Stretcher Morphs to Rooster

“Even the man whose heart is pure, and says his prayer as you and I, may turn to a wolf when the wolf bane blooms, and the moon is shinning bright” says the old gypsy to Lon Chaney in the 1930’s film that tells the frightening story of the man who is turned into a werewolf. I could not have imagined how relevant this story would be to none other than Woodrow Stretcher when I sat down to eat my monthly fill of pancake fried shrimp at the Three Brothers Barbecue.

 There, slumped in a corner booth was Woodrow Stretcher, drowning his sorrows in –a SALAD! This was incredible. I had never seen Woodrow eat anything green that hadn’t been artificially colored-you know, like birthday cake and lime Kool Aide. And, Woodrow looked like an emaciated version of his old self. Gone was the confident, self- obsessed cockiness of Mt. Pariah’s Chief of Homeland Security and Metal Detector Operator at the State Capitol. In fact, gone was about 30% of his body. Not any one part, just all over.

Woodrow’s eyes were furtively bouncing from one object to another, his head turning jerkily, so that he could contemplate various things on the table one at a time. With a strange throw of his elbow, he motioned for me to join him, reminding me of the obstreperous rooster, Cleghorn Leghorn, in the old cartoons. 

As I sat down, I noticed something funny about Woodrow’s hands. In the fleshy notches separating his fingers, there was a sort of feathery something that reminded me of–well– pinfeathers.

Never hesitant to start a conversation in the middle of an idea, Woodrow erupted, “Been on that carb diet thing. Lost 45 pounds. All started when I read in the paper about how antidepressants were causing a lot of side effects. People committing suicide, gaining weight or doing unpredictable things. Man, it scared me.”

“ I’ve got serious responsibilities, he continued in an intense tone, “Homeland Security Director for the whole county. I can’t be incapacitated by my meds. Started taking Prednoctrenol about eight months ago. The doc said it would help me sleep and not be so jittery—do you think I’m jittery?”  A shaking Barney Fife flashed across my mind.  Woodrow kind of shook his head and I swear his hair kind of flopped back and forth like the comb on a rooster. “I just went cold turkey. And we went on that Atkins diet thing to loose some weight. I tell you it feels great to get control of my life again, and—.”

For no apparent reason, Woodrow’s head canted to one side and, looking at me with only one one eye pointed my way, Woodrow emitted a sound, a kind of “br-r-r-awk.” Just as suddenly, he was back to eating his salad, laden as it was with white chicken strips. “Eat a lot of chicken on this diet. Man, since I quit taking those meds I feel so much more energetic, or maybe it’s losing all that weight. “

At that moment, I became aware of a scratching noise under the table, like Woodrow was pawing on the floor with his feet, like he was trying to scrape up a wayward paper napkin. I was distracted when the waitress arrived to take my order. Shamed by Woodrow’s weight loss example, I ordered a cheeseburger with no mayo as a nod toward better nutrition. He ordered salad with bits of chicken mixed in.

After surrendering my menu to the uniformed waitress (they all wear red-and-white checked blouses at the Three Brothers.), I turned back to Woodrow and was shocked to see that he was now sound asleep, his head tucked awkwardly under his elbow, almost into his armpit. “Woodrow!” I said with some alarm. “Are you alright? What’s the matter?”

Woodrow sleepily extracted his head from his armpit, made a soft chortling sound (“Br-r-r-luk”) and continued his monologue, “You know this is a real scientific diet. I hate the smell of tuna, so I mostly eat baked chicken and chicken salad, and turkey sausage and eggs for breakfast, but still mostly chicken. You know, high protein stuff, no carbs. This is serious. I gave up all sweets, potatoes, bread, orange- juice, fruit cake. Thank goodness for lo-carb beer. B-r-r-ur—rk.”

To paraphrase the old gypsy woman, “Even the man whose heart is pure, and says his prayers as you and I, may turn to a were-chicken when he gives up his meds, and gives up carbs for white meat.”

By way of disclaimer, if you believe everything you read in this column, you need to replace the five-watt bulb in your refrigerator. And, remember, that second wheel on your Harley isn’t a spare.