First Taste of Ice Cream

July 24, 2004

Things were moving too fast to define. It was a montage so neatly edited and cross-faded that he saw it all as one event. He had glazed over in all faculties. His first taste of ice cream became his first kiss and that became a car accident he had forgotten. They found his watch jammed in the back door of the station wagon. His shoulder blade had broken the seat back. He had clenched the shift lever so hard on impact that he had torn it from the bell housing. The details were all there. The smell of Garry Oak leaves burning. The feel of a live salmon in his hands. Icicles along his eyelids as he carved a J turn away from the net on an outdoor rink in a town with “Orange” in its name. The purple head of his first daughter appearing from the womb in the instant before she opened her mouth and cried. The images were speeding up now and beginning to appear in silhouette: eating a dog biscuit with the dog. The banana seat coming up to meet his nuts after clearing four nervous friends lying under the plywood jump, the most humid moment he’d ever felt as he walked out from the air conditioning of Narita airport and the smell of the small sandalwood box he kept his loose change in. It was funny that no experiences involving marijuana even showed up. Irony was not lost on him even in such dire circumstances.
He snapped back to the mortal plane and realized his circumstances were indeed dire. You took these types of jobs knowing they were demeaning but in no way dangerous. The Poncho’s Chicken people had not said anything other than, “it can get a little hot in the suit”. He figured he could handle a little sweat if it was just a four-hour call. He was told by the assistant regional promotions manager that under no circumstances was he to remove the giant chicken head in front of the kids. There had been a lawsuit last year involving a family who sued for psychological damages when their 5 year-old daughter watched Poncho the chicken take his head off for a smoke break. Every “Poncho” also had to sign a form that guaranteed they would never speak while wearing the costume. He had donned the suit in the administration office of the arena and hopped out into the concourse without much thought other than to his duties. Remain perky, keep on the move, cover the bleachers, mezzanine, outside the gates, work the concessions, use your unique physical talents whenever possible. It had gone pretty well by hour three. Becoming accustomed to his view through the red mesh screen in Poncho’s beak and the oversized padded feet that covered his street shoes he was able to pull off the odd cartwheel when open space presented itself. His love of children had waned in the first hour. If they did believe he was an enormous disproportioned chicken then things were OK. It was the slightly older kids who got in his face. Poking, prodding and cursing they tested the cushioning of the costume. “You stupid fuckin’ chicken”. “Hey Poncho are you a gay chicken?” In reality the foam and feathers that filled out the costume provide little or no protection. It hurt to bite his tongue the whole time.
The hockey game had been over for twenty-five minutes and he walked slowly back to the administration office across the cold polished concrete expanse of level 1. There was no peripheral vision so he wouldn’t have been able to see them hiding behind concrete pillars to his left and right. The first blow was a boot to the ass. He whirled and stared down a 12-year-old boy in Red Dragon skater garb. The boy’s legs were apart to steady him, his dukes were up, his smile was crooked and wide and a mischievous glint flashed through the fringe of bleached hair that fell from under the ball cap to skirt his eyes. All the boy would have seen was that giant red guileless smiling beak and huge happy oval eyes welcoming him to another shot. “How ‘bout a drumstick you shithead chicken?” the boy chirped. It was then that the mascot’s legs were pulled out from under him from behind. As his giant head hit the concrete he felt the weight on his back and struggled to turn over. Managing to twist face up he grabbed for his knees and tried to assume the fetal position he knew was necessary to survive a swarming. He could see smallish fists and arms and legs through the red mesh like so many flailing tree branches coming down to meet him all over. Somehow he was not a real person. The costume had made him a practice target for cartoon violence. Was the illusion created that he could survive any incident like Wil E. Coyote or Tom & Jerry? The mesh was ripped away in one deft motion and lightning struck his temple.
Things were moving too fast to define. It was a montage so neatly edited and cross-faded that he saw it all as one event. He had glazed over in all faculties. His first taste of ice cream became his first kiss and that became a car accident he had forgotten.