Millicent: The Chicken Who Worked at Wal-Mart

You know how you can get in trouble telling stories? I’m in trouble with my granddaughters Sarah (6) and Katelynn (4). While they were visiting here with their mom from their home in Miami, I told them a story. They listened so well and asked so many questions, I kind of got carried away.

The story went that Millicent, a pullet from a fine old Rhode Island Red family, found herself growing up with seven thousand close friends (all the same age) in a chicken house off Highway 108. The chickens never really knew what time of day it was since they were kept under bright lights. The food was pretty good, but the conversation was limited. Have you ever wondered what 7,000 chickens talk about when kept awake day and night?

One morning, men in white coats came and put Millicent and her friends into little wooden cages that held about three dozen each. Then the cages were loaded onto trucks about ten deep and the rumor mill just went crazy. Millicent’s friend Alice, who was a bit hysterical, started issuing dire predictions before the truck got onto the highway. Alice always was a pessimist. The other chickens took it all in stride and speculated as to whether they might be sent to Palm Beach for the winter. Others thought the trip might be one of those real estate deals where they give you a free weekend in Florida hoping you’ll buy a timeshare.

Passing by the shopping mall in Canton, the truck struck a giant pothole and Millicent’s cage fell off and was left behind by the unaware driver. A van load of men stopped and leaped out to see if they could persuade the chickens to go home with them for lunch. Meanwhile, Millicent squeezed through the bars and made a run for it, having been raised not to talk to strangers. She took refuge in an open storm drain and no pleading by the men in the van could lure her out. They finally left, taking Alice and her friends with them.

During the remainder of the day Millicent studied what was going on around her and took a long nap around sundown. By then the traffic had died down. Not that chickens have much sense of direction, but Millicent was smarter than most and had a good upbringing—at least she thought she had half a brain until they took her to live in that crowded apartment complex where everyone else was snow white and boring.

Millicent realized she was hungry. Strangers or no strangers, she had to find food. Sticking to the sidewalk as her mother had taught her, Millicent walked back north, the way she had come in the big red truck. She walked across the freeway overpass. Teenagers in loud cars shouted at her. She maintained her dignity, looking straight ahead.  When she came to a little drive-in restaurant with a “Chic- Fil-Et” sign, an unwelcome shiver ran up her spine.  The food would not be to her liking, she was certain.

Beyond “Chic-fil-et” she saw a giant parking lot and store. An illuminated sign the size of a football field announced that she had arrived at “Wal-Mart,” whatever that was. The parking lot was all but vacant, but the lights were on when she arrived at the huge glass doorway. Realizing there was no door handle, Millicent let out a slow “b-u-r-r-r-k” of frustration and at that instant stepped on a rubber mat. A door miraculously opened. Inside there were no other chickens, only miles and miles of alley ways and shelves covered in the most amazing array of food, clothing, toys and hardware. A single sleepy-faced lady standing at the register in a blue vest was talking on her cell phone.

Millicent feasted in the produce department on fresh raw peanuts, in the cereal aisle on Lucky Charms and enjoyed a box of Cracker Jacks for dessert. Exhausted from her day’s excitement and exertions, she fell asleep watching the Animal Channel on a giant HDTV. In the middle of the night the lights and TVs went off and she awoke. She relocated to the toy counters where an army of stuffed bears, ducks and chickens offered quiet but comforting companionship. 

To fast forward, Millicent had soon found a job at Wal-Mart, first as a part-time greeter, then as a stock clerk in lingerre. By the time she made cashier she was sporting a hundred tiny cloisonné pins on her blue vest. Finally at the point in time when I met Millicent, she was in charge of new product demonstrations and was conducting a mini-seminar on an electric hotcake griddle. Surrounded by interested moms and bedazzled children, she whipped up a batch of beautiful golden pancakes which she served on tiny skewers.

It is here that my storytelling got me into hot water. Having heard the story of Millicent the night before, the two baby-girl munchkins were strapped into their car seats when I passed Wal-Mart the next morning on our way to Build–a-Bear.  Immediately there were shouts for “Millicent, Millicent. Grandpa, can we go see Millicent.”

Grandparents, in order to be effective, must at times be fast and deceptive. “Millicent may not be at work, but we will drive through the lot and take a look for her car.”

 “What does it look like Grandpa?”

“Well, its lime colored and it’s a very tiny convertible. A Metro convertible,” I said. I hoped neither knew what a Metro looked like or exactly what color lime was. But a refrain went up in the backseat: “Yeah! Aunt Delores has a green Metro, too.” I was sunk. Thankfully, there was no lime-green Metro convertible in the lot. The girls were devastated. I was relieved, but feeling a bit like a real “meanie” as I pulled out of the Wal-Mart lot.

That was weeks ago. Last night we called the girls to tell them we were coming down to Miami to see them two weeks before Christmas. “Oh goody,” cried Sarah, “Grandpa, will you come to my school? When grandparents visit we can take them to our class and they are supposed to tell us something really interesting. You can tell them about Millicent and how she got away and found a job at Wal-Mart.” 

(This article orginally appeared in the Lake Arrowhead News” some years back,. Several readers have asked me when I would revive Millicent. There is more to tell.)