Chickens On The Avenue

  I’m on Madison walking single file.

  There are so many people you have no choice. My least favorites are the ones on their phones either holding up the line or screeching in your ear as you attempt to pass them.

  I’m headed to my friend’s gourmet store who has a crisis.

  A lady on Fifth needs six Rotisserie Chickens she assumes he has. He doesn’t, but doesn’t want to lose her chickens, so to speak.

  So I’ve been summoned to sit in the car while he goes to buy them at another store. When I question their validity he says, “Hey, I smack my label on each one, and they’re my chickens.”

   It reminds me of the quote…

   He was the consummate politician; he didn’t lie, neither did he tell the truth.

   As a reward Pinocchio offers to buy me one. All you have to do is see them spinning on that heat-generated spit and you’ll never desire a drumstick again.

   But back to the holiday consumers consuming everything in sight. When we get back, a woman dripping in jewels is fighting with Juan the sandwich maker claiming his ham is too pricy.

   Juan who may trade in his 12 types of cheese to become a serial killer, decides it’s a fine time to take a coffee break leaving her screaming, “But what about my sandwich?”

   She then makes the error of complaining to Pinocchio who says matter-a-factly, “Our ham is flown in daily along with our chickens.”

   “From where?” she demands to know.

   He smiles with a little radicchio in his teeth.

  “We only serve the best. Just look at our label,” Pinocchio fibs, like all good politicians forgetting to floss.

  SB