Halloween Special
30 October 2004

The Taste of Salt
Don Webb
Samantha Henderson
Bester McNally's Fowl Tale
Mark Paterson
A Wizened Little Thing
Debbra Mikaelsen
The Simple Unlife
Eric Marin
The Dinner Guest
Jamie Rosen
John Dupuis
Creeps by Night
Don Webb
Mark Paterson does not possess the ability to converse with deceased farmed animals, but has been known to argue that fire hydrants are really red space motorcycles that transport him to baseball tournaments on Io and other volcanic moons. The
Montreal writer's first book, the short-story collection Other People's Showers, was recently published by Exile Editions. 
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Bester McNally worked the day shift at the Sticky Fingers Rotisserie, had for 43 years, was five shifts away from retirement.

Bester was the chicken-master at Sticky Fingers, the highest-ranking position attainable short of day or night manager. Like a beer company's brewmaster, or a dough expert at a pizzeria, Bester was responsible for the quality and production of the restaurant's showcase product: its barbecue chicken. It was Bester who oversaw the process of removing just the right number of chickens from the freezer for thawing at exactly the right time. It was Bester who maintained the roasting ovens, getting them warmed up in the morning, ensuring the chickens would be ready in time for the lunch rush, and making small repairs to the one hundred individual spits whenever necessary. So many years of experience made doing his job a routine as natural and automatic for Bester as getting dressed in the morning, and with one pair of jeans, three white T-shirts, a baseball cap, and a hairnet to his name, it was a simple routine. Over the course of 43 years at Sticky Fingers, Bester had run deliveries, done spot duty on overnight maintenance and cleaning, worked the cash register, painted the place four times, and even filled in now and then for waitresses too crampy or hungover to come in for their shifts. At 62 years of age, Bester had four teeth left in his mouth, bowels that ran like a faucet, a purple, irregularly-shaped spot on the side of his nose, and an intimate knowledge of the operations of a barbecue chicken restaurant that even the mangers couldn't approach in its detail or scope.

But Bester had no desire for command, for the opulence of management with its blue-sweater uniforms, a pencil behind the ear, and access to the back-office desk that had seen its share of propped up feet over the years. Bester liked being chicken-master and strove no higher, especially now so close to retirement. For the Sticky Fingers Rotisserie management team, this was a blessing that had lasted 43 years. There wasn't a better chicken-master in town; quality and production were never in doubt with Bester on the job. They laughed a little at him behind closed doors — about the care and attention he put into his work, above and beyond what was required for the $9.38 an hour they paid him. They often sighed, unlocking the front door in the morning to find Bester had slept in the restaurant again, keeping an eye on some tricky oven element or some clogged oil vat, and said to themselves, "Look at him. This is all he has." And they counted their lucky stars for having him.

But Bester McNally had a secret. He could have taken over the whole restaurant long ago, been a manager for years. But he stayed on as chicken-master because he had a gift. Bester McNally could talk to the dead, and his favourite conversation partners were dead chickens.

Bester started talking to dead chickens as a boy, in his grandmother's drafty kitchen, heated by an oil stove. His grandmother wore boots in the house in winter, was able to hoist forty-pound sacks of potatoes over her shoulder, and had a purple, irregularly-shaped spot on the side of her nose. She spread table salt on her icy balcony to prevent accidents.

Chicken was his grandmother's best meal. She was a walking chicken recipe book. Broiled Deviled Chicken. Marinated Broilers. Chicken Marseillaise. Hunter's Chicken. Chicken Fritters. Supreme Chicken. Fried Hen. Skewered Chicken Livers. Auntie Diane's Fried Chicken. Chicken Burgers. And all of it deboned and cut up into bite-sized morsels for Bester; his grandmother had a mortal fear of choking accidents. 

She never stopped to eat herself — once Bester was served his grandmother hooked a cigarette in the corner of her mouth and went to work on his second and third helpings. One evening, hunched over the pots and pans on the stove, she turned her head and watched him take a bite of Chicken Paprika. "Oh, you're so good," she cried, cigarette bobbing with every syllable, "the little chickens are so happy they're dancing for joy!" Bester giggled and stuffed five bites of Chicken Paprika in his mouth. His grandmother inhaled a deep, audible gasp that sounded like dull fingernails scratching on a chalkboard. "Spit that out! You're going to choke!" Bester complied, allowed the spicy chicken to lop out of his mouth onto the plate. "Now eat it nice and slow," his grandmother said, serenity returning to her voice. "The chickens want you to enjoy it."

In his mind, young Bester saw five chickens on a patch of dusty ground, smiles on their beaks, holding each other's wings, dancing in a circle. High in the sky the sun shone bright and warm, a cool breeze in the air. One of the chickens said, "Eat me next, Bester!" Another chimed in, "No, me! Eat me! I'm best served fried!" Bester laughed and told them not to worry, he'd be sure to eat all of them, every one. 

In time, Bester learned that cheeseburgers made cows throw a party. Veal cutlets had calves cooing and tittering. Hot dogs caused pigs to sing songs of happiness and kiss each other. But the chickens were the best. When his grandmother cooked chicken they gathered at his feet, tickling his toes with their pecking beaks, clucking up waves and waves of suggestions. "A little honey sure does a lot for a basket of fried chicken!" "Every try a chicken quesadilla? You'll like it!" They never stopped talking, and, after his grandmother passed on, the spot on her nose spreading out and colonizing a good portion of her right cheek by the end, they were all he had to talk to.

Gravitating to a chicken-related line of work was a necessity both financial and social. For 43 years Bester cooked three hundred chickens or more every day. The dead chickens took advantage of their numbers and organized hoedowns, picnics, and softball games to celebrate the fact that people were eating them. Bester took part in the activities, befriending generations of dead chickens along the way.

Bester felt fortunate to have had so many years in the company of dead chickens, could never quite get over the idea that he was actually being paid for it. But it was coming to an end, and he was looking forward to the rest. He'd been imagining his life after the Sticky Fingers Rotisserie. He figured he could get by on three chickens a week; leftovers never really bothered him. 

Five shifts to go, but first he was going on a little day trip. All of the Sticky Fingers employees and even some of the regular customers chipped in and bought Bester a retirement gift: a tour of a chicken farm, something he'd never done. They even paid for a taxicab rather than send him off on an hour-long bus ride to the country. 

The cab picked him up at the Sticky Fingers. He crawled into the backseat, aided by one of the waitresses, chewing gum snapping in his ear. The other employees, gathered in the parking lot, waved to him as the cab pulled out. When the taxi turned onto the highway Bester felt a little tingling in his ears and a sudden onset of heartburn, not an unexpected sensation: he'd eaten at the Sticky Fingers yet again. He closed his eyes in the backseat, knowing a little nap would have him feeling chipper by the time he got to the farm.

The cabby shook him from his sleep. "Hey Gramps. You're here. And by the way, you're friends didn't pony up for a tip." Bester handed the man a crumpled five-dollar bill and pulled himself from the car. He barely had time to shut the door before the cab sped off, heading back to civilization.

Bester took a moment to absorb it all. The farm was just as he'd imagined it. The taxi had driven him up a winding dirt road and left him in front of a white-painted farmhouse with red trim, blacktop roof, and a brick chimney, smoke softly curling from the stack. A wide cornfield lay to his left, forest of trees to his right. Big red barn standing next to a grain silo in a patch of land adjacent to the corn. A farmer in a floppy straw hat, green overalls, and thick boots, blowing his nose into a handkerchief, stood on the farmhouse porch.

"Welcome to the Cross Winds," the farmer said, folding his handkerchief, stuffing it into his back pocket. He descended the four short steps from the balcony to the road and extended his hand. "Name's Ken. Ken Norton, like the boxer, 'cepting he was quite a shade darker than myself." Farmer Ken laughed at his own joke, coughed, took out his handkerchief again.

"I'm Bester McNally. I've been chicken master at Sticky Fingers Rotisserie almost, well, almost all my life. Sure am looking forward to seeing your operation here. Are the other people on the tour here yet?"

"Other people?" Ken Norton the farmer cried. "There's no other people. Just you, Mr. Bester."

Bester felt happy to know his friends had gone out and got him a real special tour. "So when can we start?"

"Well, right away, just as soon as we get some formalities out of the way. Come on over to the barn and we can get started, get you cleaned up a little."

The barn was musty. Chicken coops, stacked four high, stretched in rows from one end to the other. A narrow passage bisected the rows. The hum of clucking inside was so thick it sounded to Bester like the motor of an air conditioner gone awry. 

Farmer Ken got down on one knee in front of Bester, took hold of his ankle. Bester pulled back instinctively. "Now, now," Farmer Ken said. "Just hold still, this'll only take a second." He wrapped something that felt like a bracelet around Bester's ankle.

"What the hell is that?" Bester asked, flapping at what looked like a yellow price tag hanging from his ankle off a thin metal wire.

"Well, gotta be able to identify you. 'Stinguish you from the rest."

Bester had no time to ask further when Farmer Ken wrapped his fingers around his jaw, forcing his mouth open. With his other hand he guided Bester's head back. Bester's mouth was suddenly filled with pellets that felt like M&Ms but tasted like aspirins.


"Got to get you filled up with antibiotics, there. Want you to be healthy, you know." Farmer Ken cupped his palm over Bester's mouth and held it there until he swallowed all the antibiotics.

Gagging, Bester managed to blurt out: "You're crazy! I want to go home. I want to go back to the Sticky Fingers. Now!"

"No, no, no," Farmer Ken said, "the whole thing's been set up, all paid for. You can't leave now."

Bester sat down on the dusty floor of the barn, exhausted. He heard clicking and looked up to see Ken shaking a spray paint can, walking toward him. Ken rolled Bester's right shirtsleeve up and painted his entire arm yellow. "For quick ID," the farmer said, answering Bester's unasked question.

Bester felt terrible. Sick to his stomach and dizzy in his head. He just wanted to sleep.

"One more step and then I'll put you up so you can rest," Farmer Ken said, hoisting Bester to his feet. He was led down the rows of coops, the chickens throwing themselves at the wire mesh as he passed. "They're a little antsy today," Ken said, chuckling. "But they get like that with newcomers."

At the end of the barn Farmer Ken sat Bester down on an overturned wooden crate. Bester rested his chin in his hands. Ken walked over to some kind of a machine, a metal box with a cylinder connected to its side. Ken flicked a switch and the cylinder began spinning, slowly at first but soon so fast it was a blur. Farmer Ken hooked his arms under Bester's armpits and dragged him over to the machine. "Believe me," the farmer said, "this is going to hurt me a lot more than it's going to hurt you. But it's for the best — I don't want you harming anybody — nobody wants to buy chickens all pecked up." Ken angled Bester's face toward the spinning cylinder. He felt a great heat emanating from it. He had no strength to resist and blacked out in the very instant the circular saw dug into the flesh, cartilage, and bone of his nose.

"Bester McNally's Fowl Tale" is copyright © 2004 Mark Paterson

Lost Pages, its logo, the website design, and the selection of material is copyright © 2003-04 Claude Lalumière
The individual stories and articles are copyright © their respective authors