Chicken pot, chicken pot, chicken pot pie

I looked like the bored husband and my wife wasn’t even there. I had draped myself over the handle-end of a shopping cart and the only thing keeping me moving was the ever-so-slow rules of gravity. The more I leaned, the more the shopping cart went. I was trying really hard to not think about how southerners call shopping carts “buggies.” For some reason that really gets under my skin.

I was staring listlessly at the boneless, skinless chicken breasts when I thought I heard my name. I thought first of my lips. Pull them in, man! When you think, your lips fall open. You look like a yokel. Pull in your lips!

I reeled in my lips, made sure I wasn’t drooling, and focused harder on the chicken.

“That’s Mr. Willis,” the voice said. ‘Do you see him?”

This can’t be for real. I’m wearing a dirty t-shirt, a pair of busted-up sandals, and shorts that are three sizes too big for me. And I’m making eye-contact-love with chicken breasts. Go away, people.

I heard my name again. I had to turn.

The kid was hanging off the business end of his mom’s shopping cart. Her name turned out to be Helen.

The provocateur, however, was a girl I know. Business contact named Melinda. We talk sometimes. She was being funny. Pick on the TV guy. I was amused until I realized that I was still standing in front of the chicken and had no place to go and no excuse for my pooching lips. It was only chicken, after all.

“Whatcha doin?” she asked.

“Staring aimlessly at chicken.” Simple enough answer, but my mind is racing. I want to talk to the kid, make sure he’s on board with the plan.

“Did you get sent out for chicken?” She’s being coy now, I understand. Don’t fall for it. You’re a bigger man than that. So are your lips and nose.

“Got sent out for dog food. Decided I needed chicken. Chicken always confuses me.” I don’t know what that means, but it stalls long enough for me to get a good look at the kid. He’s gotta be around five, mop top, small hands that probably won’t be able to maintain a grip on the shopping cart for very long. Gotta work quick.

“Chicken can be confusing.” She’s playing along now. I think she may be on board, or at the very least, getting bored. “This is Helen.”

I probably could’ve guessed the name in three tries. Melinda saved me the effort.

“Helen…Brad” I shook her hand. She smiled nicely. No doubt, she’s the Mop Top’s mom. She’s taller than Melinda, but not so tall as to frighten me. Her cart isn’t too full yet.

All of sudden, it’s either talk more about the chicken or get down to work with the kid.

I babbled about chicken for a few more sentences. I think I said something about preferring the breast to the thigh and how I could go with the bone or boneless. I obviously wasn’t making much sense because I sensed Melinda was starting to get nervous. She couldn’t see where I was going with this one. She never has been able to get a really good feel for me and my rambling.

I wanted to break for it, but I had to give it a try. Talking was out of the question. I had babbled enough and my lips obviously weren’t cooperating with me. I had to get to the kid another way. I tried telepathy.

“Alright kid, here’s the deal: Your mom–Helen over here–is going to try to convince you that thing you’re hanging off of is called a buggy. It’s not. Don’t fall for it. Buggies get dragged behind horses. People push shopping carts. Got that?”

I sensed a slight moment of recognition. I tried to confirm it with a simple greeting.

“So, you…how you doing?”

The kid stopped hanging on to the cart long enough to give me a casual, “Goooooood.”

“Good, glad to hear that,” I said and threw two packages of chicken in my cart with the dog food.

There’s no really good way to break from a conversation like that. I decided to stick with the theme.

“Now I just have to figure out what to do with it,” I said as I pushed my cart away. Melinda looked at me cautiously. I think she wanted to respond, but what do you say to that? I think I scared her.

I really didn’t know what to do with the chicken, so I spent the next ten minutes pushing the light-load cart around the store, trying to figure out if I was losing it or if I had just had an entire conversation about how confusing chicken can be. Nevermind the Mop Top telepathy.

Before I knew it, Melinda, Mop Top, and Mama Helen were all through the check-out counter and I was alone with my chicken. I bought two packages of biscuits, a couple of bags of frozen vegetables, and came home.

Chicken Pot Pie for dinner. Homemade. I guess I knew what to do with it after all.

Now if I could just work on my telepathy, lip pooching, and general disdain for the word “buggy,” I might be all set.

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