MicroHorror

Mama always had a love for other people’s possessions. When she came over for a fried chicken dinner with Stanley and me September 10, 1945, we knew she’d want the best parts of the bird.

“Now, Stanley,” she said, “when you kill that chicken, leave a generous neck bone.”

“Sure will, Winnie,” said Stanley, grinning his best son-in-law smile.

Stanley Carlsen aimed to please. This time, however, his aim was off. Stan removed most of Andy’s head, which he placed in a jar. However, the brain stem, which controls a chicken’s reflexes, remained attached.

“Girls! Come on out here and take a look at this ol’ bird! There must be a blood clot or somethin’ or he’d be dead.” Stanley regarded the chicken, which was runnin’ around like a chicken with its head cut off. Mama and me, hearing the commotion, joined Stan in the yard, standin’ by the stump used for killin’ chickens. In the background: a bloody headless chicken, runnin’ from back yard to back yard, wings a-flappin’.

“What the hell is goin’ on, Stanley?”

“Mabel, I don’t rightly know what to tell you. I just know I ain’t gonna kill this particular rooster. I tried, but he’s got nine lives. It’s a wonder! I’m callin’ him Amazing Andy, the Wonder Chicken. I’ll kill us another chicken for dinner tonight.”

Stanley got me and Mama into the act, helpin’ feed Andy with an eye-dropper. We cleared his esophagus and gave him grain and water. I’d say Andy had an eye for the ladies, ‘cept he didn’t have no eyes. The ladies… chickens, I mean… liked him. He was in the hen house doin’ his thing ten times a day, which just proves that bein’ different don’t mean you can’t have a fulfillin’ life.

Word got around quick that we had a chicken with no head livin’ in our backyard in Boonesville, servicin’ hens and actin’ normal. (As normal as you can be with no head, that is.) Crowin’ early in the mornin’ was out. It’s hard to crow when your head’s sittin’ in a jar; Andy was never much of a crower, anyway.

Town reporter Gayle Begley from the Boonesville Times did a story on Andy. Stories in Time and Life headlined “Amazing Andy: The Wonder Chicken.”

We took out an insurance policy on Andy for $10,000 and hit the road. New York. Atlantic City. Los Angeles. People was willin’ to pay hard-earned money to see Andy. Times was tough and cash was scarce.

Mama said she’d like Andy to sleep in her room at night, “to make sure he’s all right.” This seemed kind of dumb, since it was because of Mama that Andy had no head in the first place. Me and Stan humored her; after all, she was helpin’ us keep the books.

The tour was lucrative, as headless chicken tours go.

It wasn’t until Chicago that we noticed money missin’.

“Mama,” I said, “do you know what happened to Amazin’ Andy’s money?” Mama didn’t answer. The look on her face said it all.

We started to watch Mama close, since she always had a love for other people’s possessions. Amazing Andy, the Wonder Chicken was our chicken, whether he had escaped bein’ her Sunday dinner or not, and Amazing Andy’s money was our money.

We was barely speakin’ by tour’s end. Thousands of dollars disappeared. Only a couple hundred dollars left when we got home to Boonesville.

One night, late, back home, I was sleepin’ when I heard a commotion. Shades of September 10th, I thought that Stan was killin’ another rooster. I heard the sound of the axe on the stump. I could see the blood flyin’, in my mind’s eye.

There was screamin’, though. Chickens don’t scream when you’re killin’ them. They just flap their wings and run around with blood flyin’ off their severed necks.

A chicken can live without its head. But a 210-pound woman?

Not a chance.