Roasted Chicken (standard:travel stories, 1267 words)
Author: radiodenver	Added: Jul 23 2005	Views/Reads: 3181/2161	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
"...At her feet stood the yellow hound dog, scarred and bedraggled, his tongue hanging loosely across his slobbering jowl. In her hand she held a half plucked chicken..."

When I was a teenager in the early 1970's I used to tag along with my
older brother to what was then called "moto-cross" races. We had a 
Dodge van that had a converted interior with all the trappings of the 
day; the paneled interior, shag carpet, bed, eight-track stereo, the 
works. The cherry paint job, the shiny chrome mag wheels and side pipes 
were guaranteed to attract attention. I think they were referred too as 
"sin-dens" back in those days. It was one groovy van. 

We used this van on our trips to different parts of the region,
attending moto-cross races for the most part. One of these trips was to 
the small town of Seymour, Indiana. Seymour was a nondescript town in 
Southern Indiana, a farming region for the most part. The main roads in 
and out of town were simple two lane highways that wandered across 
lightly rolling hills. 

On this particular trip, my older brother, two of his friends and I were
jammed into the van, the interior of which smelled pungent of gasoline 
and two stroke engine oil and was filled with assorted mud spattered 
leathers and biking gear. We were pulling a trailer of dirt bikes and 
we were lost. We had never been to this particular race track before 
and of course none of us thought to look at a map prior to leaving. 
There we were in Southern Indiana, driving about the country side 
listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival on the eight-track tape 
player and lost as hell. After about 20 minutes of wandering the 
country roads near Seymour, we decided that perhaps we could find 
somebody or some place where we could stop and ask directions. 

Our wish came true. About this time, we were emerging from a small gully
in the road and proceeding up a hill. At the top of this hill, perhaps 
two hundred yards away, we spotted what appeared to be smoke coming 
from the vicinity of the road. Traveling further up the hill, we could 
tell, the smoke was definitely coming from the road. "A car crash 
perhaps?" That would be neat; guys love a good car crash. No, there 
were no vehicles to be seen. With each passing second, the picture was 
becoming clearer. There was a gathering of some sort in the road ahead 
of us, but the purpose was still unclear. 

As we approached the source of the smoke, we noticed what appeared to be
an automobile tire along the side of the road. This tire was on fire. 
Not a blazing fire, but more of a slow steady burn. Enough fire to 
create a long tall steady stream of black smoke into the air. At the 
side of the road were two people and a dog standing next to the burning 
tire. The scruffy yellow hound dog looked as if he actually caught the 
cars he chased and also looked as though it had rolled in dirt for six 
years. 

My brother, who was driving, deciding that these people were the ones to
ask for directions, rolled the driver side window down. Coasting the 
van to a crawl, we crept to the scene and took closer stock of the 
situation. Something was not right. It was not normal for people to be 
standing at the side of a road next to a burning tire. There must be 
more to it. 

A woman, older woman around 50 perhaps, it was hard to tell, her
weathered face so full of wrinkles, her matted and snarled grey hair 
hanging from beneath a ragged old hat, grinned as we approached. It was 
a poignant grin, a toothy grin, or should I observe, a tooth grin as 
she only had 3 or 4 teeth total, most of which were obscured in the 
sides of her gaping mouth. At her feet stood the yellow hound dog, 
scarred and bedraggled, his tongue hanging loosely across his 
slobbering jowl. In her hand she held a half plucked chicken. 

My brother and I must have simultaneously observed this curious site as
we turned to one another and dropped our jaws in amazement. With the 
van still creeping slowly toward the group, we also observed a man 
standing with the woman and dog. He was a grizzled old man wearing a 
grey jacket and baggy trousers. His hair was cut short and his face 
contained a week's growth of knurly whiskers. Amazed, my brother and I 
continued to gaze at this sight. Looking back and forth between 
ourselves and the couple along the roadside, we had no idea what we 
were observing. 

"Keep going. They may eat us or something." I told him, but in truth, I
wanted to linger on scene as long as possible to take this in. The guys 
in the back of the van were starting to giggle. 


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