They blew up the Chicken Man
… and other fantasies, humorous or otherwise
I was thinking about the Chicken man yesterday.
“Who is the Chicken man?” you’re probably asking yourself.
Well, let me tell you about the Chicken man.
The Chicken man was a staple of my life for many years. When I was 19 years old and freshly graduated, I got my drivers license. I drove a 1992 red Acura Integra that was handed down to me like an old T-shirt. With holes and a torn collar. It didn’t run. And I put the money I earned to get her road-ready.
It was a great car. And I used it to get into many hijinks for the next couple of years.
I cruised around Dorchester, MA in that car. I picked up older brother from Mr. Tux in that car. The Red Barrot (or Baron). It was a fast car.
During my times cruising in or around Dot Ave, I would see a man with dreads dancing his ass off at different intersections of the city. At first it was on the corner of Gallivan Blvd. and Dorchester Ave. There he was: with dreads, in a 3 piece suit, in the middle of the summer, moving every limb and gyrating like a full-blown maniac.
I laughed to myself the first time I saw him. It was absurd. But then I’d see him on Washington St. I’d catch him on Blue Hill Ave. I’d see him near Upham’s Corner. I’d say that I saw him on average of once a month for the next few years. It was frequent. And every time I’d see him, I’d yell in the car to myself “The Chicken Man!”
And this is what he was called. But I don’t know the origin of the name or how I learned the name. Sometimes he would literally flap his elbows up and down like he were imitating a chicken. But why wasn’t he known as “the rooster,” “the duck,” “or King Chicken?”
Somehow, the name came to me, like it did many others who lived anywhere near the intersections he haunted.
My thoughts were limited: “what an odd man.” “Strange that he’s always doing this.” ‘What’s his deal?”
I never got answers. All I ever got were more opportunities to witness the Chicken man boogie at intersections around Dorchester, Mattapan, or Roxbury - almost always wearing a 3-piece suit and a funky-looking fedora.
Many years later, long after the Red Barrot, after my short-lived summer with a shitty Saturn, a Malibu I bought at an auction and totaled, and after my several years of giving up on driving because it cost too much money, I finally had a car again.
As I started driving to and from work or running errands, a part of me always kept an eye out for the Chicken man. But I never saw him. Did I miss his retirement? Has he moved on? I wasn’t sad that he was gone but I can say with certainty that I felt his absence.
Every year in June, the borough of Dorchester holds a parade called “the Dorchester Day Parade.” It’s a good time. It can even be a really good time if you know how to do it right. One year I stood on Dorchester Ave with a red solo cup in my hands and the soon-to-be mayor and later-on-to-be United States Secretary of Labor, Marty Walsh, said to us “Drinkin’ from the ol’ Dorchestuh Tap, huh? Happy Dot Day!” and kept walking.
Dorchester Day was always a great time because you got to see all the neighborhoods in Dorchester represented. Irish bands and Caribbean costumes shared the road with WWII veterans and the Vietnamese American Community. It was always a fun spectacle that made me proud of the part of the city I had called home for a decade.
But one year, during the Dot Day parade, a gathering stood out above all the others. Enormous and colorful costumes of bright blue and yellow and red. Feathers and crowns and acrobatics all dancing in syncopation with a throbbing fast beat that came from powerful speakers on the back of a pickup truck. I could hardly make out the lyrics but one phrase kept resonating over and over as the group of dancers got closer:
Chicken Man ……Chicken Man
First it was children, no older than five, leading the charge and dancing their asses off. Next were teenagers and beautiful young girls in their enormous and intricate costumes. There had to be 50 of them all dressed in outfits that put every other group on the parade line to shame. As the truck got closer, I started to make out a familiar figure in a 3-piece suit and a hat. I couldn’t believe it. I thought I was dreaming. And part of me still thinks it was a dream. Somewhere in the world, there are people who know this man well and are inspired and lead by him. He brings joy and love and care and compassion. And I didn’t know any of that. And all the costumes and grandeur of the Dorchester Day parade paled in comparison to him. The Chicken Man. And he was dancing his ass off.