In a recent dinner with some (most? There were two…) of my loyal readers, the central theme of this CW Chronicles series came up: some of our best stories need never be forgotten, but some were never fully known in the first place. So for posterity and entertainment, I vow for 2013 to be the year for all of these to be recorded for posterity. Curt’s broken wrist ix next up, but for today one of my all-time favorites and one of the lesser-known Curt stories: The Chicken Boots.
If I had a few adjectives to describe Curt, most would be synonyms for “wonderful”, at least a few would be sophomorically homoerotic because that was just the kind of humor we all used at the time, but the other big two would be:
-Hardworking
-Unlucky
And The Chicken Boots summarizes them both fantastically. During the 1999-2000 school year (Tom Brady’s senior year…) Curt worked at least a few nights a week at the butcher/deli counter at Plymouth Marketplace, about 15 miles from Ann Arbor back in our hometown. He had finally declared a major (something ecological…in the School of Natural Resources and Environment) and was working pretty hard to fit in a ton of credits. So he’s work late to close up Marketplace, get home even later because it was a 20-30 minute drive, study until he passed out, and get up before most of us housemates to get to classes early.
One night, he was hoping to get out of Marketplace pretty early because of a big next day, so he volunteered to help the other staffers take out the garbage to close things up. The only thing – that night the guy on garbage duty hadn’t double-bagged the bag of meat scraps, and so as Curt walked to the dumpster the bag broke, dripping day-old chicken guts and refuse-meat sludge all over his Timberlands. Not a huge deal, so he scooped up what he could, dropped it all in the Dumpster, helped clean up the mess, and jumped in his car to get back to campus for a little studying for a quiz the next day before turning in.
Except…once he had been in his car for a few minutes he realized – his boots now stunk to high hell, mostly of what he described as “chicken juice”. He cracked a window, drove fast, and when he got home he left his boots outside on the porch to air/dry out while he studied for his quiz, passed out in bed with a coursepack next to him, and woke up the next morning for two consecutive classes. The first was a quiz in one of his major requirements; the second was the day they were being fitted for wading boots for some river labs they’d complete later in the semester.
Waking up a little late and a little groggy, he got dressed, looked for his boots, remembered he had left them outside, and walked to the door with a full backpack and a mind full of crammed quiz knowledge. He threw on his boots on his way out the door, trudged up to campus, sat down in his class a minute or two before it started, and then realized…
It stinks in here.
It stinks in here, and it’s my boots.
It stinks in here, it’s my boots, and everyone’s starting to figure out where it’s coming from.
It stinks in here, it’s me, everyone knows, but I can’t leave because I have to take this quiz. Do I sacrifice my own grades for the sake of common courtesy? Or do I go on the rest of the semester with a B+ average as “the stinky kid”.
Now, quick aside here – Curt had a history of leaving the room during exams and sacrificing his education as a result. During freshman orientation and the foreign language placement test, Curt – who had straight A’s through five years of Spanish – left the room to use the restroom, got lost and couldn’t find his way back to the right classroom, failed the test and subsequently had to take four semesters of Spanish beginning with level one. I’m not sure if this was on his mind when he made his boot-stink decision, but he decided to stick it out and take the quiz.
Naturally, the professor waits until toward the end of class to give the quiz, and so a half hour into class Curt has offended anyone within sniffing distance. The quiz comes, Curt takes it quickly, and as soon as he’s done he excuses himself and gets out of there. He wants to run home, or just become another Shakey Jake and go barefoot to his next class…but he can’t. That’s the day they’re fitting him – OVER his boots – for waders for the river project. His boots stink yet he’s REQUIRED to wear hiking boots to his next class, which starts in about a half-hour.
Now, if I get one more adjective for Curt it’s some kind of hyphenated “way-too-nice-and-considerate-for-his-own-good” word. He can’t fathom having anyone on a knee measuring his feet with his boots smelling like that, so he has to buy a new pair. But the only place nearby that he can even imagine would have hiking boots is the over-priced Bivouac store on State Street. He resigns himself to his fate, runs into Bivouac – still smelling like holy hell – and finds the cheapest pair of boots they have (something in the $125 range or so in 1999 dollars). But…they don’t have those in his size. So he goes to the next cheapest, and repeats a few times until they find one that fits…and he ends up spending something like $200 for a pair of boots he doesn’t even like. Just so he doesn’t offend everyone in his class with The Chicken Boots.
My favorite part of the story: seeing these kind-of-ugly boots on him later in the day and asking “hey, new boots?”, and having him grimace and tell the whole story. The written version can’t capture that and I apologize…but the defeated, “I should have expected this” look in his eyes…that’s Classic Curt.