The freedom of a chicken suit

I am part of a very select group of people. I have worn various rubber / furry / hot stinky and sweaty rental suits for a good cause. I have been Daffy the Daffodil in support of the Canadian Cancer Society at a family fun day. I frightened the life out of the small children and invited abuse from the older ones. I went to a primary school as Monty, one of two Newfoundland dog mascots for the City of Mount Pearl. I forget what we were there for, I had so much fun. I signed autographs and gave out hugs, and watched Pearl's back when she was doing the same so the rotten little b@st@rds trying to kick us or steal our head wouldn't get the chance. Ahh, the good old days. That was back in the high school years. Last summer, I had the chance to do it all over again.

It was almost time for the big paint sale of the year. We had a staff meeting over lunch in the manager's office to brainstorm ideas to bring in customers. Having a primarily industry and commercial customer base, we always did rather poorly with retail sales. Hot dogs... prize giveaways... hourly specials... coloring contests... we suggested it all. Someone suggested we get a Dora the Explorer suit and everyone laughed. I said, "Wait now, that could be a really good idea. It will definitely draw attention."

"Oh yeah? And who's gonna wear it, YOU?" More laughter.

"You're damn right I will!"

Silence. "You're kidding, right?"

Nope. Of course I was willing to take that one for the team again! To have that freedom once more? Sign me up! It could make the difference between a successful sale day and a flop. And I get to have fun all day and get paid for it, besides! Why not?

Sale day comes. The Costume arrived yesterday evening. One small speed bump in our plans. No Dora. She was waaay out of budget. We could afford ... a Chicken. Don't ask me what chickens have to do with paint, I couldn't tell you. At the time, we had a young man working with us. This was his first real job. His specialty happened to be holding up the counter while the rest of us worked until he was told to go do something in no uncertain terms. Before I got to work, he was unanimously voted to be the chicken suit test driver. He shuffled into the bathroom, suit fresh in its drycleaning bag under his arm. He didn't come out for twenty minutes. The others went to go check on him. Yes, he was alright, and no, he didn't feel quite like coming out just yet. So they gave him a minute, and he emerged in all his gaudy yellow glory. The place went up in fits of giggles. He stood there, shoulders slumped, half turned away, like a dog who has been beaten with rolled-up newspaper. He was cowering. They sent him outside with a decorated, empty paint can to generate excitement about our big sale. I arrive to work to discover a big yellow chicken standing dejectedly on the sidewalk in front of our store, his paint can dangling from one hand, almost hidden by his side.

Inside, the place is a ghost town. Not. One. Customer. My co-workers were slumped across the counter, in an odd reflection of Sad Chicken outside. "How's the big sale going so far guys?" I cheerfully ask. I get mostly blank, vaguely irritated stares.

"How does it look like its going?" One points out.

Ah. Not so well. It is only early, everyone's still eating breakfast yet. They'll show up. Five minutes later, chicken boy shuffles back inside. He pops off the mask with an exhausted "ugh". He can't do this anymore. Its awful.

Now, it is MY turn. I wait for him to change out of the suit and I get a coffee, I'm going to need it for today. I am ready.

On go the ridiculous red tights, the yellow, tufted, furry bodysuit, the fluffy chicken mitts. I stretch the rubber chicken feet over my shoes. Almost ready. I tuck the chicken head under my arm and proudly burst from the bathroom. Everyone turns to see the ridiculous chicken suit animated again. I accept the laughter. I turn to the kid, "Watch how it should be done," I instruct him. Then, pulling my rubber head on, I stride purposefully outside.

It takes a few minutes to get warmed up. I walk back and forth, pointing at my paint can and waving. Then, I get the urge to dance. Flapping my arms in "chicken wings", I high step around for a bit. I wiggle my behind. People start waving and honking from their cars, driving by. I hum a bit to myself, giving me a rhythm to move to. I can hear people walking down the sidewalk behind me chuckling. Soon, I'm doing every crazy dance move I can concieve of and people are definitely noticing. Men alone in their cars wave like fools with big grins on their faces. People waiting for the light to change try desperately to ignore me waving at them through their windshields, but as they drive away, they glance back with a smile. Oddly enough, the people who refuse to look, or wave, or smile, are the women driving alone. One family turn around just to drive past me again in their Volvo station wagon, everyone pressed to the glass on one side of the car, waving. I offer high fives to people walking down the street. And every time someone turns their vehicle into my parking lot, I pump both fists in the air and run around in celebration! I got one! Maybe they had planned this trip yesterday, maybe they have had the room plastered for weeks and just now get up to a husband or wife nagging that they get the damn thing finished and drove straight to the paint store to shut them up. But maybe, just MAYBE, they noticed me dancing in a yellow chicken suit in front of a big sale sign... and decided to come check it out.

After dancing flat out for three hours, I go inside for lunch. I peel off the mask. My hair is plastered to my head with sweat. I manage to get my arms and upper body out of the fun fur heat trap. Whew. Its a good exhausted. Business has picked up since I arrived, and the door opens and closes with foot traffic on a regular basis.

The real gem of the day, however, has yet to come. Next door, there is a dance studio. It looks to be a fairly successful spot, parents' vehicles overflowing into our parking to bring their little ones to learn flexibility and balance. I see a little girl pushing her father towards me, hiding behind his legs. I wave. She stops and hides for a second, then peeks around Dad towards me. I wave again. She breaks ino a shy smile and continues steering Dad in my direction. When they are about ten feet away, she stops and bawls out, "HI CHICKEN!" I wave again and start dancing in what I hope to be a non-threatening manner. She creeps forward, Dad urging her on. She walks up next to me and dances with me for a minute. I almost laugh out loud. She is copying my ridiculous movements. I stop and get a high five, a low five, and a thumbs up after little prompting. Dad calls out to her, it is time to go. I bend a little and hold out my arms, she hesitates, then barrels into me for a hug. She giggles a little and takes off running back to Dad, who has started walking towards the car. Halfway there, she shouts again. "WAIT!" I turn around, and she calls out to me. "CHICKEN!" Pause. "I LOVE YOU CHICKEN!" I can't help but break out into a big foolish grin. I blow her chicken kisses with my fluffy hand, and she waves the entire way into the car. She is still waving as they pull out of the parking lot. So am I.