For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When Popeye’s Chicken Was Enuf
By: Emjay Em
Tags: Short Stories, Autobiography, Personal Essay

I couldn’t even make it past the drive-through window at Popeye’s without being recognized.

“Are you that lady?”

I almost didn’t hear her, but she said it again. This second time she grew more confident and spoke a little louder and the question was enough to shake me out of the mopey daze I’d been in since my life had begun to crumble away from me.

“Are you that lady on the news?”

She was smiling and serious about getting an answer. Much more serious about that than getting me my wings and biscuit.

This woman intended to hold me hostage with her gaze and my chicken in her hand until her curiosity was satisfied. As I became more focused on the confrontation, I recognized the mean smile behind her eyes and the stupid grin on her face. They both said she knew exactly who I was before she asked. The whole question-answer bullshit was merely a formality.

“Chicken Girl” only wanted me to answer so she could laugh in my face.

Then she’d ask me the questions that hadn’t been addressed on TV, especially since every news outlet had a different accounting of what happened, all of them sensationalizing an eccentric story, but none of them reporting the truth.

I really couldn’t believe that any of this was happening. I had driven through this Popeye’s virtually every night for most of three years before going home after my daily commute. It was conveniently close to my home and always open, but this was the first time anyone ever attempted to engage me in conversation about anything other than chicken. Quite frankly, no one ever even made eye contact. . .

Until now.

Every night, I pulled up to the speaker and said, “Give me three wings, mash, no gravy, and a biscuit. No drink.”

The speaker replied, “Pull around for your total.”

I’d pull around, pay, grab my chicken, and go home, eating my meal quietly right before laying back, conking out, and then coming to consciousness the next morning. Just so I could do it all again. But like everything in my world, things had somehow changed, even at Popeye’s.

In this moment, the chicken girl was acting as if she was someone to whom I was accountable and she was waiting on me to humiliate myself in one of three ways:

One, by being ashamed.

I could burn rubber and get the hell away from Popeye’s and she’d laugh and tell her friends, maybe even post it on social media.

Two, by lying.

I could say I wasn’t that lady when we both knew I was the one in the mugshot, even if the story wasn’t true. Then she’d laugh, tell her friends and still post it somewhere on social media.

Or…

Three, by conceding my identity.

I could admit who I was, defend my innocence, giving the chicken girl an exclusive she’d be sure to laugh about before posting it on social media and telling all her friends.

Although I found the entire exchange tasteless and inappropriate on her part, I thought it was an opportunity to regain my footing. I mean, I had been hiding out in my house for days. It had now been two weeks since the story first hit the media and spread like wildfire and in that time I’d even had a reporter knocking on my door while the camera man tried setting up his equipment so he could get an angle on my humble little house. Of course I watched from an ever so slightly raised corner of a venetian blind I had taken ten minutes to painstakingly situate to avoid detection.

I stayed indoors as long as I could before I had to venture out to restock my groceries and supplies, but because I feared another public shaming at the grocery store, I had opted for drive-ins where I could make my order and receive my food with a fast get-away as many times as I needed until things blew over for me.