The Chicken Incident

She had not been expecting a letter. Certainly not perched on top of a foil-wrapped plate of congealed barbecue chicken on her doorstep. This was by far his oddest declaration yet. Marci gingerly picked up the plain white loose leaf paper and began to read.

Dear Marcy,

I made you chicken. I like chicken. Especially barbecue chicken. It is my favorite. Is it your favorite? Maybe we can have chicken together. I can cook it for you. Do you like potato salad?

You are so pretty Marcy. I like your pretty blonde hair and all the pretty clothes you wear. You are so pretty. Do you have a boyfriend? Can I be your boyfriend?

We can have chicken every day. Ok bye.

Petey

Marci sighed and looked again at the plate of chicken on her kitchen table. Her neighbor, Poor Petey (that's what she called him) was a weird 40-year old man who lived upstairs with his mother in a one bedroom apartment.

His fixation with her had started three months ago when she moved into the tiny studio apartment. She was still cursing that she'd had to give up her beautiful two-bedroom condo in Lincoln Park to schlep down to this hovel in Wrigleyville. And in the middle of baseball season, no less. Every day she prayed she wouldn't come home to find some drunken baseball reveler peeing or blowing chunks against the side of her building. If only her live-boyfriend hadn't cheated on her with her best friend, forcing her to take his buyout.

Poor Petey. Six foot three, with sagging shoulders, muddy brown hair with an Alfalfa cow lick, high-water jeans and a perpetual runny nose. He'd seen her move the last of her boxes in; Marci smiled and said hello. And Poor Petey was in love. Poor Petey worked at a convenience store around the corner and once a week he left little trinkets for Marci on her door step; pens, post-its, packs of gum, candy, bottles of Diet coke. Twinkies of all things once. She always tried to return these convenience store offerings, but he always stammered and stuttered about how she should have nice things and insisted she keep them. Marci tried talking to Poor Petey's mother, but the woman had slammed the door in her face. And today - chicken. Marci re-read the letter and shook her head. Never mind that he spelled her name wrong, though she could forgive him for that. Marci with a "y" was more common. Poor Petey. And no she didn't like chicken, being a vegetarian and all.

Marci folded up the letter in one hand and picked up the plate of chicken with the other. She climbed the wooden stairs to Poor Petey's apartment. She balanced the plate on one hand and knocked on the door. It opened slowly and Poor Petey peered around it. Marci cleared her throat.

"Hi Petey. You left this chicken on my doorstep."

Poor Petey smiled. "You came to invite me to dinner didn't you," he said in his slow, Midwestern twang. "I knew you liked chicken."

"Well, Petey, this was very sweet. Really, but actually, I'm a vegetarian." Crickets. She tried again. "It means I don't eat meat."

Petey's bottom lip began to quiver. "You mean don't eat chicken?" he asked.

Marci shook her head slowly.

"No, I don't Petey. I'm so sorry." Marci extended the plate towards him. "Maybe you and your mom can have it for dinner tonight."

Poor Petey looked at the outstretched plate of chicken and his eyes filled with tears. His face turned crimson and he scowled.

"You're a mean, mean person!" You don't deserve my chicken!"

"Petey, I-"

Before Marci could get out the words, Petey's hand shot out from behind the door and flipped the plate up towards Marci's face. Luckily, the foil was still wrapped around the plate, so she didn't actually get any on her. However, the plate shattered when it hit the floor. Sauce splattered against the dingy white walls and chicken breasts, legs and thighs rolled down the stairs. Poor Petey slammed the door shut.

Marci stood in the hallway for a few moments, stunned. Finally, she shook her head and as she walked back to her apartment, collected bits and pieces of chicken, her hands slick with barbecue sauce. She tossed the chicken into the trash then got out the classifieds.

Marci moved two months later. Poor Petey never talked to Marci after that, nor did he leave her any gifts. In fact, every time he saw her after the chicken incident, he stuck his tongue out at Marci. A year later, the cute guy at Marci's gym invited her over for dinner and said he'd make his specialty, barbecue chicken.

Marci changed gyms the next day.