Introducing Chicken Boy

 
I worked the Renaissance Faire in bright, bright red tights, royal blue puffy shorts, a peasant shirt, and a purple velour cape all mad by my granny. Chicken Boy they called me because the tights accentuated my bowed legs, my voice cracked and garbled, and I was full of nervous energy. Buses pulled in filled with tourists, and we'd hop on telling them what to expect in our best, which were really horrible, British accents. At some point, one of my fellow actors would scream "Chicken Boy", and I'd cluck and flap my arms up and down the aisle in an old school Chicken Dance sort of way.

Chicken Boy was my role for two falls. I made it, and it made me. He's still somewhere inside me, and he comes out when I'm smashed. It's how I ended up in the middle of the street at 1am drunk off 12 glasses of red wine refusing to listen to anyone.

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