Chananya Weissman
Chicken Sisters
Mr. Bartholomew N. Grisley stared across the busy intersection, his stomach growling seemingly above the din of the rushing traffic. Two neon signs flashed seductively at him, their glowing letters reaching for him with crackling electronic pulses. Bartholomew felt saliva welling up in his mouth and shuffled his feet, anxious for the lights to turn red or for some break in the flow of automobiles to occur.
“Where are all these people going, anyway?” he muttered ruefully. A shaft of daylight finally appeared between the comers and goers, and Bart scurried across the intersection, one hand atop his brown hat and his lighter brown jacket flapping behind him. A fresh volley of traffic sealed off the passage as if it had never existed, but Bart had made it.
This temporary excitement had buried his appetite; it returned presently, draining the strength from him like a sieve. His eyes seemed to sink deep into his skull, forehead pulsating, legs swaying. Hunger did not overtake Bart Grisley in gradual stages; it pounced on him like a monstrous leech.
Fortunately, Bart usually managed to sense it coming before total collapse would occur. This afforded him a window of no more than ten or fifteen minutes, but Bart arranged his lifestyle accordingly. Some people are plagued with nosebleeds, he reasoned, or allergies, or blisters. His personal nemesis was a sudden, vaguely predictable hunger, and he had learned to live with it just as anyone else would.
He stood outside two restaurants; they appeared to him as two sisters he loved equally but could not themselves get along. He faced the one on the left, ogling the neon sign like a moth. “Loony Al’s Chicken House”, proclaimed the bright red letters. Bart felt the words flow into his mind, conjuring up recollections of past delights. Yes, Loony Al’s Chicken House, this was where he needed to be.
Something tugged at his consciousness, wrenching his glance to the right. “Wacky Macky’s Roastery”, accused the hot yellow letters, burning his soul in several places. Bart tried to look away, but the crackling and fizzling of the neon sign would not leave him alone.
I ate there yesterday, thought Bart, fighting through a mental haze. And the day before as well. Today I’m in the mood for some variety. I have a right.
With that he marched a few paces to the left and placed a trembling hand on the door to Loony Al’s Chicken House. He steeled himself to swing it open, but was stopped by a ringing at his waist. It was his message box. Bart sighed in defeat and released his grip on the door, unclasping the accursed box from his belt and switching it on.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Grisley,” piped an electronic voice. “Sorry to disturb you, but what, might I ask, are you doing?”
“I . . . I . . . I’m getting something to eat.” He felt like Porky Pig.
“No doubt you are, Mr. Grisley,” said the voice, sounding for all the world like a child prodigy spelling things out to a dullard, enjoying the sound of his own impatience. “Nevertheless, it seems you have suffered a momentary lapse, Mr. Grisley.”
“Mr. Grisley, Mr. Grisley, why do you have to end every sentence like that?” he muttered irritably.
“Perhaps you desire to use their payphone, Mr. Grisley? Under the terms of your agreement that would be acceptable.”
“No, I don’t need to call anyone.”
“Then perhaps you intend to use their rest facilities?”
“No--”
The voice ignored him, dripping with pleasure with the circularity of its attack. “Because if that were the case, my client would be willing to look the other way, despite the technical breach of your mutual understanding.”
“No, damn you!” A passing well-dressed woman gave him a disapproving look, and Bart held the message box close to his mouth, hunching down and seething as he spoke. “I just wanted to get a piece of chicken. Is that such a big deal to you and your lousy client?”
“Mr. Grisley,” crowed the voice, “I must say I’m rather surprised by your behavior. Allow me to remind you, though I’m sure you need no reminders, that your patronage is expected next door at Wacky Macky’s Roastery until January 31 of next year.”
“I’ve eaten there every day this week,” roared Bart. “I’m entitled to try something else now and then.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Grisley, you are most certainly not entitled to exclude Wacky Macky from your culinary rotation as per the terms set forth in your contractual agreement.”
A sullen expression consumed Bart’s features and he stood between the two stores helplessly.
“According to our database, you have purchased meals at Loony Al’s Chicken House on four separate occasions during your term, and have incurred a penalty of fifty-two dollars and seventy-four cents due to these and other infractions.”
“What about the exemptions?” pleaded Bart. He knew.
“Your exemptions were expended within the first two weeks of your agreement. I would suggest, if you feel you must transgress the agreement, that you patronize something other than a chicken establishment. Perhaps I could suggest a fish restaurant, or Chinese, Mr. Grisley, one that has something other than chicken on its menu.”
“You don’t want me to do that, do you?” said Bart testily. “You want me to eat chicken, don’t you? I know your game.”
“I’m only trying to help,” said the voice plaintively.
“You know how you could help me? You could--”
“Perhaps you’d like to buy out your contract, Mr. Grisley? It might be a more prudent alternative to your current situation.”
“Yeah, prudent. That’s the largest penalty of all! Breaking the contract! You little mechanical swine. I bet you aren’t even a machine, I bet you’re some nasal-voiced sadist speaking into a fan.”
The voice at the other end of the message box dutifully ignored these remarks. “At your current rate of penalty incursion, it would be highly advisable for you to terminate the agreement at once.”
Bartholamew N. Grisley looked in the window of Loony Al’s Chicken House. “It’s the nineteenth of the month,” he said quietly. “It would be a real shame to lose the stipend.”
The message box seemed to vibrate with laughter. He really needed something to eat already; this was getting serious. “Your monthly stipend of twenty-two dollars and forty-one cents hardly factors into this decision, especially considering your propensity for . . . straying.”
Machines are not supposed to pause for effect, thought Bart.
“Let me get this straight,” he said, faking an air of control. “If I unequivocally terminate my contract right now, I’m going to lose all future payments from Wacky Macky and suffer an enormous cancellation fee.”
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Grisley. But, in a certain sense, you would actually be saving money. You could use those savings to purchase a much larger meal tonight. At any chicken establishment of your choice.”
Bart stewed in silence while his stomach cried like a child for the present it must have now! Loretta would not be happy; she’d encouraged him to sign the exclusivity contracts, hoping to put the extra income toward a down payment, or perhaps an occasional vacation. And there was nothing at all wrong with the food at Wacky Macky. He should know, he’d been eating there for the past six months. And drinking Coca-Cola. And wearing Brown Bomber suits Mondays and Wednesdays.
“All right!” he cried, drawing stares from passing motorists. “Do it, break the infernal thing.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Grisley? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“Very well. The necessary funds have been transferred from your account to the appropriate recipients. Wacky Macky’s Roastery thanks you for your patronage, and hopes to see you again--”
“All right, all right! That’s enough!” Bart switched off the message box and petulantly burst into Loony Al’s Chicken House. He gave the clerk a surly look, ordered a whole damn bucket, and ripped into the fried bird with a blazing fury.
Ten sweaty minutes later he stared at the considerable remains before him, contemplating the unthinkable. He devoured another wing, but immediately ceased his feeding once again, terribly shaken. He swallowed some excess saliva and pushed away the greasy bucket. There was no question about it.
He wanted a Wacky Macky.
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