Cock-a-Doodle-Doo! or Welcome to the Neighborhood

My neighbor, Mr. F., might have a hidden bunker full of kidnapped Amish girls, only where we live they would be Mennonite girls because there is a large Mennonite population. I have no evidence that Mr. F. has this horrible secret – if I did I would certainly alert the authorities. It’s just a feeling I have, a gut hunch – there’s something more than creepy about this seemingly friendly old man. I just can’t put my finger on it…

I met Mr. F. a few weeks after we moved to the lake house. I ordered a kayak and the fellow delivering it had a tractor-trailer truck that wouldn’t fit down our long, narrow, steep driveway. Mr. F. - ever vigilant and on patrol of our dead-end road – spotted the truck and came to the rescue on his green golf cart. He invited the driver onto the golf cart and brought him right to my front door. (I use “my” instead of “our” because my husband’s work involves a lot of  travel, so even though it is an “us” that lives here, mostly it is an “I.”)

I retrieved the kayak from the tractor-trailer in my old station wagon and returned to find Mr. F. sitting in his golf cart, apparently eagerly awaiting my arrival. He introduced himself and welcomed me to the neighborhood which is 10 houses spread along the lake. It’s one turn off another dead-end road and we’re pretty far out in the country - a good 25 minute drive from anything that could be called civilization.  

Mr. F. is small, thin, wiry man, in his late 70’s (maybe?) He has white hair, dark beady eyes and he wears thick glasses. He always wears a shirt with his name on it - the kind mechanics wear in a car shop - the patch with the business name has been ripped off. Usually his shirt is only half-buttoned; out of laziness or pride? I hesitate to guess. But you can tell by the way he carries himself - chest out, arms back, head held high - that at one time, at least in his mind, he was quite a ladies’ man.

Chickens are Mr. F’s hobby and he bears an uncanny resemblance some of one of his proudest, loudest little Bantum (or “Banty” as he calls them) Roosters. At any given time, Mr. F. has over 100 chickens of all shapes, colors, sizes and varieties.

“I like to cross ‘em myself,“ he says, almost gleefully. “You put that rooster in with that hen, watch him go at it, then see what you got when the eggs hatch.” There’s an un-nerving creepy edge to the tone in his voice and the look in his eye, when he talks about watching that rooster “go at it.”   

I have one hen, a gray Silkie; her name is Fame because “she’s gonna’ live forever…”  I don’t know how long hens live, but Fame’s been with us for over 10 years. Mr. F. spotted her immediately and began to “talk chicken” with me. “Just call me, ‘The Chicken Man,’” he said, innocently enough, but I felt there was something not at all innocent about him.  

He invited me over to see his “set up,” and not wanting to appear un-neighborly I went, but only after my husband got home on the weekend.

Mr. F.’s shirt was again, half-buttoned. He showed us all of his hens and roosters and chicks, told us how he built each pen, and seemed to be glad to have visitors. The longer we were there, the more antsy my husband became. Pretty soon he looked at his watch and said, “Whoa, we’ve got to go.  A contractor’s coming to look at some work and we’re already late.”

Mr. F.’s response was, “I’m gonna’ go make a German Chocolate Cake. Do you like German Chocolate Cake? Now I can eat me some German Chocolate Cake. Let me know if you want any help with anything. I’m a pretty handy guy and, well, what with your wife home alone so often and such, somethin’ might come up. Here’s my numbers – home and cell – you can call anytime, day or night. It was a friendly gesture, normal enough for a rural neighbor, yet the whole thing was disconcerting, odd in some intangible way…

“You stay away from that man and don’t make him feel welcome on our property,” my husband said fervently, once we were back in the car. My husband is a computer guy - cheerful, smart, not emotional or intuitive. He’s rarely fervent; I took heed.
 

A few days later, Mr. F. showed up on his golf cart with five red pullet hens and a handsome Bantam Rooster.

“I’ll give you these if you want ‘em,” he said. “’Course your husband’s a busy man, travels a lot, right? I’ll have to help you build the pen. I’m sure you can use fresh eggs. These here will be layin’ in no time.”

I thanked him and said I’d have to talk with my husband, who said Mr. F. was to have nothing at all to do with the project. He said he didn’t want to build a chicken pen, but if I really wanted those chickens he’d build the pen to keep “that creepy old man” off the property.  

I relayed that message to Mr. F. the next time the green golf cart appeared unexpectedly in my drive. Mr. F. is a chatty man with fast moving eyes and no conversational skills. He talks quickly, his topics are all over the map, and he asks a lot of questions.

“Did you know Pine Sol’l take care of any kind of bug bite? Any kind at all, just dab you a bit of it where you got bit – wherever you got bit, don’t matter where – and you’ll be just fine…Your husband travel every week? Just home on the weekends?..How’d you like living out here in the woods? I love it. You know why? Because at the end of the day I take my shower, then sit on my back porch nekkid and no one can see me. Do you ever sit on your back porch nekkid? You can, you know, now that you’re here in the woods. No one’ll see you…How much land d’y’all got? Four acres? That’s a lot of land. Makes me your closest neighbor…”(Not creepy, not creepy at all…)

There is a Mrs. F.  He took me in the house to meet her. She was using a walker and nodded, but didn’t speak.

“She’s had a stroke, barely gets around,’ he said, “but we try, Baby, don’t we try…”

Sometimes I hear Mr. F. yelling at something, mostly in the evenings. I don’t know if it’s his chickens or his wife or the Mennonite girls, but he sounds like he has quite a temper.

Slowly but surely Mr. F.’s unannounced visits have happened less and less. I like to think he’s beginning to sense the coldness we feel towards him, maybe the hint of suspicion, too…Yet, every time he appears in the drive he asks a lot of questions - personal questions, inappropriate questions.

“I hear them dogs barking. How many dogs you got? Sounds like a bunch. Any of ‘em bite?...Your husband still on the road all the time? Only home on weekends? Bet you get lonely and scared, out here all by yourself. You need anything, you just call. You’ve got my number. Use the cell; I keep it on vibrate so it don’t wake the Mrs. She needs her rest…”

A few months ago, Mr. F. brought me eight eggs “for your broody hens to hatch…” How he knew I had two broody hens I do not know and do not want to think about. When a hen is broody, she sits on the nest all day and night – won’t even get down for water. Is that old man coming around when I’m not here and spying on my chicken pens? Surely not…or  maybe…

He showed back up the day after the chicks hatched, to “talk chicken” and to offer his advice about how to care for the mom and the chicks. “I’m the Chicken Man, you know,” he said, shirt half-buttoned, a particularly bright gleam in his eye. I thanked him for the eggs and the chicks, told him I’d raised quite a few chicks myself over the years, so was sure I’d do just fine.  

“I can come around and help you with ‘em,” he said. “Must be hard to be her all alone…”

“Nope, I’m just fine,” I said, apparently with something forceful in my voice. “I’ve got all these dogs. I’m good with a gun and I’m used to being alone. We have visitors coming all spring and summer, so me and the chicks will be just fine.” 

And, for whatever reason, Mr. F. hasn’t been back.

  

It’s possible he’s just a nice, if odd, old man trying to be neighborly; it feels equally possible that my theory about the Mennonite girls in the bunker could be true. We may never know…I’m just glad he stopped coming around.

It is still creepy and un-nerving to hear him yelling or playing loud radio music late at night. He told me his broody hens like the music – “it keeps em’ calm…” As for the loud yelling…I hope I’m wrong about the Mennonite girls.     

 (This is the result of  7 20-minute-a-day writing sessions.)