so there was no problem there. Next they mounted a portable gasoline generator to supply power for the small refrigerator.

  On their next trip, the same trooper ticketed Freddy for violation of the local noise ordinance—Bubba had not yet found a muffler for the gas generator. The next trip, sans generator, there was no ticket…but the trooper did confiscate their beer.

  Since it was obvious they could
not carry supplies while using the trooper’s roads, Freddy and Bubba made the obvious decision—they would stop using the trooper’s roads. A trip for parts, once taking a couple of hours, now became a seven-hour adventure across the back roads of rural North Carolina. They abandoned the small refrigerator and replaced it with a plain, metal picnic style ice chest. The icing on the cake had been Bubba’s revelation that if they also carried a small cooler in the cab, they could drive for as long as forty-five minutes between stops for restocking.

  Now was such a time. Freddy slowed the truck, steering it to a smooth, compacted clearing at the road’s edge in front of a wood-frame home. Bubba knew the neighborhood; they had used this route on other trips. The homes in this area were owned by a group of families from the Catawba Indian tribe from South Carolina. The young men of the tribe brought their families northward because jobs were plentiful in the surrounding rock quarries. Thanks to the good wages, their life style was on a par with most of the other residents in the community. When children were present, they smiled and waved…Bubba always smiled and waved in return. But school was back in session and the yards were still and quiet. Freddy parked. Both men climbed out and stretched.

  “I’m stumped,” said Bubba, unfastening the chest’s lid. “I just can’t think of anything Cindy needs that she doesn’t already have!”

  “Didn’t she give you any idea of what she wants?” asked Freddy, passing Bubba the church key. “Must be something she mentioned. A doll? A dress?”

  “Well…she did say she would love to have her own pony. But that’s out of the question. We don’t have the room, and she doesn’t realize the trouble them things can be. I told her it wasn’t likely…and I’m still stumped.”

  “Look Bubba, if she wants something to take care of, there’s lots of animals smaller than a horse. For instance—how about a dog?”

  A dog! Bubba was surprised he had not thought of that. Truth was, Cindy had asked for a dog several months before. At that time, Bubba and his wife managed to dissuade their daughter by telling her how much work a pet could be. But when considering the care of a dog as compared to that of a horse, Bubba admitted the former was less involved than the latter.

  “Freddy, that’s a great idea! When we get back to the shop, let’s knock off early and go down to the pound…there’s sure to be a small dog there. Shouldn’t cost more than a couple of dollars to adopt—“

  “You don’t want no mutt from the pound,” said Freddy, reaching for another beer. “Them dogs are usually old and mean. They’re there ‘cause nobody wants them anymore—rejects is what they are! What you need is a dog that has been raised by a family…one that likes children and has gotten beyond the furniture chewing stage.”

  This confused Bubba for a moment until he figured out that Freddy was referring to the dog—not the family. Although Bubba’s family had never owned a dog, Freddy had several. So Bubba figured Freddy must know what he was talking about. “Ain’t much time left,” Bubba replied. “Where am I going to find a good dog in time for the party?”

  “How about right here?” asked Freddy, pointing behind his friend. Bubba turned and realized they were not alone—just beyond the truck a dog sat by the road’s edge. It calmly watched Bubba and Freddy, its tongue dangling as it panted and drooled. The dog had wandered over to see what was going on.

  “Now that’s a good dog,” said Freddy with an air of authority. “Didn’t even bark…bet it likes children, too!”

  Bubba knelt and extended his hand. “Hey there, boy! Come here, fellah.” The animal advanced, tail wagging, allowing Bubba to pet and stroke him. “Good boy! Right friendly critter!”

  “That’s what you need,” said Freddy.