The first Kentucky Fried Chicken was started in Laurel County
in Colonel Harland Sanders hometown of North Corbin.
Due to the history of chicken in the county,
The World Chicken Festival is celebrated every year
in Laurel County, drawing crowds of up to 250,000 people
over the four-day festival.
I wasn't there for chicken or parades,
but to pick up an anonymous package from the post office,
left for me by unknown persons with strict instructions
to open on premises, outside under the old coffeetree.
I had no idea what I was getting into,
whether it was a note, a threat, a gift or a curse,
but I wouldn't let Sadie sing along with me,
so I left her in Florida and told her I'd meet her in New York.
I prayed in suspense at the notion of these lines never ending,
but I knew whatever was in that box or envelope
had something to do with love or death or both,
but maybe it wasn't my riddle to solve on a Saturday prior.
So after July 4th had come and gone,
and I had gotten permission from my probation officer,
I took a train to Louisville, didn't even think of going to Greenspur Lane,
and then took a bus the rest of the way to Laurel.
The post office was in the center of town,
right across from the bus depot,
so it was not hard to find, but it was closed,
because of the hours small towns keep.
I would have to stay the night,
and luckily I found a boarding house,
on top of a tavern,
and from my room window I could hear the creek.
That night, I dreamed of future graves
and past ghosts;
I awoke several times,
thinking of the package from someone from somewhere.
Skipping breakfast,
and skipping across the street,
I entered the post office,
and found a clerk.
Politely, I asked her about my package,
and she knew exactly what I was talking about,
said they had it in their storage for a year
without a name, but suddenly a name appeared.
Yesterday,
while they were closed,
someone wrote a name – my name – and left
the package in the lobby.
She seemed suspicious of me
and my movements,
but my eyes assured her
I was just as confused as she.
It showed time,
but it was a repurposed Amazon box,
sealed again with packing tape
inexpertly applied to the seams and edges.
I wanted to open it right then and there,
and she seemed eager to see what was inside.
It has been here a year, I asked.
Yes, technically, she said.
What do you mean, technically, I asked.
It's come and gone, she said.
Apparently, the package was there some days
and not there other days.
She and the mail staff assumed
maybe one of the delivery boys were pulling a prank,
while others thought the building
and the box was haunted.
When I lifted it,
the box was light,
a lot lighter than I expected,
and it smelled of cigars, rope and leather,
like an old man's study
or a factory from the 40s,
but the postage was modern,
and the handwriting didn't give
any sign or clue to the contents.
I signed my name and left
the lady behind the counter confused,
and she watched me leave
with accusatory eyes, sure I was up to no good.
Outside under the Kentucky coffeetree,
I used my keyknife to slice the edges slowly,
and then one long cut down the middle,
nervous something may spring out.
I opened the flaps,
peeled the stuffing out,
and was thoroughly disappointed
when I found nothing inside.
What an elaborate trick,
and I hated myself for going along with it;
it was probably my friend Chris
who is always playing practical jokes on me.
I even went back inside
and told the mailclerk woman
that it was empty
and she could go on living her life.
Instead of throwing the box away,
I decided to take it with me,
and I caught the noon bus
back to Louisville,
where I made the 4pm eastbound train.
I settled in with a snack
and an empty box.
I fell asleep and dreamed of lead
in my mouth and not being able to speak.
When I woke, it was pitch dark
aside from the woman reading
in a soft sharp den of light
in the seat across from me.
The box was next to me,
and I went to move it,
but it was heavier now,
like something was inside.
When I opened it
there were several items
filling its space,
and I slowly started to unpack them.
There was an Oscar Meyer weiner whistle
just like one I had when I was a kid;
there was a drawing that looked exactly
like a drawing my mother made
of a house we lived in long ago;
there was a keyknife just like the one on my keychain,
but when I pulled my keychain out of my pocket,
there was no keyknife hanging from it;
and lastly, there was a framed photo
of me and an ex-girlfriend – someone I had loved and lost –
only we were older and we were standing
in front of a car I did not recognize of this time.
I shrieked, and the reading lady looked at me,
put her finger to her lips and said shhhhh.
Things from my past,
and a photo of me as an old man
from my future?
This could not be.
There was thunder outside,
and the train rocked slowly in the wind,
as it made its way toward Washington DC.
There was nothing I could do.
Eventually, I fell back to sleep,
and dreamed that I had won an award
for something, but I could not read the inscription.
I woke up as the sun hit my eyelids,
and I immediately turned to the box,
which was taped shut again somehow,
so I ripped it open with my keyknife,
which was inexplicably back on my keyring,
and inside the box was nothing but a note.
I opened the note and read a cruel joke.
All it said was Live, Laugh, Love.