I asked the chicken-dancing man once again if he was alright, and once again, he was unable to produce a straight answer. So I asked him a different question: “Excuse me sir, have you been drinking?” This question triggered a round of wild arm-flailing reminiscent of a marionette having a spasm. He answered with a word one wouldn’t expect from a tattooed sports car driver wearing all black and chains. “No, I haven’t been drinking!” he insisted. “I’m just . . . FLUSTERED!”
Once out of his car, Chicken-Dancing Man was running all around my yard while running his mouth with his disjointed story. Apparently, he was trying to get to L.A., he left his cell phone on his girlfriend’s dresser (no doubt right next to his map of California and his crack pipe), and he swerved to avoid a rabbit.
He began following me around closely, begging me to use my phone. I told him to sit down on a piece of lawn furniture while I went to get a phone.
He lit on the chair for a split second, more like a hummingbird than a chicken. By the time I had turned my back, he was up and running through what used to be my fence, across the street to my neighbor’s house.
As I walked inside my house, the phone was ringing. It was my neighbor asking if I was o.k. and letting me know that she had just called the police on the chicken dancer and was sending her husband over to help. I let her know that I was fine, but that the chicken dancer was now at her front door. I could hear him all the way from where I was, telling the same story about the rabbit, the phone, the drive to L.A.
I dialed the sheriff myself, just to make sure that there they were on the way, and then I picked up my camera and walked back outside.
Chicken Dancer was on the phone to his father, supposedly.
At this point, he was beginning to realize that his predicament was only going to get worse by sticking around, so he hung up the phone and danced over to the sideways Miata. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I knew he wasn’t going anywhere, my neighbors knew he wasn’t going anywhere, but Chicken Dancer seemed to think that if he revved his engine hard enough, his tires would magically reconnect with the ground and he would be on his speedy way again.
It was just about this time the first sheriff pulled up.
He sauntered over to the man in the slanted car and spoke to him for a few minutes while the neighbors and I stood across the street making bets on what kind of drugs were coursing through Chicken Dancer’s system.
Soon, another sheriff arrived, followed closely by a fire engine.
When two more sheriffs showed up, I suddenly felt a twinge of guilt that I had no doughnuts to offer. Then the EMT vehicle pulled in and unloaded their gurney. They wheeled over to the Chicken Dancer, who was being quietly interrogated by a large group of various uniformed men.
By the time the CHP showed up, Chicken Dancer was having his person searched. It was clear he would not be driving to L.A., or home, or anywhere that day.