Dressing with Dad

"Hurry up, son," Jordan's dad shouted through the bedroom door. "We're going to be late."

So what, Jordan groaned to himself as he forced one arm into a feathered sleeve. I wish I could just be struck dead. He wrestled himself into the rest of the chicken suit, pulling up the hood and sliding the beak over his mouth and nose. It was held in place by a large rubber band that went around the back of his head and under the hood. I look like Foghorn from the cartoons, he thought, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

"Will you get a move-on!" His father's voice echoed up and down the hall, while the door shuddered in its frame from the heavy handed pounding that emphasized each word. It wasn't that his dad was angry, he was just loud. He was larger than life as well, tall, muscular, the kind of body that set female hearts aflutter even at forty eight. Jordan despaired of inspiring such devotion, not when you were short, slender and typically quiet. His father never seemed to notice their differences. Jordan gave a deep sigh and crossed to the door. It shuddered again from more pounding making Jordan shudder himself.

Flinging the door wide, Jordan presented himself, shuffling his huge three-toed feet anxiously. His dad took a step backward gasping in surprise. "What the hell is that? I thought you were going as Tonto."

"The costume shop was out of everything but this," Jordan explained miserably, while examining his dad. He was clad in a white cowboy costume complete with a hat and black mask. The clothes fit like a glove. The real Lone Ranger would have been jealous.

"You look like some kind of fool bird."

"I'm a chicken."

"Who says," his father thundered. "Nobody calls my boy a coward."

"No dad," Jordan growled exasperatedly. "The costume is a chicken."

"Oh," his dad paused lowering his voice only slightly, "looks more like a duck." He swung around and stalked off toward the front of the house rattling his car keys. "Well, it can't be helped. Gotta go, the party's probably started already." Jordan followed behind feeling like he was going to his own execution. If only the Annual Father/Son Dinner wasn't so important to his dad, but it was and Jordan couldn't face disappointing him. His dad had never missed a year, starting from the time Jordan was born. A picture prominently displayed in the living room showed them at the first dinner they'd attended. Dad was William Tell and Jordan, only six months old, was cradled in his arms in a shiny red apple suit.

Jordan shrugged into the car discovering to his intense frustration that chickens weren't apparently intended to sit in cars. This is the last year, he told himself. Graduation was only two weeks away and college loomed in the distance. Jordan worried about it a lot. Dad was completely alone since Mom had died two years ago. He sort of felt he was abandoning his dad. He shot a glance at his father, but Dad was enjoying himself, honking his horn and waving at unsuspecting motorists.

The party was in full swing when they arrived. Drinks were free and many had already availed themselves. There were quite a few tables, set with cheap plates and linens, but no one was sitting. His father roared over the others greeting everyone and introducing Jordan, who knew everyone anyway. Sam Garvy approached and handed them both bottles of root beer. "Hey John," he chuckled, "you got yourself a cute little chick there." They both shook with laughter.

"I'm not a chick," Jordan snapped, "I'm a rooster." It came out muffled because of the beak.

"That's what that thing on your head is?" Greg Vinny threw in as he sauntered over. His son was behind him and Jordan flushed deeply. They were dressed as escaped convicts, which suited them. Roger, Greg's son, was as robust and irritating as Greg and Jordan despised him. How Dad could get along with them was beyond him. He sighed, his father always seemed to read people on sight and handle them just right. True to form, Greg had to comment. "Looks like a bunch of little dicks in a row instead of a cockscomb."

His dad elbowed Greg and in a loud stage whisper said, "Kill it, Greg, you know the boy's sensitive." Jordan felt his face burn even more, while Roger smirked. He cast around for an escape and saw the line starting to form at the buffet.

Motioning awkardly to his father he mumbled, "Let's just eat." His father immediately took the lead, plowing through the middle of the room, vigorously shaking the hand of everyone he passed. Jordan ambled along behind him, squeezing between tables and trying to keep his tail out of people's plates. He hadn't gone far when he felt a tugging near his backside. Whipping around he caught Roger holding up several long white feathers. "What do you think you're doing?" Jordan demanded, hampered by the beak.

"Just getting a little tail, chicky," Roger quipped, as sporadic laughter broke out.

Jordan ground his teeth and stretched out his gloved and feathered hand. "Give them back. I have to pay extra if it's damaged."

Roger's smile hardened. "Come and get 'em," he said lazily. An eerie silence fell as the rest of the men and boys watched the unfolding drama. Jordan stood still trying to control his breathing. He recognized Roger's expression. Twice before he'd tried to pick a fight for some imagined slight on Jordan's part. Jordan had walked away, both in the hall at school and at the movie theater in the local mall. It had been easy, Roger was a psycho waiting to flip out and no one paid much attention to him. He turned around, started toward the buffet, but Roger had to give his parting shot. "Yellow, aren't ya?"

Still, Jordan might have let it go if he hadn't seen his dad's face. John was staring intently, the little muscle on his jaw working. His eyes had darkened and his brows were pulled together in a frightening frown. The scariest thing about him was his silence. He was as angry as Jordan had ever seen him.

Swallowing hard Jordan stared back almost forgetting Roger and everyone else as his face reddened in shame. He couldn't walk away while his father was watching, not even if he wanted to, which he didn't. His feet wouldn't move. No doubt his father, in a similiar situation, would've cheerfully kicked Roger's ass, all the while launching witty insults that would instantly get the entire room on his side. Then of course, he'd be a man about it and tell Roger he held no grudges on his part. He imagined Roger beaten, his nose dripping, weaving on his feet, barely able to stand. The picture filled his head and the same sort of cocky grin his father usually wore suddenly appeared on Jordan's face, transforming his normally serious features.

Turning abruptly, he balled up a fist and swung at Roger hard shouting, "No, I'm a white chicken."
The punch was badly thrown and accidently connected with Roger's left cheek. Roger, caught by surprise, threw himself backward to avoid the blow, and stumbled into a table sending dishes clattering to the floor. Before he could recover, Jordan went after him forgetting he was twice as big as usual in the chicken suit. He got one of his feet tangled in a chair and tripped just as Roger lurched forward. Jordan's cheekbone whacked the bridge of Roger's nose with a sickening crack. They both tumbled to the floor and writhed around, Roger in a panic trying to escape the chicken suit and Jordan trying to right himself with three-toed feet.

Someone grabbed a handful of feathers and cloth and hauled Jordan upright. He found himself looking into the laughing face of his father while Greg dragged his son away. Other men set the tables and chairs right, slapping each other on the back and making jokes. "Take it easy son," his dad grinned. "Cock fighting's illegal in this state." There was more laughter and Sam handed Jordan his beak, which was smashed beyond repair, its broken rubber band dangling sadly. A large number of feathers had fallen off the front of his costume and Jordan sighed heavily knowing he would certainly be paying extra. His dad pushed him down into a chair and disappeared, returning quickly with a glass of ice water. He dipped a napkin in it and pressed it to the bruise forming just under Jordan's left eye. "Keep this on it for a while, I'll get you something to eat." He slapped Jordan on the back almost knocking him out of the chair.

His father returned to the buffet line that was now crowded with excited men and boys. As they passed Jordan most of them gave him a shove or poke with their elbows. "Good going kid," one of them said. Sam came over and parked himself.

"You're just like the old man, Jordan. Don't take nothing from nobody."

Jordan grinned and peeked over at Greg, who'd put Roger at a table as far from Jordan as he could, which really wasn't that far. He'd wrapped some ice in a napkin and was holding it against his son's nose. "Don't know why you insist on bothering that boy," he was saying. "We're damn lucky the old man didn't take up for him. We'd both be sittin' here with busted faces." Jordan looked away, forgetting about them almost instantly. His dad was returning with two plates, one piled so high it threatened to topple over the edge to the floor.

Jordan licked his lips as his dad plunked the heavily laden plate in front of him and took the seat next to him. His dad contemplated the food thoughtfully and then turned an amused smile on Jordan. "I'm a white chicken," his dad snorted, as Jordan levered a forkful of mashed potatoes to his mouth. "That's about the worst come-back I've ever heard."

Jordan swallowed and scooped up another forkful. "I won didn't I?" he smirked.

"Well, I guess. If hitting him by accident and smothering him with your chicken suit counts." He laughed again and then leaned over and whispered in Jordan's ear. "You did good son. You didn't let the little shit get away with it." They ate in silence for a few minutes as the clamor of voices boiled around them, but it didn't last. His father's voice suddenly burst forth drowning everyone else out. "I've been thinking about next year," he announced. "What do you think about Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?" he asked, turning to Jordan.

Jordan stuffed a piece of steak in his mouth and waved the fork considering. After chewing a minute, he got his tongue around so he could speak. "I'm Butch," he mumbled. The rest of the table roared. Sam elbowed him in the ribs as his dad put his arm around him and hugged him right there in front of everyone.

"You sure are kid," Sam shouted.