MEMOIR OF A CHICKEN GIRL MASCOT
This is my story. Years ago, I was an ill-fated mascot to my friends. A chicken, to be specific, but not in the figurative sense. I mean to say, in the literal chicken sense. Big suit, mammoth chicken-feet booties, and a beak that trapped the smoke of my cigarettes whenever I exhaled.
To say I was an ill-fated mascot doesn't necessarily mean I was bad luck to my friends. Although it did mean that for L, who ended up pulling her eyelashes out because of me. I happened to phone her one day while she was curling the lashes of her right eye with an eyelash curler. A useful tool yet dangerous if you neglect to release its grip. Which is what L did as she grabbed the phone. While her eyelashes grew back she never stopped applying mascara to her remaining, fully lashed-out eye. She looked like a surprised cat for months. Actually, she looked like one half of a surprised cat, one that was hairless.
So I'll explain why I was an ill-fated mascot but not a harbinger of ill fate. For one, the former description incorporates a well-placed hyphen. A modifier to the noun "mascot." Whereas "harbinger of ill fate" describes someone who could have been an incubator for mono, which is exactly what L could have claimed had she wanted to hide in her pink bedroom as her eyelashes grew back. Instead, she ventured out into the world with one full eye of mascara. I had little remorse over her choice, which is important to note, as this is my memoir.
It was I who dressed up like a chicken! And people liked having me around. I was the one who would walk around with a feather stuck in my nose and then act surprised when someone would point out that I had a feather stuck in my nose. Yes, people liked having me around. I acquired my chicken outfit one Halloween Eve from the costume shop of the local children's theatre. My penchant for attending parties in this suit earned me the moniker, Chicken Girl Mascot.
It was at these parties that I learned to walk backwards while inebriated. Large chicken claws could get tangled up in the plush carpeting of the Midwestern basements I frequented. I also learned to climb stairways heel first to avoid bending the toes of my claws into the unforgiving stairs. And while I say that I partied in a chicken suit and walked backwards in basements with plush carpeting: at one point I considered becoming something else. Something more. Basketball Hoop Girl Mascot. People could have tried their hand at dunking basketballs into the net constructed around my head - a lopsided angel's halo, constructed for dunking. Problemo: I knew the balls would hit my face, making a bloodied mess of the plush halls I frequented. So I endured the chicken suit, even in the hot summers.
