A Laugh Threatening Situation

Chapter 13 – Kicking the Chicken Bucket

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Riding a bicycle with your eyes closed is never a good idea. You probably already know this.

I had to learn it the hard way.

By my junior year of college, I had become an expert mountain biker. I trained every day, competed in races regularly, and I was confident and cocky. My bike was worth more than my car and I rode it everywhere. Mainly because parking was a bitch on the UNC-Chapel Hill campus, but also because it’s harder to get arrested for drinking and driving on a bike.¹Campus cops and town police tried more than once, but they could never catch me.

One evening, I was cycling home from a party and decided to stop for a late-night snack. Back then, hungry Tar Heels with the munchies at 3 am had two options: Hector’s and Time Out.

Hector’s was famous for its Greek Grilled Cheese sandwich, but those in the know opted for the Double Cheeseburger on a pita with chili. On weekend nights you’d see a line down the street. But you hardly ever saw anyone eating there during the day. So that tells you the kind of place it was.²I always wondered if Hector’s would be good sober, so one day I went there for lunch (sober) and I can report that it was actually not horrible. But six Blue Cups, the famous 32-ounce draft beers sold at He’s Not Here, an iconic UNC watering hole, are an ideal appetizer.

Time Out, on the other hand, was busy late-night, but could also pull a breakfast and a lunchtime crowd. Their specialty? Southern-style biscuits. And their signature menu item was the Chicken n Cheddar biscuit. A fluffy square of buttery goodness filled with gooey orange cheese and chunks of greasy fried chicken. Perfect for soaking up the booze in your belly after a night out.

But people went to Time Out for more than the food. They went to get roasted by the guy serving it. On any given night between 11 pm and 4 am, you’d see Billy Ray Penny behind the counter doling out insults and serving up huge helpings of verbal abuse.

And the patrons ate it up. People would wait in long lines just to be insulted by Billy. Sure, some of them would sling shit back, but he always gave better than he got, keeping even the rowdiest revelers in check with quick quips and tons of ‘tude. Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi had nothing on Billy.

Late night at Time Out was a hilariously unhealthy scene. People would be passed out on the benches. Ketchup squirt bottle fights would send everyone diving under the tables or running outside. Frat boys would dare each other to sneak into the kitchen to try and steal food. Sorority girls would pretend not to be puking in the corner. And anyone who snuck in some booze would inevitably send their empty bottle clattering across the floor.

All this action played out night after night under eye-piercing fluorescent lights and Billy’s watchful gaze. No matter how bad things got, he took it all in stride, laughing as he collected your cash at the till.

Behind the counter, it was another story. Billy and his team served up the snacks at speed – like the well-oiled machine they were. Steaming hot biscuits came out of the kitchen like clockwork. Empty trays of mac n cheese, french fries, and grits would be swapped for full ones the second the last scoop was got. And chickens flew in and out of the fryers with precision.

They were fast and efficient, with one exception: They would carve the birds so quickly a lot of meat was left on the bones. Their solution was to throw all the bones in a big paper bucket and when it got full, sell it to some drunk fool for a dollar.

If you were low on funds and couldn’t convince one of your friends to spot you, a bucket of bones was an attractive alternative. But you had to finagle your place in line just right so that you arrived at the counter the exact second the bucket was full. Otherwise, someone else would snag it and you’d have to wait for another bucket to fill up.

As far as I can tell, there were only three reasons anyone bought a bucket of bones.

As a joke.
To use as food fight ammo.
Or because they were broke.

I was the latter. So my plan that night was to get a bucket, get home, and get greasy.

I timed my entry, scored a bucket, and got back on my bike. So far so good. It was an easy ride home and the last stretch was about two miles down a steep hill. I’d bombed this hill millions of times at speeds over thirty miles-per-hour and since I was in such a good mood, I decided to ride hands-free.

I let go of the handlebars, sat up, spread my arms wide, and embraced the breeze. I had a buzz. I had a bike. I had bones… I was invincible. And since it was so late and there was no traffic, I veered into the middle of the road and did the dumb thing.

I closed my eyes.

I was tempted to open them constantly, but I didn’t. I wasn’t just going to eat chicken, I was playing chicken. Testing myself. Just a little bit further.

One more second.
One more second.
One more second.

I had ridden this road so many times I thought I knew exactly where I was. And just when I was certain I was about to pass the fire station I opened my eyes to check, and…

BLAM!

My front tire hit the curb straight on. I Supermanned off my bike into a deep ravine. When I finally hit the ground, I tumbled and bounced to the bottom where I slammed into a tree.

I’m winded, blurry-eyed, and a little bit bloody, but my immediate concerns, in this order, are bones, bike, body.

I scrambled up the slope and quickly realized three things:

One, the fire station was directly across the road.
Two, all my bones are scattered on the street.
Three, the three-second rule³A food hygiene myth that states a defined time window where it is safe to pick up food (or sometimes cutlery) after it has been dropped and potentially exposed to contamination. is in effect and I have to hustle and salvage my snack.

It was a late-night snack emergency!

I knew this because just then the alarms started ringing at the fire station. Lights flashing. Firemen scrambling. And before I could collect any chicken off the road, firetrucks were pulling out and headed right at me.

I frantically crawled around the street, elbows and knees dripping blood, bent over like the Hunchback from Notre Dame, scooping bones into my beat-up bucket.

I was fast, but the firetrucks were faster. Honking angrily as they rolled right over much of my meal. The sound of tiny bones crunching under giant tires cut through the siren’s wails.

They blare off into the night leaving me behind, battered and bloody, sitting on the curb next to my bent-up bike, holding a half-full bucket of befouled bones.

I gnawed the remaining meat off every single one of them right there and then. But there’s not that much on them, to begin with, and I’d only managed to save half the bucket, so I was still hungry.

The other half of my meal was still on the street.

Flat.
Roadkill.
Theoretically edible.

Eating food that’s been run over by a truck is never a good idea. You probably already know this.

Life Pro Tips

• If you’re ever in Chapel Hill, NC, and in need of a late-night feed, Time Out is the call.
• If your food gets run over by a firetruck, or any other vehicle, don’t eat it.
• Don’t ride a bike with your eyes closed. Duh.

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• 1
  Campus cops and town police tried more than once, but they could never catch me.
• 2
  I always wondered if Hector’s would be good sober, so one day I went there for lunch (sober) and I can report that it was actually not horrible. But six Blue Cups, the famous 32-ounce draft beers sold at He’s Not Here, an iconic UNC watering hole, are an ideal appetizer.
• 3
  A food hygiene myth that states a defined time window where it is safe to pick up food (or sometimes cutlery) after it has been dropped and potentially exposed to contamination.