COLONEL SANDERS COUNTRY
A Short Story by
A James Hindle
It was day four of Kelan Hart and Lenny Todd’s VW adventure from Alberta to Florida. Now, travelling through the Kentucky countryside on secondary roads provided an escape from the last four hours of highway hustle on the interstate. Being the only vehicle on the road provided an opportunity to soak in the scenery: the rolling hills and the smells of Kentucky farm country. It was invigorating and relaxing at the same time. The road was basic — narrow but paved and dotted with farms along its edge every mile or so.
Chickens and other farm creatures grazed freely on the road’s shoulder, pecking at the grasses, bugs, and grit, often wandering a considerable distance along the road from their farm home. Kelan frequently had to slow to a crawl to avoid hitting them as they darted across the front of the VW.
While musing over the chickens, Kelan had a thought. Lenny had been staring blankly out the side window. Kelan decided to break into Lenny’s daydream.
“Hey, Lenny, you still here?”
“Yeah! I’m awake . . . . . this is sure some super countryside, eh?”
“For sure!” Kelan responded. “Weathers good, too.”
Warm days hopefully meant warmer nights, and when you spend them sleeping in a car, warm weather is good.
“So, have you noticed the chickens on the road?” Kelan asked Lenny.
“Yeah! I noticed. It’s kind of hard to miss. There seem to be a lot of them,” he said. I wonder if the farmers lose many to road kill?”
“They seem to know when to scatter. But some seem a little slower than others.”
Kelan caught a look in Lenny’s eye as he glanced back at Kelan. He could read his conniving thoughts in Lenny’s look.
“Yeh!” Lenny quipped, then turned to look down the road as if he was looking for a flock.
“Gawd forbid if we actually, I mean accidentally, hit one.” A devil’s gleam crept into his eye. ” I must be getting hungry — getting close to dinner.”
“Yeah,” Lenny murmured to himself as if off in some thought.
A smile developed on their faces. It really wouldn’t be that difficult. All he needed to do was NOT slow down when the chicken crossed the road. The chances of hitting a chicken seemed pretty good, and the farmer probably wouldn’t even miss one chicken . . . at least until they were long gone. They just had to be out of view from the farm.
“What do you think? You want to give it a try?” Kelan quipped.
Lenny smiled and nodded approval. With that, their devilish plan was afoot. Kentucky ‘roasted’ chicken was on the menu. Pangs of hunger grew.
For the next few miles, after passing each farmyard, they kept a lookout for the right opportunity. Hitting one could present more problems than it was worth if they were to be caught.
The VW rolled past a small farm. The road curved to the right and then proceeded down into a lightly forested gully. At the bottom of the hill, the road curved left, crossing a wooden bridge, and then continued up the other side of the ravine.
Near the bottom of the hill, just before the bridge, a small flock of chickens had gathered. The dozen chickens pecked away at the road’s offerings, entirely out of view of the farmyard. It was the opportunity the two would-be chicken-killers had been searching for.
Kelan put the accelerator to the floor, and the VW picked up speed. He gave a smirky glance at Lenny.
“Are you ready?”
“Unlocked and loaded,” Lenny replied, both hands on the door, ready to fling it open to increase the killing potential of their maneuvers.
The VW bore down on the feeding chickens. Seeing the cars approach, the chickens quickly began to scatter. The VW sped through the kerfuffle of flying feathers and clucking, leaping hens. Lenny flung his door open as best he could against the wind, and the vehicle sailed through the melee.
As the car swerved to the left to cross the bridge, Lenny’s door suddenly snapped wide open, the inertia throwing him out of the car. He clung to the open door and window frame with both hands. His feet had managed to hook around the bottom of his car seat and under the dash, but he was barely staying in the car.
Kelan reached across, grabbing Lenny’s pants with his right hand, leaving only his left hand to cling to the steering wheel as the car slid sideways onto the bridge. Even for a VW, having been on a downhill run, it had picked up considerable speed. Kelan’s fingers struggled to keep a grip on the steering wheel, desperately trying to bring the car under control and across the bridge while he reached across the car to keep Lenny from flying out. The forces of cornering pulled hard on Lenny. Kelan could feel his grip on his buddy’s pants slipping, and he was losing his grip on the steering wheel. The VW skidded, partially sideways, across the old wooden bridge, and then, like meeting a wall, it hit the dry pavement on the other side. The car jolted hard to the left, throwing Lenny back into the car and Kelan back into the driver’s seat. Lenny’s door followed him, slamming shut.
Kelan let go of the pant leg and grabbed the wheel with both hands to bring the car under control. But now he had another problem.
“Could you take your foot off the gas pedal, Lenny?” he shouted.
Literally thrown back into the car, Lenny’s leg had crossed to the driver’s side of the vehicle and was pressing the gas pedal to the floor.
‘Thank God it is only a Volkswagen,’ Kelan thought.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, pulling himself back into an upright position and bringing his feet to his side.
Kelan pulled over to the shoulder and stopped.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No problem,” Lenny said as if nothing had happened. “Did we get one?”
Kelan was in disbelief. He couldn’t believe Lenny’s nonchalance.
“No problem?” he said. “No problem? We came close to totalling ourselves there, not to mention you nearly flew out of the car.
Wow! All’s well that ends well, I guess.”
“I didn’t have time to see if we hit anything,” Kelan said. “I was a little busy. I suppose we better check it out.”
They got out of the car and walked back down to the bridge to check for dead chickens. They were all gathering back on the road across the bridge as if nothing had happened. As they approached, the chickens milled around them as if it were feeding time. The boys probably could have killed and taken one right there with no problem. But killing a chicken by ‘accident’ didn’t seem as bad as stealing one. The strange thing was, there wasn’t a single dead or injured chicken anywhere.
“I don’t believe it,” Lenny said. “I was sure there’d be at least one.”
They walked back up the hill to the car, their hopes of fresh chicken for supper dashed, and their enthusiasm to gain a roadkill gone. But it wouldn’t be long before they would stop for the night and come up with something for a meal.
Kelan found a local station on the radio, and they travelled with only the sounds of the radio and the breeze blowing through the windows.
Not long after the bridge incident, the duo was stopped by a small herd of cattle meandering across the road. They waited patiently, entertained by the ritual of the rural life unfolding before them.
Following behind the cattle was a farmer, his dog, and several chickens: the chickens stopping periodically to run in circles, pecking at the ground and then scurrying to catch up, as if fearful of being left behind. None seemed concerned that their slow progress was hindering traffic — well, one vehicle, anyway. At the front of the procession was a large bull that, Kelan mused, was probably leading a better sex life than either he or Lenny ever had, if its following harem of cows was any sign. Wherever they were going, they appeared in no hurry to arrive.
As the man crossed the road behind his animals, he glanced at the VW, slightly raising his forearm in a gesture of ‘Thank You’. As he waved his thank-you, his eyes glanced at the Alberta license plate on the front of our car. ‘Who are these strangers—in this little car—in my county— and on my road?’ Lenny quietly muttered, just loud enough for Kelan to hear. Kelan smiled.
It had been an amusing respite for them. But soon, the procession had crossed, and the road was open to travel once more.
“He had pet chickens,” Lenny said. “I wonder if he has chicken dinner very often.”
They both had a little laugh.
“I must be hungry,” Lenny said. “Those chickens got me thinking of roasted chicken again. Maybe we should pick up some Kentucky Fried for supper. It should be good here. Being Kentucky and all? Fried chicken? Isn’t this Colonel Sanders’ country?” Lenny grinned.
They were coming up to the main highway.
“Figure out where we are, if you can. Let’s start looking for somewhere to camp.”
A few miles travel on the highway, and they pulled into a small Texaco Gas-n-Grocery to fuel up and inquire about local campsites. A guy with the name Hicks sewed onto the front of his coveralls, looking like he hadn’t shaved or changed his clothes for a couple of weeks, serviced the car. Kelan followed Hicks into the station to pay with the credit card and pick up a few snacks while Lenny stretched his legs. As he was signing the credit card receipt, Kelan asked if he knew of a campground nearby. As Hicks explained directions to a campsite he knew of, Kelan noticed an almost nervous, questioning look on the man’s face.
“Something bothering you?” Kelan asked.
In a slow, hillbilly dialect, Hicks responded, “Well, I was jus’ wondering why y’all got a dead chicken stuck there, on your bumper?”
Kelan stared blankly at Hicks. “Dead chicken?”
“Yeah! You gots a chicken stuck there on your front bumper. Seems like a funny place to have a chicken. You trying to wind-cook it or somthin’?” He gave a snorting sort of laugh and showed the missing tooth in his mouth, along with a couple black ones.
Kelan gave him a weak smile and went to check the front of the car. Stuck between the bumper pad and the car body was a dead chicken, looking a little wind-beaten.
Lenny noticed Kelan standing at the front of the car with a strange expression on his face, and he came around the car. After a brief contemplation of the wedged-in chicken, he looked at his buddy, and they both laughed.
“Guess we might have roasted Kentucky chicken after all,” Lenny said.
“Wow! That’s unreal. I’ll get us something to carry it in,” Kelan said and headed back inside to see if Hicks had a bag.
Their plan had worked. Although they almost lost Lenny out the door, a chicken dinner was in the bag—well, on the bumper, but soon to be in the bag.
‘Guess that farmer crossing the road with his cattle had probably been checking out the chicken stuck in our bumper, more than our licence plate.’ Kelan thought.
“Hey, Hicks! It looks like our chicken is about done. Would you have a bag we could keep it in until dinner?”
“Here!” He handed Kelan an empty flour sack. “Y’all can have this. No charge.”
“Never seen any chicken cooked like that before. Gonna have to try that,” he said with a quizzical expression on his face.
Kelan nodded and thanked him for the free bag and his help in finding a campsite. But as he turned to leave, he noticed a large jug of wine on the shelf. He did not know what the legal drinking age was in Kentucky, but their wine was gone, so he decided to go for it.
“I’ll take one of these,” he said, grabbing a jug as if it was his usual brand. Then he picked a shaker of salt and pepper from another shelf, hoping it would distract Hicks if he thought he should be concerned about his age.
“That’ll be $1.75,”
“Good deal,” Kelan said, and quickly paid him with cash.
As he was going out the door, jug in hand and spices in the other, Hicks called out.
“I’m supposed to ask y’all for some identification, on account of, you looks pretty young to be purchasing that there wine. Y’all gots somethin’ I can look at?”
“Yeah, it’s in the car. I’ll be right back,” and Kelan headed out to the car.
He handed Lenny the bag, who stuffed the chicken dinner-to-be into it. While he did that, Kelan explained about Hicks wanting to see some age ID to prove I was old enough to purchase wine. They brushed a few feathers off the bumper. Lenny got in the car while Kelan feigned checking through clothing in the backseat, looking for a wallet that wasn’t there. Then he got behind the wheel, started the engine, and they drove away. Kelan checked the rearview: there was no Hicks at the door looking after them. With any luck, he had forgotten about his request for ID.
Just to be safe, they searched out a different campground than the one Hicks had suggested and started the evening ritual . . . but with a twist — roasted chicken. Kelan fashioned a couple of skewers for the chicken, gathered some firewood and built a fire while Lenny gutted, plucked and prepared the bird.
The fire-roast chicken and Kraft macaroni and cheese were delicious, all washed down with a not-bad red wine. It wasn’t Kernal Saunders’ famous recipe, but it was everything the two had wanted.
The sun had nearly set; it was time to relax. Pulling the table nearer the fire, they slid into sipping wine and rehashing the day.
A County Sheriff’s car slowly cruised through the grounds, stopping as he got to their site. Lenny strummed his guitar and poked at the fire with a stick. They both paused and waved a friendly ‘Hello’ toward the sheriff. He gave a hand wave back and drove off.
‘No chicken stealers here.’