Why did the chicken cross the road?

Now, THAT'S a good question...

One of my first jobs, when I worked in advertising, was to write a brochure for a company that made sluice gates. I know: that’s not the kind of high-powered client you usually associate with advertising but, as I remember, it paid $250, which was more than a month’s rent, so I was in no position to quibble.

To do the research, I went on a two-hour tour of a hydroelectric plant somewhere north of Albany, New York that featured one of the company’s latest installations. It was actually pretty cool: larger-than-life machinery, thundering water…I got to wear a hard hat and everything.

Until I got there, all I knew about sluice gates was that they had something to do with controlling the flow of water at a waterfall to generate power.

After the tour, all I knew about sluice gates was that they had something to do with controlling the flow of water at a waterfall to generate power.

Because I hadn’t understood most of what my guide said and didn’t want to make a fool of myself by asking what might sound like stupid questions.

The ability to ask what might sound like stupid questions is a critical part of the writing process. And the temerity to ask them again. And again. Without being the least self-conscious. Until you can finally describe the person, place, or thing in your own words within all sorts of criteria including context, tone, voice, audience, and sometimes even the number of words.

I don’t think of myself as a good, better, or best writer. But I gotta admit I’m pretty proud of my ability to ask questions and keep asking them until I can explain things clearly. No matter how stupid I may sound.

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Which brings us to the allegedly most stupid question of all time: “Why did the chicken cross the road?” Which is a great question. Clearly not to get to the other side. I’d have to do more research, but I don’t think chickens know from roads, sides, or even the idea of crossing. Was the chicken attracted by something or running from something? Was it trying to catch up with friends or lead them to new pecking grounds? Was it running towards food and, if so, then how far away can a chicken smell or sense food? Was there a fox in the henhouse?

There’s more! Do chicken feet feel the difference between grass and asphalt? What if it were a dirt road? Would they hear a car coming? Or feel a change in vibration in the ground? Do their neurotransmitters work the same way as ours in terms of experiencing pain, pleasure, fear, hunger, etc.? Are all these answers dependent on the chicken’s gestational state?

As these questions poured forth from the top of my head, I had to repress a strong urge to spend the rest of the day in the library, doing internet searches, calling someone I know who raises chickens, or signing up for an agricultural extension class in chicken anatomy and behavior.

Since I didn’t want to take the time to do all these things, I went downstairs and had coffee with Kenny, my most insightful local “street person.” Which I do from time to time when I get stuck while writing one of these essays. Kenny went to an elite prep school, graduated from the same college as I did, and lives by choice on the street, in the woods, and in the occasional abandoned building. His official diagnosis is complex PTSD along with a few other gems from the DSM. At least that’s what he says.

Kenny knows a lot, is more than happy to share, and, when he really wants to show off, starts talking in Tibetan. He does have a bit of an anger-management issue but it’s pretty much all talk. And when I point out that his tirades don’t sound like the unconditional love I’d expect from a Tibetan Buddhist, he counters that tough love is also unconditional.

Anyway, after listening to today’s monologue, I said, “Kenny, Kenny, Kenny shut up for a second. I have a question!” He started talking about something else so I interrupted again, “Kenny, let me ask the question!” He stopped, smiled slyly, and asked, “What’s your question?” making the gesture of zipping his lips— which meant I had about 5 seconds to ask the question before he started talking again. “Kenny, why did the chicken cross the road?”

He looked at me curiously and said, “I don’t know. Ask the chicken…”