Deep Fried
My annual Thanksgiving Day Story
I pressed the brakes and lowered the radio. A black box protruded from the front gate of Happy Turkey Farms and I tapped the employee ID that Scrimshaw had slipped from someone over at Betty’s Food & Liquor on a blinking red dot. The gate’s metal arm unlatched, clunking down and scraping the asphalt before wobbling up.
“Bingo,” Scrimshaw said as the main gate opened. “I knew that would work.”
I cut the headlights and drove into the empty, shadowy parking lot. The dumpster from Google images was next to a clutch of trees. Pulling alongside the dumpster, Scrimshaw reminded me to look for the scraped sticker he had noticed while zooming into the grainy satellite image. Up close, I could see the remnants of the sticker and made out the word “free.”
“The antenna has to line up with the sticker,” he said, leaning over the dashboard to study the distance. “Perfect. Now, let’s get into costume. I’m gonna play the audio from the slaughterhouse video we made so we can get into the right headspace while we change.”
Clucking and purring sounds filled the car. I could imagine the turkeys from the video, packs of them roaming a field, stepping through tall grass, picking berries, clucking as a stream burbled nearby. A modified version of Scrimshaw’s voice abruptly said: This is how turkeys are meant to live. And this is how turkeys live under the murderous regime of Happy Turkey Farms. I winced at the record scratch followed by bird screams and heavy machinery.
“That’s enough,” I said, turning off the radio. “We know the plan. We just have to follow it. I can concentrate better in silence anyways.”
“We need to enter a state of absolute moral clarity to be able to carry out the mission,” he said. “And, I’m sorry, but these sounds make the stakes really clear.”
I held the volume knob and Scrimshaw sighed. He unfolded a bundle from his backpack and picked out an N95 mask, rubber gloves, and goggles. I did the same and we changed into disguises we had assembled based on images we had seen on an employee appreciation page. We had even brushed the pants with red paint and bleached the streaks to appear like washed-out blood stains.
“We could reuse these for Halloween,” I said, adjusting my heavy butcher’s apron.
“These costumes are going straight into the incinerator,” Scrimshaw said as he opened his door. “Alright, let’s go save some lives. And would you look at that, a full moon high in the sky, guiding our mission. The universe is truly on our side.”
I climbed out of the car and we shut the doors in the magnifying quiet. A nearby stand of pine trees glowed and I could hear animals within, animals moving. I breathed invigorating pine sap through my mask. As we got closer to the facility, we hit a dense wall of air, an odor of rotting meat doused in bleach. I pinched my face shut and a motion sensor light came on. Our shadows squeezed ahead of us and our polyester pants whooshed. I took the ID out and touched it to the keypad, then tapped in a 4-digit code that was scrawled on the back. The door slid open and belched fetid air.
From behind, a voice asked us to hold the door.
“Ah, the smell of holiday success, I love it,” said the voice. I held my breath and turned to see a crew cut, Oakley’s-wearing man striding closer. He wore a tight salmon golf shirt tucked into khaki slacks. It was none other than Mike Cleaver, owner and chief murderer of Happy Turkey Farms.
“Nothing beats the smell of holiday success,” he repeated, slapping us both on the back, and scoffing at our masks. “What’s the matter? Can’t handle the smell of affluence? I don’t know about you but every time I get a whiff of this stench, I see floaties that look like dollar signs and I know I’m getting rich.”
“Oh right,” I said, trying to agree with him. “Big dollar signs that my bank account is thankful for this Thanksgiving.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said. “What are you both doing here anyways? The shop is closed on Thanksgiving. We were shouting it on the loudspeakers all week and we handed out that flyer and we sent that email. This is the one day where there’s no overtime allowed because I want each and every one of you to honor the bird that makes all of this possible. The bird that puts food on my table and puts food on your table. I don’t want anybody working until Black Friday.”
“I’m sorry, boss, but I left a pumpkin pie in the back fridge,” I said. I could see myself reflected in his sunglasses and realized that our outfits lacked the red Happy Turkey Farms logo, a smiling turkey smoking a cigar, that was on his shirt. “I picked it up on the way to work and forgot to take it out of the fridge. My sick mom is counting on me to bring the pie this year.”
“Couldn’t you have just left the pie in your car?” Cleaver asked. “It won’t go bad in this cold.”
“The last time I did that, someone stole it,” I said.
“You’re saying one of my employees stole your pie?” Cleaver asked.
I looked around the reception area for an answer: concrete floors and walls, some ripped up bean bag chairs, a flat-screen TV, a mini fridge, and a claw arcade game. A digital counter on the wall read: Over 87,460,325 turkey pounds served to happy families.
“At least that’s the theory,” Scrimshaw piped in. “It was on the passenger seat when he left to clock in and then it was gone after his shift.”
“Are you saying I employ thieves?” Cleaver said and took off his shades to rub his eyes. He barked a laugh, spit flying onto my goggles, and put his shades back on. “It’s a joke, relax. If you’re here, you might as well help me with something. Then you can get that pumpkin pie your family can’t go without or whatever.”
We nodded.
“Mayor Ed called me last week and asked me to supply this year’s pardoned turkey. This is the first time he’s ever asked me to supply the bird and the ceremony starts in less than four hours. Just his luck, this turkey happens to have committed every crime in the turkey bill of rights. If he wasn’t getting pardoned, I would personally choke him to death and deep fry this bastard. They call him Mr. Romeo. He bites. He scratches. He pees on the astroturf. And, despite me getting him the best treats I could find at Betty’s, Mr. Romeo is the most ungrateful turkey I’ve ever encountered. Good luck to whoever ends up with him.”
“So what do you need help with?” I asked.
“Mr. Romeo won’t let me near him,” he said. He turned his arm over to reveal a bandaid by his bicep. “You can see that he bit my arm. And then he started spraying me with Febreeze, which I’m allergic to. One of the handlers left a whole bottle in there and that demon bird won’t stop spraying me whenever I enter. So you have to use whatever turkey whispering skills you gained from the pit and apply them to Mr. Romeo so we can get him into the crate for the ceremony. I’ll take you to Mr. Romeo’s room and then I’ll get the crate. It’s in my office. I need this one favor.”
The pit was the notorious turkey holding pen in the heart of Happy Turkey Farms. We had seen clandestine photos of the dank space, rumored to hold thousands of turkeys side-by-side in excrement. What skills besides instilling fear could you possibly pick up there?
“Sure thing, boss,” I said. “We’ll get Mr. Romeo into the cage.”
“Good,” he said and started walking down one of the hallways at a fast pace. Scrimshaw and I looked at each other and trotted to catch up with Cleaver. He slowed down and lifted his phone as the opening notes of Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas Is You began, the chintzy piano echoing in the concrete hallway splattered with blood, reeking of vomit. Cleaver bopped his head and sang along in an impish voice. When Mariah got to “Christmas,” Cleaver loudly inserted “Thanksgiving,” and then he started yelling new lyrics entirely.
“I don’t want a lot for THANKSGIVING, I just want my pumpkin pie. The one my mother begged me to get so she doesn’t die, die, die.”
He stopped singing and turned the song off. In the new quiet, the polyester fabric of our medical pants whooshed louder.
“You have some loud fucking pants,” Cleaver said, shooting us a glance. “I specifically requested that everyone wear the newly issued pants that don’t make that sound because I hate it so much. You’re wearing the old pants, aren’t you?”
“The new ones are in the laundry and we didn’t think anyone would be here,” Scrimshaw said. “That’s why we’re wearing the old ones.”
“Hmmm, okay, well this is the studio where Mr. Romeo lives,” Cleaver said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Get him ready for the cage and I’ll be right back.”
We watched Cleaver stamp down the hallway and paused, noticing a low din and rumble coming from deeper in the hallway. We had seen schematics of the place and realized the bustling energy must have been coming from the pit. That meant that liberating birds was a few dozen feet away. We stood weighing the moment. We could run outside, drive away, and abandon the now-fraught mission, or we could turn the handle and face Mr. Romeo and hope for the best.
I heard the chemical spray of Febreeze as soon as Scrimshaw pushed the door open. A mist clouded the entrance. I scanned the room and saw astroturf panels covering the floor, except for a bare spot in the front where a pee pad, now wet, had been placed. There was a dog bed, multiple bowls of food, and, in the middle of the room, a medium-sized turkey pressing its foot on a Febreeze bottle pointed at the door. The turkey stopped after a moment and trundled over to the dog bed, picking up a treat from a bowl labeled “cricket.”
“We didn’t practice this scenario nearly enough in the dry runs,” I said, watching the turkey chomp the cricket. “I thought you said it would be empty because of Thanksgiving.”
“How was I supposed to plan for Mike Fucking Cleaver showing up at one in the morning to get a turkey named Mr. Romeo for the mayor to pardon? The universe is playing with us. So let’s just ride this out and get to the other side.”
“I hope so,” I said. “Cleaver’s a weird dude and he runs a slaughterhouse. Who knows what sick shit he’s capable of. But hey, at least Mr. Romeo is being pardoned. That’s one turkey rescued, I guess?”
“A bonus rescue,” Scrimshaw said. “Let’s get him ready for the cage. Walk over calmly and speak gently.”
“Do you want a peach slice?” I said, picking up a warm and slimy canned peach slice from a bowl and holding it out to Mr. Romeo, who moved his head away and honked.
“Okay,” Scrimshaw said, taking some seeds from another bowl. “So no fake fruit for this guy. Got it. How about some seeds? Do you want some seeds, Mr. Romeo?
Mr. Romeo strained his neck to grab a seed, but jerked it back and sprinted to the Febreeze bottle as the door opened.
“Not the Febreeze!” Cleaver shouted, pinning his sunglasses to his face. “I’m sick of this shit! Great, now my eyes are itchy. I’m leaving the cage right here. Get him inside and bring it to the front. Make sure he doesn’t take that Febreeze bottle.”
Cleaver left the cage propped against the door and walked away and Mr. Romeo eased off of the nozzle. I pulled the cage into the room and put a water bowl inside.
“It’s okay, Mr. Romeo,” I said in a soothing voice. “You’re going outside now, and you’re gonna be pardoned. Your life will be a lot better soon.”
Scrimshaw leaned over Mr. Romeo and confidently wrapped him in the blanket he was sitting on. I had seen him do this hundreds of times while rescuing injured animals and his focus never wavered. He picked up Mr. Romeo like a care package and firmly transferred him to the cage. We nodded at each other and lifted the cage, walking it back up the hallway to the reception, cautiously balancing it to not disturb the water bowl. Cleaver was busy playing the claw game in the corner. He retrieved a toy as we placed the cage down and then turned the machine off.
“That’s my claw game by the way,” he said, walking towards us. “Out of respect, I would appreciate it if you didn’t play it. I’m trying to collect all the birds inside.”
“No problem,” I said.
“Good,” Cleaver said, stuffing the toy into his back pocket. “I see Mr. Romeo is secure in the crate. Good work. And there’s no Febreeze in there?”
“The bottle’s in the room,” I said.
“Great,” he said, relaxing his shoulders and exhaling. “I have to get him to hair and makeup by 3:00 am. Can you believe that? Like he’s some kind of celebrity.”
Cleaver grabbed the bars of the cage and dragged it across the concrete floor, the metal box clanking and shaking, water splashing out the sides. The front door slid open and a surge of cold air cut through the muck. We could hear the violent cacophony of the cage being dragged away.
“Holy shit,” I said. “How did we manage to survive that?”
“Like I said, the universe is on our side,” Scrimshaw said. “Just trust mother moon up there.”
“Come on,” I said, a little annoyed. “That was like getting past the final boss. That’s worth a celebration of some kind.”
“Celebrate in a slaughterhouse,” Scrimshaw said. “Nice.”
“Don’t be a dick,” I said and walked over to the mini fridge. I opened it and saw a few soda cans and a bottle of cheap rum. Not wanting to remove my mask for a swig, I shut the door and eyed the claw machine. “I’m gonna play a round before we head to the pit.”
“Mike’s Happy Claw Game” seemed custom-built. Thousands of waxed turkey feathers were glued to the shell and a large, cartoonish turkey head was nailed to the top. The machine held dozens of colorful turkey toys within. I flipped the on-switch and a sound system rattled. Mike’s voice issued a curt advertisement: We at Happy Turkey Farms are proud to be on dinner tables in every county across the state, even the crazy ones, because a good turkey dinner doesn’t discriminate and neither do we. At Happy Turkey Farms, we make Happiness Possible.
The sturdy metal claw loosened from its station and silly circus music began. I moved the drumstick-joystick and the claw moved to the right, where a purple turkey leg stood above the rest. I lowered the claw and it easily grabbed the leg and carried it to the collection hole.
“Let me try,” Scrimshaw said. “These might be good luck charms after all. This might be part of the mission.”
He moved the claw to another pile of turkeys and lowered it, grabbing a red, white, and blue turkey toy and carrying it to the hole.
“So you can’t lose,” I said. “It’s an automatic win.”
“Now we have charms that will shield us the rest of the way,” Scrimshaw said, looking at his patriotic turkey. “We won’t have another mishap like the Cleaver run-in.”
“Right,” I said, stuffing the turkey toy into my apron pocket. “Turkey talismans.”
We returned to the hallway and walked toward the din until we came to double doors with the words “The Pit” in red stenciling above. I tapped the ID and the doors slid open, releasing a steamy bubble of grime and a riot of turkey chatter. As overhead lights clicked on, we could see thousands of mangy birds stepping away from the door, their black pupils pinning us in place. There were no windows and the few industrial fans on the back wall sputtered, barely churning the stagnant air. It was like sticking your head into a corpse.
“They’re scared,” Scrimshaw said. “They’re used to people in our outfits hosing them down and kicking them. We have to earn their trust by being calm and then find a couple of the more worse-off turkeys to rescue.”
He still had a few seeds in his pocket and he tossed them on the greasy floor. A moment of uncertainty passed and then one turkey stepped forward to pick at the seeds. As it chewed, ease rippled through the room, and the turkeys seemed to thaw. They shifted their now-curious heads.
We moved through the crowd and, near a clogged drain, we two turkeys sitting in a lump, their legs mangled. We knew just by looking at them that they had no chance to survive in this place, that their seeming paralysis meant they would get infections from the muck. They would probably be hacked to death by workers on Friday.
We each bent to gently lift a dying bird into our arms, their weak heads and wings barely resisting. We cooed to calm them and the birds relaxed, their eyes closing. I looked around at the endless rows of turkeys and physical details I had missed before sharpened: the missing and swollen eyes, the bloody wings, the featherless wings, the cracked beaks, the discolored wattles, and the sores, the open sores everywhere. I wish I could have freed them all but knew our mission—if we wanted to avoid jail—only involved these two.
In the car, the birds, crusty with discharge and gunk, rested on our discarded aprons, shirts, and pants. It smelled like sewage so I rolled the windows down. Scrimshaw said we would have to call Jackie once we returned to the main road and turned on our phones because the turkeys were too sick to survive without medication.
I carefully pulled out of the parking lot, the exit gate opening as we approached. I flicked my lights on as the car turned onto the empty avenue. Scrimshaw’s phone lit up, stuttering with notifications. He swiped the alerts away and brought up his contact page, putting his phone on speaker.
“Why the hell are you calling me this late?” Jackie whisper-shouted after a few rings.
“We have two animals in need of emergency aid,” Scrimshaw said in a neutral tone.
“Can this wait until tomorrow?” Jackie asked, her voice losing its edge.
“It’s urgent,” Scrimshaw said and hung up.
Jackie was waiting on her porch in checkered pajamas. She waved us into her garage, which had a gurney and medical supplies amid bins of sports and lawn equipment. She had a vet practice in town and did wildlife rescue on the side, often performing surgery in backyards and kitchens. She put on a mask and gloves and placed each of the birds on the raised bed and injected them with pain medication and an antibiotic. Then she cleaned and dressed their legs, carefully applying ointment onto wounds.
“Where are they from?” she asked, as she gently removed puss with a q-tip. “Don’t tell me these turkeys are from the slaughterhouse on Forest Ave. These are Happy Turkey Farm turkeys, aren’t they? Oh shit. Okay, our contact ends now. You did not speak with me. You did not come here. These turkeys are your responsibility. Got it?”
Jackie took off her gloves and tossed them into a sealed medical waste bucket, along with the medical paper from the gurney. She then offered us water bottles and hurried us back to the car.
Happy Turkey Farms was notorious for hunting down animal rights activists who even mentioned the company on social media, waging expensive legal battles against them. We knew going into it that we faced prison time if discovered. Running into Cleaver only heightened the risk.
“We left no trail,” Scrimshaw said. “Don’t worry. But yes, this never happened. Thank you.”
We drove to my dad’s house in silence, on edge after witnessing Jackie’s fear. I silently rolled the car into the semicircle driveway and we quietly walked to the back sliding door. My brother Kev was on the couch playing a baseball video game.
“Oh hey, Joe,” he said, moving out of a sprawl into an upright position. “And hey, Scrimshaw.”
“Hey Kev,” we said.
“What’s with the turkeys?”
“They have some injuries and need to sleep here tonight,” I said. “Just don’t mention this to dad or anything.”
“Okay.”
After setting the turkeys up in blanketed laundry baskets in the back bedroom, we passed out on separate twin beds.
I dreamed I was wading through a river wide as the horizon. Small creatures darted past my beaked vision. I looked down at a feathered body, felt webbed feet gripping soft pebbles. I tried to lift my arms but they were too heavy. The shore was nowhere. The river carried me, narrowing like a sieve toward a waterfall. I tried finding shelter among rocks, but hurtled across the edge and tumbled down, my wings flapping until I floated.
I awoke to Scrimshaw muttering something, absorbed in the bright dopamine of his phone.
“We’re on the front page of Fox News,” he said, laughing. “PETA Freaks Steal Happy Family Turkeys on Thanksgiving! What a joke. We’re not even in PETA. They have a blurry picture of your car, but no license plate.”
“How did it even become news so fast?”
“Apparently Mike Cleaver returned to the facility after Mr. Romeo was pardoned and noticed that we had used the claw machine so he reviewed the security footage and saw that we left with not just the two charms, but also two real turkeys, and no actual pumpkin pie. He’s offering a reward for anyone who can offer information. I think he really wants those toys back.”
“Good thing nobody besides him saw a thing,” I said.
“But now he’s on his second Fox News segment. It’s like he’s hallucinating from sleep deprivation. He keeps talking about how two families will go without a turkey this year.”
Scrimshaw turned his phone to me and played a video of Cleaver:
“Some poor family is about to sit down to a turkeyless Thanksgiving,” he said, shades resting on his forehead, eyes bloodshot. “Imagine that. Seriously, imagine it: a family sitting down without a turkey in the center of the Thanksgiving spread. You got the yams, the stuffing, the gravy, but no Turkey? That’s Godless. That’s paganism. That’s before the settlers saved us. And all because two lowlifes lied to my face and ransacked my business.”
“Ransacked?” I said, laughing and getting out of bed. “We left that place in better shape than we found it. I know it smells better after Mr. Romeo’s Febreeze frenzy.”
“There’s some actual bad news, though,” Scrimshaw said. “One of the turkeys died.”
“Oh shit,” I said. “It was in that bad of shape, huh? At least it died in more comfort than the pit.”
“I know,” he said. “Jackie did all she could, but it was too far gone. We have to provide a dignified burial for it. That’s the only way we can honor its life and make sure it reunites with its soul.”
“We can bury it in the backyard,” I said. “Let me get the lay of the land and I’ll bring some water in here for the turkey that’s still alive. Then I’ll look for a shovel.”
As I stretched, the reality of my dad’s house came into view. He had probably seen a clip of Mike Cleaver and would be upset about it. I could smell the standard Thanksgiving scent of roasting turkey and too-sweet cranberries. Kev was still on the couch playing a baseball game.
“Did you hear about the turkey heist?” Kev asked.
“Yea, so crazy,” I said and mimed a gesture to “be quiet.”
“Dad is obsessed with it, so watch out,” he said.
I jogged up the wooden staircase that my dad had built but never finished.
“Oh hey Joe,” he said as the back of my head came into view from where he was standing in the kitchen. “You got in pretty late last night, huh?”
“Yea, the commute was pretty rough,” I said. “But I made it and it’s good to be here.”
“I’m doing the mashed potatoes right now. There’s some vegan butter if you want to make some vegan mashed potatoes. Are you still vegan? Or can you eat real butter again? I’m not sure how to use vegan butter, that’s why I’m asking. But if you’re busy, then don’t worry about it, I’ll figure it out.”
“Oh, I can definitely do the potatoes, just give me a minute. I can do the vegan butter potatoes and the cow butter potatoes.”
“You mean regular butter?” my dad said. “Why do you gotta say cow butter and make it all gross? It’s just regular butter. Speaking of, did you see how those PETA freaks stole turkeys from the turkey farm? What are people supposed to eat on Thanksgiving if there are no turkeys? We’re lucky I thought to get one ahead of time because apparently they’re all sold out now and the new turkeys that should be in Betty’s freezer are missing.”
“Wasn’t it just two turkeys?” I said. “And wouldn’t it take a lot longer to get those turkeys to the store?”
“That’s not the point,” he said. “You can prepare a turkey overnight.”
“I mean preparing it to go from being alive to being gutted and wrapped in plastic.”
“Wrapped in plastic? That’s a disgusting way to put it. So you’re saying the turkey I’m cooking was ‘gutted and wrapped in plastic’? Now I don’t even want to eat it. I got you that fake butter and now you’re insulting the food I made for you?”
“I’m sorry, dad,” I said. “I’ll start making the potatoes now.”
He grunted and flung the washed potatoes into a bowl, then slammed the metal colander into the sink. He stormed out the side door onto the raised porch where he had hamburgers and hotdogs on the grill and stared into the frying meat for some sign.
“Okay,” I sing-songed to myself. “I’ll do the potatoes in a bit. But first, some water for the turkey.”
You learned how to slink away, how to vanish, while growing up here. I filled a small bowl with water and casually strolled down the basement stairs. Scrimshaw sat crossed-legged petting Pumpkin on the couch next to Kev.
“Your dad is as angry as ever,” he said, taking the water bowl and holding it for the turkey to weakly hover over.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I said. “I have to make these mashed potatoes.”
I scrambled back upstairs and mashed the potatoes in the bowl as plumes of smoke from smoldering meat grease rushed through the porch’s screen door. I transferred a portion of the roughly mashed potatoes to a separate bowl and apportioned the different ingredients, spicing the vegan potatoes better so that they would taste better when people compared the two.
My dad came back into the kitchen holding a plate of blistered hotdogs, the porch door slamming behind him. I flinched.
“How are the potatoes coming along?”
“Almost done,” I said.
“I’ll be watching the game,” he said. “Do you want a hotdog?”
“No, it’s okay,” I said.
“Are you gonna have some turkey later? I used a special recipe from the church.”
“I might have a bite,” I said, remembering how the last church recipe he used resulted in cement-like turkey.
“Okay, well think about it,” he said. “The bird should be ready in a half hour or so. Do you want a hot dog or hamburger until then?”
“No, I’m okay,” I said. “I’m gonna save my appetite.”
“Suit yourself.”
I watched him walk to the TV room and noticed something moving out the back window. I went closer and saw Scrimshaw with a shovel in the backyard. I tiptoed outside and bolted toward him.
“What are you doing?” I said. “Anyone of his crazy neighbors can see you right now.”
“If we just act normal, nobody will pay the slightest attention,” he said. “People dig holes all the time. Besides, we have to make sure this bird gets buried before it’s too late.”
“Let’s go behind the shed at least,” I said, reaching for the shovel. ”There’s a wall of junk we can hide behind too.”
“What are you boys doing?” said a voice I recognized as Fred’s, the drunk and retired mechanical engineer who lived across the street. “Is that a turkey? You know, if it’s dead, I can defeather it. I have the machine. And we can deep-fry it. I have a deep-fryer. Unless there’s something wrong with it?”
“We accidentally shot it with a BB gun,” I said.
“So that means it’s fresh and ready to go,” he said, staring at the white bird against the dark soil. “You know, some turkeys got loose from the farm in town. I wonder if that’s one of them.”
“How could it have gotten all the way up here?” I asked.
“Beats me,” he said. “Well, okay, boys, I’m gonna go say ‘hello’ to your dad now. Let me know if I can be of service.”
He walked away and we carried the turkey behind the junk pile near the shed. The dirt was soft here, but we still had to dig a huge hole, and the mound would be visible either way. I chucked a few shovelfuls and the ground got harder. I hit a rock.
“I think Fred’s onto us,” I said. “Maybe we should just let him defeather and deep fry the bird. It’s dead either way.”
“That’s fucked up,” said Scrimshaw, holding the bird. “But letting it be consumed would be one way for a soul reunion. It’s not ideal, but eating can be a form of transubstantiation.”
I jogged to the house, up the porch steps, and into the kitchen. Fred was dipping his fingers into the mashed potato bowls and tasting them.
“The smaller bowl tastes better,” he said.
“That’s the vegan one,” I said. “It tastes pretty good, right? By the way, you can deep fry the turkey. I think it’s still fresh.”
“Great,” he said. “I’ll go get the stuff.”
Fred soon returned in a truck carrying a defeathering contraption and deep-fryer.
“I suppose you guys have oil for the deep fryer?” Fred asked.
“There’s vegan butter,” I said.
“That’ll work,” he said.
“A vegan turkey?” my dad said, scarfing down another hotdog. “I never heard of such a thing.”
Fred worked with ruthless precision, hacking through bone and ligament with a machete as his headlamp lit the driveway. He tossed the bloody head and neck to the asphalt and then stripped the body of feathers in a blur. Scrimshaw retrieved the turkey head and placed it in the small hole behind the shed.
“This turkey looked a little nasty at first but I cleaned it up and it’s not so bad,” Fred said. “Its wings are intact and they look meaty.”
“That means it can fly in the afterlife,” Scrimshaw said. “Before you put it in the deep fryer, let’s say a prayer.”
We gathered around the raw carcass as the deep fryer churned and bubbled and spit molten fire like some witch’s cauldron eager to harbor a spell.
“This turkey never witnessed the sunrise. It never felt a cool breeze, the tickle of dandelions, the caress of green grass, or soft spring rain. It never drank from a cool stream of water or foraged for fruit or flapped its wings in excitement. It ate mealy-meal and broke its legs and breathed poisonous air. But, for one night, this turkey saw a night sky lit with galaxies. Deep fried to the cosmic highway, may you fly far from this world my sweet bird.”
“Amen.”