I lost my new, favorite rubber chicken somewhere between the longest covered bridge in Slovakia and the local Hungarian community festival. To those who have never had a warm place in their heart for an inanimate object, this may seem like no great loss.
I had another rubber chicken waiting for me at home in Chico, but there were 11 days of travel ahead and no chicken to share it with.
The lessons, of course, include being careful with possessions while traveling and learning that good things can come and go.
My days with a rubber chicken go back decades. I carry him discreetly, almost always in my purse, but more recently in a cloth bag sewn by my mother. I do not wave him about like a flag at a patriotic holiday. I save him for photo-perfect moments. He comes out, camera snaps, then he returns to obscurity. The pics are posted on his Facebook page, Heather’s rubber chicken.
One reason I loved my recently-lost chicken is that he was pliable and could easily fold into my purse or pocket or even under my armpit.
Certainly I’m not embarrassed to carry a rubber chicken, because if I was, I would not. On the other hand, there’s no use making a big show. If the staff at the security checkpoints smile when he passes through the X-ray machine, that’s fun. But I’m not looking for drama.
This is not the first chicken to be lost or replaced. About 25 years ago a chicken was kidnapped by some friends who thought it would be hilarious to take him home. They boasted of debauchery and pictures that would make a rubber chicken cringe. I knew the chicken needed to be gifted to the friends, discarded or carefully sanitized.
Later there was a chicken made of two separate parts, fused together. He became the mascot for our bowling team. (In addition to the mascot, my friend Peggy and I wore plastic tiaras with battery operated, flashing bulbs). Invariably, a beer-buzzed teammate waved the chicken a bit too jubilantly and the head popped off. My friend Burt Click reattached the head and wrapped the neck in gauze, which was hilarious for a while … but most gags don’t last.
Most recently, my friend Immaculate of Kenya fell in love with another loved-and-lost chicken, and wooed him to another continent. She sent pictures of him strapped into an empty seat during her airplane flight to Africa. Soon she sent me photos of her entire class of schoolchildren, the chicken at the center of her crowd. I may be compelled to travel to Kenya to claim that wayward bird.
In the meantime, my mother tried to order a replacement online. Mom knows me well, but does not know my taste in chickens. The object that arrived was “wrong chicken.”
Most of you have seen “wrong chicken.” It has a gaping mouth and makes noise.
The wrong chicken is cause for the loss of countless hours by seemingly intelligent people who manipulate the rubber windpipe to mimic popular songs. Many friends have sent me videos of these chickens in action, including a hilarious chorus of chickens singing “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
I can’t travel with a chicken that squawks. Also, I know with certainty that wrong chicken won’t make it through a state senate security checkpoint.
I have a favorite ice cream flavor and I prefer a certain “type” of chicken. He should be one piece, silent and have a calm expression. My chicken should say “I’m here,” but without the need to wear a plastic bikini or an expression that will scare children in the dark.
My mom and I ordered three chickens before “Mr. Right” arrived. He could fold in half and fit in my purse. He’s full-sized, one piece and simply looks comfortable in his own skin.
Off we went to Central Europe. The chicken blended in with the graffiti on the Lennon Wall in Prague. We listened to angry punk music at Spilberk Castle, posed with a statue of a cherub made of latex gloves. My friend Katerina and her daughter traipsed across the grounds of the Lichtenstein Lednice-Valltice (a fancy house owned by rich people), with the chicken in tow. Then suddenly, the fun was over.
My last glimpse of the chicken included his feet hanging out of the side of my canvas messenger bag. Zuzana and I walked through about a mile of festival booths in Slovakia, admiring row-after-row of sizzling pork products, roasted nuts and things made from honey. At one point I felt inspired to take a photo, probably with the backdrop of the band singing heartfelt ABBA songs in Hungarian — and soon noticed the chicken was gone.
You can’t file a missing rubber chicken report and my attempts to find a store that sold the gag gift were in vain. Over the course of the remaining 11 days of travel, there were many times I muttered “I miss my rubber chicken.”
The good news is that I had a replacement chicken waiting for me at home. No, he’s not Mr. Right, sometimes you need to live with Mr. Right Now.
