OR IS MORE THAN A PIECE OF MEAT.
This is the story of OR, my lover, my confidant, my chicken and my friend.
On a cold blistery day in December, during a deli shift from hell, a brand new wet and rubbery 6 lb Oven Roasted Chicken slipped off the slicer scratch free. In front of a growing line of customers, it’s plump stature flew across the deli sky without wings, landing face first on the unclean floor. Silence overcame the deli. Customer and employee alike, paralyzed in surprise. Personally, I like to think the poor chicken was just trying to save itself from being another neglected slice of meat in some ungrateful kid’s school lunch.
I approached the chicken with caution, picking it up like I probably would a baby. In an attempt to use my art degree for the common good, I channeled my frustration into positive creativity, and instinctively poked a smile into the whole of the slippery processed chicken. My gloved index finger pushed through the skin into the meat of the matter, two eyes and a smile, no need for a nose. After removing my finger from the little guy’s eye holes, I thought out loud, this has the potential to be the start of something special. I asked my boss if I could keep the dirty little chicken. He mumbled “sure.” At $9.99 a pound, That’s a 65-dollar friendship value right there, for free.
Without hesitating, I asked their preferred pronouns before taking 37 selfies together, marking the beginning of OR and I, the origin of us.
Clocking out, I placed OR in a plastic sack anxious to meet the parents. In a nice way, I asked them to not eat my new friend, our new roommate. Surprisingly even, my arguably fat dad agreed to the terms. I whispered goodnight, tucking OR into bed closing the drawer in the family fridge. Welcome home.
Our relationship developed organically, over time, trust, and online validation. This process was, just that, a process. OR needed the proper space to heal, as he frequently experienced reoccurring nightmares of what could have been: Death by slicer on auto to the overplayed deli tune of Sheryl Crow’s “The First Cut is the Deepest.” I would have given you all of my heart, But there’s someone who’s torn it apart.
“Were you ever tempted to eat the chicken?”
At first, yes. Fresh meat, for free. But within a few weeks, OR started to lose his sex appeal so to speak. That stench, the discoloration, the softening texture—you know, because he was a rotting piece of meat. With each lunch, it became easier to assure OR I would never hurt him, nor slice him, nor eat or sell him for as long as we both shall live.
I’ll try to love again, but baby I know the first cut is the deepest…
Staring deeply into that smile of his, I asked OR, “Do you want to take the next step on the other side of the fridge, to go public with our relationship?”
With a meat of his own, OR concluded, “It’s either this OR that, life OR death, the deli OR you. Let’s live life on the other side of this counter.”
And from that moment forward, it was all ham me downs, blue skies and play dates galORe.
“I ain’t never gonna be in some kid’s sandwich with you by my side.” Group texts and deep chats. Couple’s massages, Groupons and trust-falls. Food Network marathons and Chick-fil-A drive thrus. OR bragging he could “eat more chicken” than I. “OR, you just think you’re so meta.”
Our relationship progressed naturally, and within 2 months we started sleeping and showering together.
OR told me he wants to be like me when he grows up. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the job isn’t as glamorous as I make it out to be.
Am I chicken or ham? This or that?
My grandma asked if I tell boys about OR.
“Grandma, I tell everyone about OR.”
“Okay, and maybe that’s why you are still single.”
No one predicted OR would live more than 5-7 days past his expiration date, not even OR himself. And then one day I set 34 alarms on my phone. Time to take OR to Target, the epitome of the American suburban mom, consumer dream. I knew if there was one thing OR had to experience before death it was a Target Super Center run. Red shirts, hearts, carts, and khakis for all! Everything OR touched we bought. And then we laughed our butts off because it’s like hashtag “TFW you walk into Target in need of toothpaste and end up spending over 300 dollars!! Target am I right girls!?”
“I’m not your pet or some piece of meat.”OR was just one of us, navigating the circle of life. There must be more than what’s for lunch. Sure enough, one humid Nebraskan morn, I showed OR a Target Superstore. I knew if there was one thing OR had to experience before death, it was this. Red shirts, hearts, carts, and khakis for all! We played hide n seek, Imogen Heap in the aisles of Target, Room Essentials, 39.99. Everything OR touched, we bought. And we laughed our butts off because it’s like hashtag, “That feeling when you walk into Target in need of toothpaste and end up spending over three hundred dollars!! Target, am I right!?”
