As he looked back on it with the help of his friends in the poolroom, Clyde could now see that his wife had been trying to tell him something for sometime. Like when she quit cooking for him. Or when she quit having sex with him. "You have to say it that way," said Raymond. "Cause you can’t be sure she wasn’t cooking and having sex with somebody else."

One of the others at the bar chimed in, "I had a wife one time that thought cook-ing and fuck-ing were two cities in main-land China."

Of course she had also accused him of being an alcoholic. Is there a wife in the world that hasn’t married an alcoholic? Looks like if they can all recognize the problem so well after they marry one of us, they would use a little of that woman’s intuition, and avoid the grief for both of us. I guess that’s a subject for another time.

Clyde had come home from work several months ago to find an almost empty house. She left a half bed, a three-legged table, his recliner, one lamp with a 60 watt bulb, and a 12 inch black and white television set that worked off of rabbit-ears. Everything else was gone. Since that time there had been lawyers, courts, judges, closing and losing arguments, and a divorce. Clyde got the house and its payment, his pickup, a half bed, a three-legged table, his recliner, a lamp with a now burned-out 60 watt bulb, and a 12 inch black and white television. There were no children needing child support so he saved that portion of his paycheck for the next 20 years. Thanks to the "pill" early on and to the lack of sex in later days.

He has become a master barbecue cook. That happens to men the world over with no stove and a hardy appetite. He has discovered 100 ways to cook hamburger on the grill. Not counting paydays when he can afford it before it is ground up.

While we were having a beer and learning about the finer points of barbecuing with charcoal vice gas or electricity the chicken lady came in. Chicken lady is not a name she is called to her face. It’s more a way of referring to her in the abstract. Like in "that girl was by here today."

"What girl?"

"You know. The chicken lady."

"Oh yeah, I know the one you mean."

She was a nice enough person. Certainly no one seemed to know anything bad about her. She was quiet, liked to challenge Raymond to a game of checkers or chess, and often beat him. She worked as an USDA inspector at the chicken plant. Her family seemed to be somewhere in Missouri and she lived by herself here during her workweek. She minded her own business and that was more than you could say for most of us. She must have had a good sense of humor because she took it well when Raymond made her famous by mischaracterizing a statement she made about the dead chickens. It is unknown now what she actually said, but Raymond’s version made a better story.

There was a wreck on the highway coming into town and it was loaded with chickens on their way to the processing plant. The truck turned over and chickens were everywhere. It would be incorrect to say they were running around, because the chickens these days are fed so many steroids so they will put on weight and shorten the time between egg and chicken sandwiches, that they are so puffed-up they can’t move, much less run. Anyway the plant people caught and returned to another truck as many as they could that were not plastered on the road. They were carried on to be turned into McNuggets. According to Raymond, the chicken lady was inspecting the line and she had the whole mess turned around and destroyed.

"When you see chickens that color coming down the line, you know they were dead before we killed ‘em." She said, according to Raymond. Pretty soon we stopped saying "according to Raymond" and it become her words. That’s how great stories and legends are born! Truth plays a very small part.

This day she sat quietly as always and did not necessarily appear to be listening to our conversation as Clyde updated us on the various and sundry virtues and tribulations of being single. Eventually everyone except Garrett the bartender, Clyde, and the chicken lady drifted on home. By closing time Clyde and the chicken lady were deep in conversation. Then she left, followed closely by Clyde.

By the time Clyde came in next afternoon, Garrett had brought the rest of the crew up to date on the previous night’s goings on. Clyde came in looking innocent. Some one had to break the ice and ask, "how was it?"

"How was what?" replies Clyde.

"The chicken lady," says someone.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," says Clyde.

"You trying to tell us you didn’t leave with her last night?" says another.

"We already heard about it from a reliable source." Says another.

"Motherfucker!" says Clyde, looking at Garrett.

"I just said what I saw," says Garrett.

"Well I don’t care what you think you saw. I ain’t done nothing with nobody."

The crew let it drop, but they remained unconvinced. Each knew what they would have done, or tried to do, and they couldn’t believe Clyde was all that different…especially considering his youth and horny state.

About thirty minutes the chicken lady came in. This was highly unusual. She might stop by once every month or two. But two days in a row! Something was definitely "up". Could it be Clyde?

She sat at the end of the bar with a couple of people between them. Fairly quickly the crew managed to move around so the two were sitting side-by-side. After a few minutes they moved over to the table alone. The rest of the crew’s conversation went on as normal…the weather, ball games, work, gossip about the ones not present. Clyde and the chicken lady left in the same order as the night before.

The next afternoon the early boys were figuring out a way to ring Clyde’s bell. While this is a good-natured group, they are also a cunning bunch of assholes. They can jump on sometimes the smallest of incidents and have it follow a guy for the rest of his life. One guy just came in one day with his hair messed up. Actually it was messed up really bad. Someone told him it looked like he rode a motorcycle to town backwards. Another said he just had "bad hair". He is still known the town over as Badhair. Another guy was called by his hometown-Samburg. Sometimes it was shortened to Sam, and some just called him Burg. Then one day one of the older guys misspoke and called him Sawmill. Suddenly he had a multitude of names. Samburg, Sawmill, Sandpaper, Shitpaper.

It always runs down hill. There’s no end once they start. Lots of them have nothing else to do except think up this stuff. Therefore they were zeroing in on Clyde and the chicken lady.

"Do you think he expects us to believe that shit about nothing going on between them? Asks one of the Smith boys.

It is necessary here to inject a few words about the Smiths. This was another Raymond started deal that had some origin in a story about a young kid, an older homosexual and a bus stop. The details aren’t that important, but as a result of this story, pretty soon there were a few calling Raymond, Mr. Smith. He then countered by giving them names associated with their jobs, talents, or appearance. Now we had E. W. Smith, an employee of E. W. James, a local grocery; Professor Smith, a retired know-it-all; Fireman Smith, self explanatory: Lawyer Smith: Meat-cutter Smith; Old man Smith; and Gene Autry Smith. G. A. Smith got his because he mentioned one day that about three weeks previously his wife had told him, "if you go back to drinking, I’m leaving."

He did and she did. About four weeks after leaving she appeared in the pool room one afternoon and was very friendly. The first words to him were, "how’s it going Gene Autry Smith?"

"What the hell you talking about?" asked G. A.

"You know what Gene Autry’s theme song was?"

"Hell no," says a G. A. Smith, who must be younger than he looks.

One of the others, probably Old Man Smith, leans over and while nodding toward the wife, started singing, " Back in the saddle again."

Up until now Clyde had been more or less Bricklayer Smith. Someone suggests Chicken Smith.

Another says, "what about KFC Smith?"

"How about Colonel Chicken Smith?"

"Yeah, or Chicken Colonel Smith?"

"What about Mr. Chicken?" says Gene Autry Smith.

So with all that it became Clyde’s turn in the barrel. When he came in for his beer, he was greeted by several of the names. He continued to say, "you guys can think what you want, but ain’t nothing going on between us."

Clyde was a good sport about it although he wishes it would go away. He sort of liked the attention when G. A. Smith brought in a box of hard-boiled eggs, painted with little faces and a sign saying "Clyde’s children".

Clyde is still barbecuing, but more chicken than hamburger. Now the chicken lady is living at Clyde’s. They say "rooming". And maybe it’s true. Doesn’t make as good a story…then again, maybe it does.