A Chicken in the Outhouse
by
Andy Wilkinson
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright 2011 by Andy Wilkinson
A Chicken in the Outhouse
Opp, Alabama, in 1937, was a boring place in the summer for a ten year old boy.
Opp was short for Opportunity, a sad contradiction for a town that never developed beyond a series of small farms and ranches. But it was fertile ground for a kid with imagination and time on his hands, and young Billy Stacy had an abundance of both.
This morning Billy caught a small chicken and carried it around the barnyard thinking of how it might provide a little entertainment. When an idea came to him he probably should have thought it over for a few minutes before proceeding. But foresight was not a natural attribute of Billy’s, so he went ahead with his plan.
“Shhuu, quiet little fellow,” Billy said to the half- grown chicken tucked under his arm. He looked both ways, careful not to be seen, and stepped into the family’s outhouse.
The outhouse pit was new. Billy’s dad and granddad dug it just two weeks earlier and dragged the little wooden structure over the fresh hole.
“Here you go, little guy,” Billy said, and dropped the chicken through one of the two holes in the seat. “Probly some bugs down there you can eat.” The bird squawked as it fell into the pit.
Billy left the outhouse, already bored again, and took up a new game in the barn. He found a chain and decided to make a sack swing suspended from one of the rafters. He could jump from the hay loft and sail right out the big door.
He had forgotten all about the chicken … until the next day when Grandpa made his routine morning trip to the outhouse.
Billy was an early riser and had gone out to play while waiting for his mother to make breakfast. He sat on a hay bale whittling on a stick.
“Good mornin, Billy,” Grandpa said and waved before entering the tiny wooden shack.
“Mornin, Grandpa,” Billy said, then remembered what he had done the previous afternoon. His breath caught in his throat and he jumped off the bale, ran into the barn and watched through a crack in the door. “Please be quiet little chicken,” he whispered.
In the process of taking care of business Grandpa produced a sound that frightened the chicken. The bird went crazy, flapping, squawking, thrashing around the pit, and finally crashed into Grandpa’s bare bottom hanging over the hole in the seat.
Billy watched in horror and listened to the commotion coming from the little cedar structure. What in the world was I thinking? He asked himself. He didn’t know, except it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Grandpa started yelling like a monster had risen from the earth and grabbed hold of him. Billy’s mom and dad ran to the screen door leading to the back yard to see what was causing such a fuss. They looked out just in time to see Grandpa fling the outhouse door open and bolt out trying to hold his overalls around his knees with his left hand while shaking his right fist at the barn. “Billy! I know it was you. Boy, what in the world’s wrong with you? Now get your butt out of that barn and come here right now!” Grandpa stumbled and fell face first onto the dusty yard, bare bottom pointing skyward. Mom had to cover her mouth to stifle a laugh.
“I’m gonna tan that boy’s hide good this time,” Billy’s dad said.
“Oh, Jake, don’t be too hard on him,” Mom said. “He’s bored, and ain’t got nobody to play with.”
Billy jumped on his mule, Sugar, headed off to the woods and stayed there till late afternoon. An hour before sunset he rode through the gate leading to the back yard to find his dad and Grandpa sitting on the back porch watching him. His dad was holding a rope.
“Dear God,” Billy whispered, “they’re gonna hang me.” But knew they would never do such a thing. He rode Sugar to the back porch and sat there without speaking.
His dad and Grandpa stood and his dad said, “OK, son, come with us.”
Billy’s heart sank into his small intestines and he managed a weak, “Yessir.”
His dad and Grandpa lead him to the outhouse and stopped. “All right, son, you put the chicken in there, and you’re gonna go in and get him out. Now raise your arms up.”
The boy did as he was told and his dad tied the rope around his chest and snugged it up under his arms. Grandpa opened the outhouse door and Bully could see he had a big grin on his face. Grandpa never smiled, much less grinned. Billy’s heart sank into his lower intestines.
Billy’s dad lifted him up by the rope then lowered him through one of the holes in the seat, down into the smelly six-foot deep pit, which had been used very little considering the lifespan of the crude facility, but had been used enough to make a mess of a ten year old boy who happened to go down in it. He lurched and grabbed at the chicken, but the bird did not wish to be caught. It flapped, jumped and slung muck all over its would-be captor. Billy finally managed to snag the chicken’s feet. “OK, I got him.” Billy yelled. “I’m sorry for what I did. I’ll never do it again. Now please get me out of here.”
Billy’s dad pulled him up and removed the rope. Grandpa -- still grinning -- handed the boy a bar of lye soap. “Get yourself cleaned up over at that water hose.” He pointed to the side of the barn. “Your ma’ll have supper in a little while.”
Twenty minutes later Billy walked through the back door in his underwear with a clean body and a fresh attitude.
“Hey, sweetie,” his mom said. She was drawing water from a hand pump at the sink. “You’re just in time for supper.”
“Good,” Billy said, with a smile, trying to sound cheerful. “Mmm … smells good, what are we havin?
“Fried chicken, with mashed potatoes and gravy.”
Billy’s smile went flat. “Oh … Umm … I’m really not hungry anymore. Think I’ll just go on up to bed.”