Comedy Corner: Fried chicken and homelessness

It was a beautiful, sunny Saturday afternoon and I was driving down Mount Hermon Road when I noticed a homeless couple with a baby in a stroller standing in front of that whatchamacallit bank. (You know, Wacha-Wells-Co-Fargo-America-Whatever. It’s merged so many times, I have no clue what it’s called anymore.)
The man was holding a sign asking for help, and I heard that still, small voice saying to my heart, Help them out!
Every Sunday morning, my church has, ready-made for us, small Survivor Bags for the economically challenged. I pulled up beside the man, handed him one of the little bags and asked him whether he and his family had eaten yet that day. He said no. I started thinking that the bag I just gave him would not be enough to feed his family, so maybe I should go buy him some food.
And that is where I had a mental hiccup.
He said, “Can you help out with any more?” and I said, “Oh, well, let me think about it,” and drove away.
What was I thinking? “Let me think about it!” Didn’t the Apostle Paul say, “Do or do not, never try”? (Or was that Yoda?)
Well, what I should have said was, “Let me go to the market to get you some more food.” Anyway, I turned into Nob Hill and ran in to buy something. I was always taught, if you’re going to buy something for someone else, buy something you would like to have yourself. The deli had a special on 16 pieces of fried chicken for $9.99, which was a good deal.
Ten minutes later, I drove back over to the corner, and they were gone. Disappeared into thin air.
I thought, OMG, the Scotts Valley Gestapo picked them up already and got them out of town! (Because, you know, we just don’t have homeless people in Scotts Valley — god forbid.)
In a panic, I drove up and down Mount Hermon looking for them. Then, I saw the bus leaving the bus stop near where they were last standing. I thought maybe they’d gotten on it. So I chased it down the road toward Felton.
In the meantime, the smell of the hot fried chicken got to me. I thought, “Oh, just one leg won’t hurt.”
Three pieces of chicken later, I arrived behind the bus in Felton, but no one got off. Then, four pieces of chicken later, the next stop and the next.
As the bus passed my house, I gave up and turned into my driveway, with 12 pieces left and thinking to myself, What am I going to do with all this food? Gosh, I was full. Sometimes running after buses with buckets of fried chicken isn’t the best way to feed the homeless.
I still think I tried to do the right thing in wanting to feed the couple and their baby. It was my hesitation that killed the attempt.
I am also suspicious of that still, small voice. Looking back, it kind of sounded like Mickey Mouse.
Michael Larson is a 14-year resident of Felton and an aspiring comedy writer. He lives with his dog Blue. Contact him at mi***************@ya***.com.