BBQ Chicken

 

She’s pouring bottled water on her car, trying to clean the ash off? Her hair is wound up high on her head in a stupendous braided bun, her green robe dress sparkles in the hazy sunlight. But she’s frowning. It is hard to clean a car in the smoke-filled haze that has filled the sky for over a week now.

            “Good morning,” I call out to her, pulling my mask up and giving her wide berth, marching into the street in my half-moon crescent.

            “Morning,” she answers, dumping the rest of her bottled water on the windshield.

            “How ya doing?” I continue to engage, not sure why. Usually, I leave it at the casual greeting, but there was something alluring about her.

            “Oh, okay….” She sighs, glancing up at me. “How’s it going for you?”

            I am still walking past her, but wave up at the sky. “The smoke seems better today.” I observe.

            She beams, her smile lighting up her face, “It smells like BBQ chicken!” she exclaims, clearly happy about the pervasive smoky scent.

            I laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.” I march past her. “Have a good one.”

            Grinning, her eyes sparkle beneath her spiral hair do. “You too.”

And I walk on, thinking about her association of these horrendous fires with a happy thought of BBQ chicken. Unless you’re the chicken.

            I remember the times we used to grill chicken in my shared yard at 63^rd street in Oakland. Owen Hill would be in charge of the barbeque. I’d be inside monitoring the rice and making salad.  Friends would be hanging out drinking, laughing, chatting about poetry and art and movies and cats.

            It seems like such a long time ago now. And, well, I guess it is. But with Covid, such gatherings seem even more impossible. Like they are all just a dream. That they never happened. That they will never happen again.

            But I have to believe that they will, as I glance up at the sky, seeing chickens dancing in the clouds. They’re cackling and squawking and pecking at the hazy greyness.

            BBQ chicken in the sky? Stranger things have happened, right?

            As I turn the corner, continuing down my street, I see a youngish black masked man talking to my neighbor across the street from me. I wonder if he has anything to do with the Black Cat. Oh, this is a saga, but really has nothing to do with chickens. Though, I’m sure the Black Cat would delight in chasing chickens.

            But I digress. I stop and chat with masked man, who asks if I’m Carol. Am I the one who posted on NextDoor about the missing black cat.

            “Yup, that’s me. Is he yours?”

            “Yeah, he’s very friendly. He just likes to wander about to get pets.”

            “I know! He was super friendly when I was raking up leaves the other day!”

            “I always wanted a black cat,” he continues. “….because they are so friendly.”

            “Ummm….” I never knew that black cats had this reputation. I just associate them with Halloween and Ian’s cat, Huey, who was a Black Panther and while he was friendly to me, he wasn’t necessarily friendly to everyone.

            “Anyway,” Black Masked Man continues, “thanks for posting on Nextdoor. If you see him, can you give us a call? He didn’t come home last night.”

            “Sure, sure, of course,” I nod, thinking how cats are so out of our control. Why do I even like them? Everything is out of my control. My joblessness. The virus. Now, the wildfires.

            The world is going crazy.  

          

  I mention the children’s book, Six Dinner Sid, to Black Masked Man. How the cat in that story wandered around the neighborhood to 6 different houses and ate dinner six times, but then when he got sick, he had to go to the vet 6 times. This kept him home after that.

            Black Masked man chuckles. “No, I haven’t heard of that book. But sounds like Squiggy.”

            “Squiggy? That’s such a cute name!” I exclaim wondering what the hell it means and where it came from but see that the conversation is winding down.

            “Yeah,” he answers, starting to back away from me. “Thanks again for keeping an eye out for him.”

            “Sure, no problem,” I answer.

            Heading across the street a breeze comes up. BBQ chicken. She’s right. Maybe that’s what is luring Squiggy out of his home.

            Because what cat wouldn’t like to help themselves to BBQ?

            The time my DD cat stole the steak off the BBQ and ran with it over the fence comes to mind. My father chasing after her as she drops the steak, before jumping over the fence. He picks it up, dusts it off, and puts it back on the grill.

            BBQs! Cats! Family!

            It’s summer again and while there’s lots that wrong with the world right now, at least I have my neighbors to keep me engaged, offering me a sense of purpose beyond just worrying about what’s next.